Hawthorne’s Wife

by Royal, Emily

  Ravenwell, with hair as black as a raven’s wing and the ability to seduce a woman with a single look of his brilliant blue eyes, was considered one of London’s most eligible bachelors. Were Hawthorne interested in that sort of thing, he’d have marked him as his chief rival. But Frederica, after accepting his congratulations, withdrew her hand before he could kiss it. Ravenwell recognized defeat when he saw it, and swept past Hawthorne with a nod of recognition.

  Hawthorne, indeed, was the luckiest man alive. He was engaged to the most alluring creature in the room who had eyes for none but him and gave herself wholly to him in his bed. He felt a familiar stirring in his breeches and drew in a sharp breath. Would his craving for her ever cease?

  This time tomorrow, she would be his wife.

  *

  Frederica watched the guests move around the ballroom, lords and ladies far above her in station who stared at the commoner who’d snared an earl. She could weather their ire, but her resolve almost crumbled at the sight of the man who’d murdered Papa.

  Why had Hawthorne insisted they invite him? It had been their only argument. Doubt crossed Hawthorne’s eyes every time he uttered Markham’s name. Would he never stop seeing him as a rival?

  Hawthorne already risked his reputation and career as a magistrate by an association with her. He paraded her around the parks and the streets of London, as if to exorcise the demon of distrust sitting on his shoulder. Did he strive to convince himself, as much as society, that she was worth it?

  Only when they were alone did he shed the cloak of the society gentleman to reveal the lover within. As she submitted to him at night, the demon disappeared. But it always returned in the morning. She’d wake to find him staring at her, a flicker of doubt in his expression. Was his invitation to Markham tonight a test of her resolve as well as his?

  He lifted her hand and kissed it, his lips warm through the soft material of her gloves.

  “I am so proud of you,” he whispered. “My beautiful wife.”

  “I’m not your wife yet,” she said. His eyes narrowed, and he tightened his grip. “Tomorrow,” he said. “You’ll be mine, tomorrow.”

  *

  As the night wore on, the heat of the room grew oppressive. Frederica made her way toward the terrace doors. Her wrists itched, but she was reluctant to remove her gloves and reveal her scars which society gossiped about.

  A thin, pale woman stood in her way, her gown shimmering in the candlelight. A deep crimson silk trimmed with scarlet lace, it outshone every dress in the room. As she turned her head, the tiny diamonds in her hair glittered. The bright colors drained her complexion. Dark rings circled her eyes, and as Frederica approached, she set her mouth into a hard line.

  “Alice.” Frederica held her hand out. “Are you well? You look dreadfully pale. May I fetch you something to drink?”

  For a moment, Alice’s eyes glistened, then she blinked and shook her head. “I’m quite well, Miss Stanford.”

  The formal tone could not disguise the pain in Alice’s voice. Frederica took her hand. Her skin was almost translucent, veins protruding beneath the flesh.

  “Alice, I can see you’re ill. Let me help you, as a friend.”

  “We’re not friends.”

  “Yes, we are,” Frederica lowered her voice and squeezed Alice’s hand. “You can trust me. If you’re suffering, if anyone is giving you cause for pain, you must tell someone before it’s too late.”

  Alice opened her mouth to speak, her lips trembling. Then she cast a glance sideways and snatched her hand away.

  “Who are you to judge me?” Alice asked. “It’s Lord Stiles who suffers. You’ll find society doesn’t take kindly to scandal. Wedded to a murderer’s daughter? It’ll destroy his reputation.” She turned her back and strode away.

  It was worse than Frederica had feared. For herself, she cared little. But could Hawthorne, a man who’d commanded respect all his life, withstand the contempt of his peers?

  The voices in the room fluttered around her, harsh whispers, the caws and cackles of predators. Black feathers danced across her vision, and she pushed through the doors and ran out onto the terrace and drew in a lungful of the cool night air.

  She leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes. The aroma of roses grew stronger until she could almost taste their color, the hot reds and soft pinks.

  “Well, well, well, what do we have here?”

  A smooth voice cut through her dreams, and the colors turned to black. She snapped her eyes open in an attempt to quell the nightmare, only to find it standing before her.

  “Hush, little bird,” he said. “You wouldn’t want to draw attention to yourself, at least no more than you’ve already done.”

  He ran a fingertip across her cheek. Her flesh tightened, sending ripples of revulsion through her.

  “Careful, my sweet,” he said, “or I might believe your desire for me has waned.”

  “I never desired you!” The words came out in a snarl, but he merely smiled.

  “We both know you invited me into your home and your secret place.”

  “What do you want, Roderick?”

  “Roderick, is it? How terribly familiar!” he laughed. “Almost as if you wished our relationship were more intimate.”

  He cupped her chin. “I want you, little bird.”

  “What about Alice?”

  “Her dowry services a need,” he said. “But you…” He closed his eyes and his nostrils flared “…you’d satisfy a different need altogether.”

  He drew close, and her body froze—the instinctive action of an animal caught in a trap from which it has no escape.

  “Leave me alone,” she hissed, but he merely chuckled.

  “Foolish little slut! You think Stiles cares for you? He values you only as the bird he bagged before me.”

  “He loves me.”

  Roderick’s smile broadened, showing big, even teeth which seemed to sharpen in the evening light. “We both know he’ll tire of you eventually. If you go ahead with this ridiculous charade-of-a-marriage, I’ll ruin you both.”

  “You can’t do that.”

  “Oh, can’t I?” His voice grew quiet, the calm tone freezing her blood. “What do you think will happen when it becomes known that his wife is nothing but a doxy who spread her legs for half of London and offered herself to her own brother?”

  “I did no such thing!” she cried. “I’ll expose you for a liar. I remember our encounter well, even if you don’t. I’m not above bruising your jaw a second time.”

  “And I’m not above telling the whole company tonight that you tricked my learned friend into marriage in order to give your bastard a name. The pedigree of a child born seven months into a marriage will always be in doubt, whatever the good doctor might say.”

  Icy fingers crawled over her skin, and she stumbled back, the breath forced from her lungs.

  He let out a soft laugh and took her wrist. “Who did you spread your legs for, little bird?”

  “Say what you like about me,” she said, “I care not. My love for Hawthorne is the only defense I need against your threats.”

  “What about his love for you?” Markham asked. “Is it enough that he’d be willing to sacrifice everything that matters to him? He’s an ambitious man, little bird. A word or two in the right place can further his aspirations or crush them, especially when one has the ear of the Regent himself.”

  “The-the Regent?”

  Roderick smiled. “We’re old friends, my dear. He’s terribly enamored with Alice. He’s a discerning man and recognizes quality when he sees it. The word of a duke will always carry more weight than that of an earl. Hawthorne would agree with me.”

  The memory of Hawthorne’s expression flitted across her mind, the doubt and the pain which often bled through unguarded moments when he thought she wasn’t looking.

  “He won’t withstand society’s derision forever,” Roderick said. “Do you think he’ll welcome seeing everything he’s worke
d for slip through his fingers for the sake of a harlot? Like gilt, the sheen of your marriage will soon wear off to reveal the base metal beneath.”

  His words transfixed her, conjuring the image in her mind of Hawthorne’s face, his strong features filled with love, before it was replaced by bitter resentment and hatred, leaving him a broken man.

  “He’ll convince himself at first that he can weather the scandal.” Roderick’s voice burrowed into her mind. “He may be kind to you, as anyone might bestow charity on an orphan.” She flinched, but he continued. “You’ll see it in his eyes at first. Little creases will appear, then they’ll grow dull until his heart withers. Is that what you want for the man you profess to love?”

  “It’s a risk I’m willing to take,” she said.

  “But are you willing to risk his life?”

  Tendrils of dread tangled inside her, and her stomach knotted. He gave her a lazy smile and drew an object out of his waistcoat pocket. He held it up, between his thumb and forefinger, and it glistened in the moonlight.

  A brass button. An unremarkable object save for the familiar crisscross pattern etched into the metal. How many times had she studied that pattern, before replicating it with a few strokes of her pencil?

  “Is that…?”

  “My latest trophy,” he said. “As an accomplished dueler, I have amassed a very pretty collection from the coats of my opponents. After all, they have no further need of them, do they?”

  She reached out to touch it, but he slipped it back into his pocket.

  “I daresay, if I were to reveal your sordid little secret tonight, Stiles would wish to settle the matter like a gentleman. His coat button would make an interesting addition to my little collection, would it not? Did I not say the soiled whore would always have something to lose, which she valued above all else?”

  “No!” she cried. “Leave him alone!”

  “Only you have the power to stop it.”

  She shriveled under his gaze. “What must I do?”

  “Leave him. Come to me.”

  “I can’t leave him,” she choked. “He’ll follow me, he’ll think I’ve been taken…”

  “Then write to him. Tell him you’ve changed your mind.”

  “He won’t believe me.”

  He gripped her chin and forced her head up until she looked directly into his eyes. They had grown pale, the color of ice, pupils forming tiny pinpricks of hate.

  “Then you’d better make it convincing.”

  Defeated, she nodded. He pulled her close for a brutal kiss, then relaxed his grip.

  “Tell him you wish to retire. Write the note, then go to Hackton House, and wait for me there. Do it quickly before I change my mind and tell the whole company tonight what a whore you are.”

  A shadow moved near the glass doors, and Ross Trelawney appeared.

  “Markham, your wife is looking for you,” he said. He cast a glance at Frederica. “Miss Stanford, are you all right?”

  Markham interrupted her before she could reply. “She nearly fainted, so I escorted her outside. But she’s quite well now, aren’t you, my dear? I trust you understand what you must do to preserve your health and that of those around you.”

  Ross’s brow furrowed, but he made no attempt to seek an explanation. Roderick took her hand and kissed it. Fighting her revulsion, she returned inside.

  “Frederica!” A warm hand circled her arm, and her body melted at the familiar touch. His scent caressed her nostrils, and she looked up into the soft eyes of the man she loved, the man she was about to betray for his own sake.

  “Forgive me, Hawthorne,” she said. “I beg to be excused.”

  “Has something happened?”

  She shook her head and forced a smile. “No. I’m just a little unwell. Nothing a night’s rest can’t cure.”

  Doubt clouded his expression, and she lifted her hand and touched his cheek, relishing the smooth skin and soft downy hair on his chin, the beginnings of a beard which, by tomorrow, would be gone.

  As would she. This would be the last time she set eyes on him.

  “I’ll bid you goodnight, my love.” His eyes crinkled into a smile.

  “I love you, Hawthorne,” she said, “and will always love you, until I draw my last breath.” Her throat constricted, and she blinked back the tears which stung her eyes. “Never forget that.”

  “Until later,” he said. “Tomorrow our future begins.”

  She nodded, and he rejoined the company. Memorizing every curve of his body, every feature, she watched him, his straight back, broad shoulders, and fine profile until the guests obscured him from view, then she slipped upstairs to her chamber. As she pulled her travelling cloak from the closet, she spotted a piece of cloth on the floor. Hawthorne’s necktie. Not one for dandyism, he preferred plain adornments. It was an unremarkable piece of cloth except for one feature. It belonged to him. She lifted it to her lips and inhaled, breathing in the warm, masculine scent. It was a piece of him she could take with her, a token to remind her in the years to come that, for a brief moment, she had thought her dreams fulfilled.

  *

  Ross approached Hawthorne, a look of concern in his eyes.

  “Where’s Miss Stanford?”

  “She’s retired. She was feeling unwell.”

  The party was drawing to a close, and Hawthorne was anxious to see her. He cursed himself for subjecting her to the party, but he had to show society she was worthy of being Countess Stiles.

  Frederica had acted admirably tonight. Once they were married, they could enjoy the rest of their lives. She was stronger than everyone gave her credit for. They called her insane, weak-minded, but none could match her resilience.

  And she was his. All his.

  Ross gave him a knowing smile. But he was too much of a gentleman to voice his suspicions that Frederica already warmed Hawthorne’s bed.

  “She seemed well enough when she was with Markham,” Ross said.

  “Markham?” A cold fist clawed at Hawthorne’s stomach. “She was with him?”

  “Outside, on the terrace. I thought she disliked him, but I must have been mistaken as she kissed him.”

  “Markham…” Hawthorne’s throat constricted as he strained to pronounce the name.

  “Markham’s always gallant to the ladies when he wants to be.” The bitter note of rejection hung on Ross’ lips.

  Was he still pining over that insipid de Grecy creature?

  At that moment, Markham and his wife moved into Hawthorne’s eyeline. Lady Markham looked anything but happy, her eyes bearing the expression of a cow in the slaughterhouse. Markham’s gaze met Hawthorne’s, and he lifted his lips in a smile of triumph.

  A cold hand of dread draped itself around Hawthorne’s neck.

  Something was wrong.

  “Frederica…”

  He pushed past Ross and ran into the hallway. Taking the stairs two at a time, he dashed up to her chamber, and flung the door open.

  It was empty.

  It seemed untouched since he’d left it that morning. Except for her dressing table. The sapphire necklace was gone, replaced by an envelope bearing a single word, written in her hand.

  Stiles.

  He tore it open and unfolded the note inside. The ink had long since dried, but smudges blurred some of the words. His legs gave way beneath him, and he collapsed into the chair as he read the words, each line driving a stake through his heart.

  Sir,

  I find myself no longer able to maintain this charade. I don’t expect you to forgive me, nor will I attempt to insult your intelligence by giving you an explanation. By the time you read this, I will be gone. Please do not make any attempt to find me. I believe you are better suited to another. For myself, I have only ever wanted one man, and nothing you say or do will change my mind. If I cannot be with him, I would rather be alone.

  Yours,

  FS

  He crumpled the note in his fist and rushed out of the chamber, roaring at th
e footmen by the main door.

  “Where is she? Where’s Miss Stanford?”

  The younger of the two cringed under the force of his voice, while the older stepped forward.

  “She left about an hour ago. She wouldn’t tell me where.”

  A hand caught his sleeve. “Hawthorne, are you all right?”

  “Ross,” he choked. “She’s gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “She loves another.”

  “Oh, I say!” a familiar voice cried. “Stiles looks somewhat put out! What’s the matter, old chap?”

  Roderick Markham stood before him, a knowing smile on his face. His wife stood a pace behind, her eyes fixed on the floor.

  A deep pain bled through his body as ivy chokes a tree, squeezing the life out of it until it withered.

  She had abandoned him for another.

  “Dear, God!” Ross cried. “I can’t believe she’s jilted you.”

  “Oh, I can,” Markham said smoothly. “Perhaps the better man did win in the end, after all?”

  Acid burned in Hawthorne’s gut, and he doubled over in pain. The seed of doubt which had festered deep within his mind began to grow, nurtured by his mistrust, and the assured tone of Markham’s words.

  “Hawthorne.” Ross clasped his shoulder. “Don’t let them see your distress.”

  The guests closed in on him, a pack of dogs cornering their victim.

  Was this how it felt to have one’s heart broken?

  “Are we to commiserate you on some ill fortune, Stiles?” Markham asked, mock sympathy in his voice.

  Gritting his teeth, Hawthorne faced his enemy. Markham’s eyes widened with the fear a bully experiences when challenged.

  Hawthorne fisted his hands, digging the nails into his palms, the sweet pain deflecting his mind from the agony in his heart. It was all he could do to fight the urge to wrap his fingers around Markham’s neck and squeeze the life out of him.

  “I am to be congratulated on making a lucky escape,” he said quietly. “You’re welcome to her. Now leave, and never come near me again.”

  Markham’s lip twitched, and he blinked. “I’m not sure I understand your meaning.”

  “Get out, you bastard.”

  Markham’s smile broadened. “I rather think she’s the bastard.”