by Royal, Emily
Before Frederica could follow, a hand circled her arm.
“A word if you please, Countess.”
“What do you want?” she asked.
“Stay away from my wife.”
“Is she not permitted to choose who she acquaints herself with?”
“On certain matters, I believe my perception is clearer than hers.”
“Is a countess not an acceptable acquaintance for your wife?”
“Don’t take me for a fool, madam,” he said. “I know what you did to your husband. You betrayed him after he’d already damaged his reputation by offering you marriage.”
“That’s no concern of yours.”
“No concern?” he said, gritting his teeth. “You weren’t there when he almost destroyed himself. While you were indulging in lord knows what, he was ripping London apart trying to find you. You didn’t have to watch him descend into madness. You weren’t there to pick him up every time he was found unconscious on the floor, stinking of whisky. You weren’t there when he threw himself into the Thames to end it all.”
Her blood turned to ice, knives of pain slicing through her as if she had been the one in the water.
“Dear God,” she whispered. “Did you not seek help?”
“Foolish woman!” he scoffed. “Do you know what they would have done to him? He’d lost his wits. They would have confined him to Bedlam. Don’t you know how society treats those it does not understand?”
“Yes, I do,” she said quietly.
“You know nothing!” he spat. “Play the dutiful wife, and leave my wife alone.”
Guilt gnawed at her. To think she’d fled to save him, to give him the future he wanted. But instead, her flight had almost destroyed him.
“I must thank you, sir,” she said.
“What for?”
“For taking care of him. For saving his life.”
“I didn’t do it for you,” he said coldly. “I did it for him.”
“I know,” she said. “It may be worth nothing to you, but you’ll always have my gratitude, respect, and admiration.”
He said nothing but gave her a curt nod and returned inside.
The music struck up once more as the next dance began. But nothing could compel her to return inside where everyone would be laughing at her. As for Hawthorne, how could she face him, finally knowing what her abandonment had done to him?
The door opened again.
“Leave me alone!” she cried.
“I beg your pardon?” A rotund man stepped onto the balcony. “I’m here for some air, that’s all. It’s Countess Stiles, is it not?”
“Yes.”
“I thought so. I’d heard much of your beauty. Your husband’s a damn lucky man.”
He clicked his boots together and bowed. “Viscount De Blanchard, at your service.” He held out his hand, and she took it. He grinned at her, showing a row of large, uneven teeth.
“I should return inside,” she said. “My husband will wonder where I am.
“What, the moment I’ve introduced myself?” he said with mock hurt. “You impugn my gallantry. I’ve been anxious to make your acquaintance, and I believe I can do so more easily without your husband’s presence.”
He took her shoulder and pulled her close. A wave of panic rose within her, and she pushed him back.
“I like spirit in a woman.” He brought his mouth close to hers, and she twisted her face away.
“Get off me!”
“Come, come,” he said. “You think I don’t know your reputation? All of London knows it! Why else would you be servicing the guests on the balcony?”
“That’s not true!”
“What’s Westbury got that I haven’t?” he asked. “I was bedding fillies while he was still in the schoolroom. Why shouldn’t I sample what’s been handed out to so many?”
A large fleshy hand grasped the front of her gown, and she pushed him away.
“Leave me be!”
“What the devil’s going on?” a voice roared.
Hawthorne stood in the doorway, shaking with fury. Behind him, Mr. Trelawney’s concerned face came into view.
De Blanchard composed himself and spoke amiably. “Isn’t it obvious, old chap? Your wife’s been offering her services, and I joined the queue.”
“The queue?”
“You’re to be commended on your generosity in sharing her.”
“Is this true, Frederica?” Hawthorne asked.
Bitter shame and hurt stabbed at her insides, but she would not give him the satisfaction of an answer.
He raised his eyebrows. “Well?”
She shook her head. “Why waste my effort denying what you already believe to be true?”
A smile of triumph crossed De Blanchard’s face. “You must forgive a man for succumbing to temptation when it’s so prettily placed before him.”
“And I suppose you wish to continue?” Hawthorne asked.
“That’s enough!” Ross cried. “De Blanchard, get back inside before I kick your arse across the floor. Hawthorne, take your wife home. Can’t you see she’s distressed?”
A flicker of guilt crossed Hawthorne’s eyes, then it passed.
He took her arm and led her back inside the ballroom. Several pairs of eyes followed them as they crossed the room. The chatter increased, forming a cloud of contempt which swirled inside Frederica’s head. It swirled around her mind during the carriage ride home, only ceasing when Hawthorne pushed her through the front door.
“Go to your chamber,” he said. “I’ll deal with you in the morning.”
“Hawthorne, please…”
“Please what?” he asked. “Is that why you abandoned me? Was I not enough for you?”
“You were everything to me!” she cried. “There was never anyone else but you.”
“What about Markham?”
She drew a hand back to strike him, but he caught her wrist and pulled her against him, his body hard and ready.
“How dare you speak of him!” she screamed. “I hate him! But you, you I love! I only ever wanted one man my whole life, and that was you. I’ll never want or love another man again!”
“Oh, I wish to God it were true!” His mouth crashed against hers, and he groaned with need.
Years of yearning drove her forward, and she opened her mouth to invite him in. Their tongues met and clashed in a battle of desire. He moved his body against hers, and she shifted her legs to accommodate him. Desire flared in her center, threading heat throughout her body.
Eager, desperate hands clawed at her gown, and she pressed herself against him, offering her body. He dipped his hand into her bodice, and her nipples beaded to painful little points. Material tore against her skin, and the rush of cold air was met with a blistering heat as hot, hungry lips covered her breast. His whole body rumbled with need, a deep growl vibrating in his chest as he devoured her. He grazed her nipple with his teeth, and she arched her back at the sharp sting. He pushed her back, and their bodies crashed against the morning room door. It flew open, and they fell onto the floor.
Hands tore at the hem of her gown, lifting it to expose her thighs, and he teased her legs apart.
“God forgive me, you’re as beautiful as I remember,” he said, his voice hoarse. “You’re mine. This body is mine. Too long have I been denied it.”
He ran his fingertip along her leg, stopping where her thighs met, and his lips twitched in a smile.
“I can smell your need, little changeling,” he said. He ran his finger along her center in a smooth motion, and her body pulsed in response. He lowered his head and kissed her curls.
She thrust her hips toward him, chasing the nugget of pleasure, and he lifted his head and withdrew. The wave receded, and she whimpered in frustration, and he smiled. He knew her body better than she knew it herself. He dipped his head again. Skilled in delivering a firm hand, he played with her body, drawing her to the brink of pleasure until his own vibrated with the effort to maintain control.
He finally plunged himself into her, and her body shattered. She screamed his name, lifting her hips to meet each hard thrust. His mouth claimed her cries, thrusting his tongue in to mirror the movement of their bodies. His movements grew more frenzied until she felt the familiar sensation of his body rippling inside her. He lifted his head and roared out her name, crying out the words she had yearned to hear, that he loved her and would never let her go again.
With a final thrust, he collapsed on top of her and lay still, utterly spent, his heart hammering against her chest, hot, salty tears spilling onto her face.
He shifted, and she clung to him. For five long years she had longed to feel his weight on top of her once more, to feel loved, claimed, and completely owned by him.
“Please, Hawthorne, stay inside me.”
He nodded, and she buried her hands in his hair, relishing the softness.
“Forgive me, my love,” she whispered.
His breathing grew steady, and a single whispered word crawled inside her head.
“Always.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
As the fog of bliss dissipated, Hawthorne clung to the soft, welcoming body beneath him, as if he’d finally come home after years of wandering in a barren wasteland.
“My little changeling…”
She lay still, her chest rising and falling softly. Her skin was pale except for her breasts, which were flushed a delicate shade of rose. His mouth watered at the sight of the dark nipples he’d devoured earlier.
A twitch of guilt rippled through him. In his desperate need for her, he had lost control, yet she’d welcomed it. Since he’d brought her home, she had accepted his boorish behavior with fortitude. Not once had she said a word against him, not even when he’d overheard Georgia complaining in the midst of a childish tantrum that Papa had no right to tell her what to do. Frederica had merely taken the child into her arms and said he was the kindest man she knew, and the best way to honor him was do as he wished.
Did she deceive him? Perhaps, now she looked at peace, she might reveal her true form. But the closer he looked at her, all he could see was innocence and purity.
She stirred, her body splayed before him as if in offering.
How many others had she offered herself to?
The words she’d written the night she abandoned him still burned in his mind.
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.
She opened her eyes. Their intensity struck him like a thunderbolt, and his chest tightened at the love in their expression. He looked away, closing his eyes to bring forth the memory of the pain she’d caused him, the nights where he’d lain alone, not knowing whether she lived or died, exhausted from searching for her.
She reached out, and he jerked back. Her eyes narrowed as he stood and pulled his breeches on. The sparkle in her eyes died.
“Hawthorne…”
“It’s late,” he interrupted. “You should go to your chamber.” He turned his back on her and left the room, but not before he heard her soft voice.
“I’m sorry.”
Giles waited in the hall, a sliver of anger in his expression. Hawthorne gestured toward the morning room.
“Send Jenny to tend to the countess.”
“Very good, sir.” The butler’s usual flat tone displayed an undercurrent of disapproval. “And for yourself?”
“I want a brandy.”
“I’ll bring it to your study, sir.”
Giles bowed and disappeared. A small voice whispered in Hawthorne’s ear; his conscience reminding him that a man should be given what he needs, not what he wants. And what he needed was the woman he had left alone in the morning room.
*
As Hawthorne entered the breakfast room the following morning, he heard bright voices.
Frederica sat at one end of the table, Georgia on one side, the old woman on the other. The child ate her breakfast with gusto, chatting animatedly, and he smiled to himself. She was a bright little thing. All fathers most likely said the same of their children, but even her governess remarked on how the little girl devoured her lessons. Yet another thing her mother had deprived her of in that hovel.
But Frederica’s love for Georgia was obvious in the way she tended to her. Small gestures barely noticeable, but to his eye, spoke more than words, tucking a stray hair behind the child’s ear or a gentle hand on her arm as she reached for the eggs.
Her love for the old woman was just as obvious, though of a different kind. Doctor McIver had already told Hawthorne Mrs. Beecham didn’t have long. The laudanum kept her pain at bay, but her condition would only deteriorate.
Frederica never spoke of it, but occasionally when she turned her gaze on the old woman, a deep sadness darkened her eyes.
Georgia made a remark, and the women laughed. For a moment, Frederica’s face lit up with joy. How many years had he longed to see her smile?
He scraped back his chair, and the laughter stopped. Three pairs of eyes looked up, one joyous, another suspicious, the third fearful.
“The child is late for her lessons.”
“But Hawthorne, she has yet to finish…”
“Miss Jones is waiting, Frederica. I pay good money for my daughter’s education. If she’s to be taught any form of moral compass, she must learn punctuality.”
“Moral compass?” Rebellion flared in her eyes and she stood, taking Georgia’s hand.
“Of course,” he said. “The child not only needs an education to stimulate her intellect, but her lack of moral education must be redressed.”
Frederica opened her mouth as if to speak, but after glancing at the child, she closed it, then left the room, taking the child with her.
He settled into his seat and waved Giles over. The old woman remained at the table, her black eyes focused on him as if she were issuing a curse. Perhaps Frederica had insisted she bring her to London because she wanted a witch for company.
He set his fork down.
“What do you want, old woman?”
“How long do you intend to torment that child?”
“I’m giving my daughter the life she was denied,” he said. “In what way is that a torment?”
“I meant your wife,” she said. “You dote on the child, but you treat Frederica with contempt. I thought you better than that.”
“You don’t know me at all.”
“Don’t I?”
“I don’t know what my wife has told you, but she abandoned me the night before our wedding, in front of a houseful of guests. She denied my child her birthright. My daughter was born a bastard, into poverty and obscurity.”
“I know what your wife did,” the old woman said, “and she suffered for it! She turned up on my doorstep, penniless, lost, and alone. I took her in. She never told me her full history, but I could see she’d been mistreated by the men in her life. For five years she has toiled to secure her independence, so she would never have to rely on a man again. She’s worked hard to give Georgia the best in life.”
“The best in life?” Hawthorne slapped his hand on the table and the china rattled. “How can you say that? I have lifted my daughter out of poverty and given her everything she wants!”
“You can give her everything she wants, but Frederica has given everything she had to that child. She almost gave her life.”
“What do you mean?”
“She nearly died in childbirth. The baby had not turned, and I had no money for a doctor. Even after she was delivered safely, I thought she wouldn’t survive, she lost so much blood. But do you know what kept her resolve?”
She paused, eyes narrowing as if reliving the moment. Hawthorne’s throat turned dry, and his chest tightened at the thought of her dying in childbirth, lost and alone.
“A single name,” the old woman continued. “That’s what kept her alive. May God forgive me for betraying her confidence, but you deserve to know. During h
er confinement, she uttered that name over and over until the moment the child left her body. When she thought death awaited her, she prayed for forgiveness, pleading that the one person she loved more than her own life would find happiness.
She sat back, as if the effort of speaking had drained her. The room fell silent, save for the ticking of the clock over the fireplace.
He pushed his plate away, his appetite gone.
“What was the name?”
She gave him a look of contempt and shook her head.
“Mrs. Beecham, please.”
Her anger seemed to dissipate at his quiet plea, and she spoke more softly. “Think what you want of her, but she’s never said a word against you. She used to say that, save her father, you were the best man to walk upon the earth. If you knew her at all, you’d have no need to ask whose name she cried when she was near death, no need to ask who she longed to see again, who she has never stopped thinking of.”
“Tell me,” he whispered.
“Hawthorne,” she said. “The name she kept crying was Hawthorne.”
She struggled to her feet and shuffled out of the room, leaving him alone with his conscience.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Georgia clutched Frederica’s hand as they descended the stairs. Her daughter might have blossomed in London, but she still lacked the confidence expected of a child of her rank. Miss Jones had spoken of the remarks some of the other children had thrown in her direction while out walking. Only yesterday, Georgia had returned from Hyde Park with her governess, quiet and subdued, and asked Frederica if she knew what a bastard was.
But Georgia had a good friend in Amelia Trelawney.
And Frederica had a friend in Amelia’s father.
She pushed open the parlor door. Ross leapt to his feet, and Amelia ran toward Georgia, squealing with excitement.
“Can I play in the park with Georgia, Papa?”
Georgia’s smile disappeared, and Frederica took Amelia’s hand. “Why don’t you explore the gardens here? You can pick some flowers for your papa.”
“Oh, yes!” Amelia said. “May we be excused?”
“Of course,” Frederica said. “Georgia, take Amelia to the kitchens. Mrs. Miller is making your favorite shortbread.”
