by Emily Royal
Are you all right?
It had been last winter, when the farm twins had taunted her over a hedgehog. The creature had needed a friend, but to the twins, it had been an object of amusement. Tom, the better mannered of the two, had merely teased her, but John had attempted to kick the creature across the field, the animal’s protective spines no match for his thick boots. A fit of rage had overpowered her, and she’d launched herself at him, fingers rounded into claws to fight for a life no one else would defend. John, with his thick-set frame, had thrown her to the ground. But before he could land a blow, the roar of authority and the crack of a whip had stayed him.
Like an avenging angel, Hawthorne had stood before her, eyes black with fury while he brandished the whip. John, nursing a lash mark across his cheek, had fled, wailing like a baby while she’d plucked the hedgehog out of the grass, its spikes pricking her skin. Her gown spattered with mud, it had been the one time she hadn’t wanted the man she worshipped to see her. But Fate had dealt a cruel blow. His eyes had focused on her for the first time, taking in her disheveled hair and her tattered garments, and she’d run away.
Since then, he’d not noticed her at all.
But she noticed him, and the women vying for his attention. Debutantes with their adoring mamas rode past her in their carriages on their way to take tea at Radley Hall. Other women visited him on the estate. In Radley’s woods, she’d heard an unmistakable male voice reciting love poetry, followed by a lighter voice whispering his name over and over until those whispers escalated into shrieks of female satisfaction.
What would it be like to have someone make love to her while reciting such elegant words of devotion!
But to him, the son of an Earl, she was nothing.
*
“Frederick, you indulge that girl.”
“I know, Benedict, but she’s my only child.”
Frederica crossed the hall. Grandpapa’s voice came from the parlor, warring with Papa’s lighter, love-fueled tones. But Papa always deferred because Grandpapa was a baronet whose title dated back to Queen Anne who, according to Papa’s history books, had spent her life-giving birth to children only to lose them.
She stopped by the parlor door. Conversations were always more interesting when the participants were unaware of being heard, particularly when the observer was the subject of their discussion.
“She won’t be a child forever,” Grandpapa continued. “Even I can see she’s almost a woman. Ladies don’t go grubbing among the hedgerows.”
“She’s happy,” Papa’s argued. “She’s free.”
“Nevertheless, she must prepare herself for entrée into the world.”
“It’s not a kind world.”
“It’s the world in which we live. Her dowry will increase her chances of a good match. But a woman does not secure a home through fortune alone. By acting appropriately, she’s more likely to secure the attention of a man of quality than a cad.”
“Are there not cads among your class, Benedict?” Papa asked.
“Of course, Frederick, but she’s less likely to fall prey to a cad by acting like a lady. Has she been practicing her accomplishments?”
“Of course.”
“Bring the child to me.”
She darted back, but not quickly enough. The door opened.
“Frederica.” Papa rarely addressed her by her full name.
“What have I told you about eavesdropping? Nothing good comes of it. When unobserved, we reveal more than we wish. And no man alive can handle the absolute truth.” His stance softened. “Come, Rica, Grandpapa wishes to see you.”
Grandpapa rose as she entered the room. His expression bore the usual inconsistency—of disapproval coupled with fondness, as if he disliked what he saw but loved her regardless.
“Sit by me, child.”
His serious voice resonated through her body. But a kindly smile stretched across his face and she complied.
“Tell me about your studies.”
Papa inclined his head, but Frederica had no need for the unspoken signal.
“I’ve been learning music and drawing, Grandpapa.”
“And your progress?” he asked.
“Papa says I have no talent for music.”
“The drawing, then?”
“She has a good eye.” Papa pointed to a picture on the wall. “She painted that landscape last week. Would you like to see her sketchbook?”
“Papa…”
“Hush, child,” Grandpapa said, “bring it over.”
Papa held the sketchbook out, and Grandpapa opened it. The first pages contained basic sketches, pencil drawings of the human form. She had always been drawn to the hands, where the skin crinkled around each knuckle. She could imagine the structure beneath the skin—the finger-bones interlocking. Hands were an expression of the soul. Her tutor always said the eyes represented the soul. But hands revealed almost as much, their beauty being that they could be studied with little observation, for who noticed if their hands were under scrutiny?
Callouses, like Papa’s, were a reflection of honest toil. But callouses on the knuckles indicated a less than savory existence—a lifetime of bare-knuckle fighting in the drinking establishments frequented by the likes of the farm twins. Hands of the aristocracy, men like Grandpapa, were smooth and characterless, though the skin now stretched across his hands was paper-thin and translucent.
Except his hands. The skin might be smooth, but the fingers were long and lean, the sinews showing strength as they had curled around the handle of the whip the day he’d thrashed John. The knuckles had whitened with tension before panic had overcome her and she’d fled. But what if she’d stayed? Would those hands have touched her—would those fingers have interlocked with hers?
“Child, these are exquisite.” Pride resonated in Grandpapa’s voice as he returned her to the present.
“She sketches likenesses, also,” Papa said.
Page after page revealed a new drawing, until Grandpapa turned the page to reveal a portrait.
“Eleanor,” he choked.
It was Mama. The picture was a copy of the portrait which hung over the drawing room fireplace. Moisture glistened in Grandpapa’s eyes, their amber hue darkening with grief, and he shifted away from her. Did he still blame her for Mama’s death, which Frederica had caused by coming into the world?
Papa had never once made Frederica feel her responsibility for Mama’s death. Perhaps what he’d once told her was true—a man might expect to lose his wife, but no parent should have to bury their child.
“Grandpapa, would you like the picture? To remind you of Mama?”
The old man closed his eyes, his chest rising and falling, then reopened them and smiled.
“No, child. You keep it. I have you to remind me of her. You look just like her.”
She hadn’t the heart to tell him he was wrong. Mama’s portrait showed a woman with dark blonde hair, amber eyes, and a rosy complexion. Frederica’s skin was paler, her eyes a vivid sea green, her hair a warm hue of red.
“What’s this?”
He leafed through the sketchbook, reaching the final portrait. Boldly sculpted features swept across the paper. Deep-set eyes stared out from the page. Thick, dark hair framed the face. The nostrils were slightly flared, just as they had been the day he’d spoken to her. A strong, capable mouth completed the likeness, curled into a slight smile.
It wasn’t the Hawthorne Stiles who rode past her without even a backward glance, or the man she’d spied making love to another in the woods. It was the Hawthorne who reigned over her dreams.
Grandpapa closed the book and sighed. “Frederick, it’s time she was introduced into society. A greater acquaintance will cure her of any girlish fantasies beyond her station.”
*
“One more indiscretion, son, and I’ll pack you off to the army before you’ve changed your breeches.”
Father’s words rang in Hawthorne’s ears as he steered his mount onto the lane. Wha
t did he know about being a parent? Having no Mama, either, he might as well have been a bloody orphan.
But on this occasion, he needed to heed Father. Mama had produced the heir but left the world before delivering the spare—which meant Father’s hopes were all pinned on him. The inheritance of the earldom mattered little to him, but his freedom did. Having been sent down from Eton for, what his housemaster had described as “indiscretions with a maid,” Hawthorne’s prospects for Cambridge had sustained a small bullet hole. He’d have to listen to Father if that hole were to heal rather than fester. His passion for justice—a quality which the world lacked—fueled his desire to become a magistrate. And the study of law—not a life spent shooting the French—was the most straightforward path to that goal.
Why couldn’t Father be more indulging? But the restrictions of aristocracy were the price to pay for the privileges he enjoyed. Entry into White’s could never compensate for the lack of parental affection.
Unlike Frederick Stanford. He had the advantages of money, having made his fortune trading in wine, much of which lined the cellars at Radley Hall. But his status as a tradesman spared him the suffocating niceties of the aristocracy.
And Stanford himself could not be described as anything but an indulgent parent.
A movement caught Hawthorne’s eyes—a small brown creature scuttling across the lane.
He dismounted and scooped the hedgehog into his hands. The animal folded itself up until it resembled a large, brown conker, steely spines projecting outward to ward off predators, though they failed to penetrate his riding gloves.
Unlike her. The steel spines she wore managed to prickle underneath his skin.
Perhaps this creature was the same one she’d defended so passionately against those two ruffians. Her voice had been full of fire and vengeance as she’d flown at a bully twice her size. But it had softened when she cradled the little thing in her arms, seemingly oblivious of the mud smears on her gown. Perhaps she saw the creature as a kindred spirit—soft and tender on the inside, eyes radiating wary intelligence while they calculated whether the object in their path was friend or foe.
Though it appeared impenetrable, some creatures could breach its defenses. For hedgehogs it was the badger—sharp-teethed animals whose claws were impervious to the spines and could tear through the soft flesh.
Might she be torn apart by such a predator? Her father might dote on her, but he lacked her ferocity. Stanford’s mild brown hair and sensitive features were so unlike his daughter who was all red fire and passion. Perhaps she was a changeling left by the faeries to live in the world of men. In such a world, she had none to protect her as fiercely as she protected the hedgehog.
Little grub, his friends called her—idle young men who judged her by what they saw—a dirt-ridden creature whose parent let her run wild. They missed the spark of intelligence within those eyes, the flame of passion in her hair which glowed red in the sunlight.
Were it not for her bright aura, he’d never have known how often she followed him. One might mistake her for a figment of the imagination were it not for the shift in the air which tightened his skin. Like a skittish fawn, she’d dart away when she thought she was being observed. But Father had taught him in order to catch his quarry, a hunter needed to lull it into thinking he hadn’t noticed it, to look in the opposite direction until she came within reach.
But she never did. Too often he’d turn, and with a flash of red, she’d disappear. To his shame, he’d noticed her watching while he pleasured Lady Swainson in the woods. The brief moment of male completion hadn’t been worth the sense of shame when the familiar shock of red hair had flitted across his vision. Father insisted that a man’s affairs were maintained behind closed doors. Had he known Hawthorne rutted married women against the ancient oaks which had graced the Radley estate for over five hundred years, he’d have a fit of apoplexy.
But nobody knew except the ladies themselves who had good reason for discretion.
And his silent, fleeting shadow.
The creature in his hands relaxed, and a shiny black nose appeared among the spines. Hawthorne held his breath, and the nose was followed by a face. Two black eyes regarded him thoughtfully. Was he friend or foe?
“Friend, little chap—definitely friend.”
“What are you doing?” The voice came from behind. His body tensed, and the creature tightened into a ball. A spine penetrated his glove, and he dropped the animal and it disappeared among the grass.
He turned and faced her. In all the years he’d been aware of her, he had never looked directly into her eyes. But now his gaze fixed on her, it was as if the final link in the invisible chain between them locked into place, forming an irrevocable bond.
She recognized it, too. Her body shuddered and she caught her breath. The world around them seemed to stop; predator and prey face to face at last. But which was which?
Her defenses down, her eyes betrayed vulnerability. They radiated intelligence but also naiveté, as if a child stood before him. But the blossoming body beneath her gown told the truth. The grubby little child was turning into a woman. Soft curves shaped her body—and a visceral need radiated from her expression.
Hoofbeats rattled into the distance and cracked the silence.
“Hey! Little grub!”
The voice broke the spell. She looked away, and Hawthorne felt a deep pull from within as if several strands in the bond between them had snapped.
Jeffrey approached from the end of the lane, flanked on either side by Edward and Roger. They might be the least disagreeable male companions he could spend his time with—particularly when compared to the odious Roderick Markham and his friends—but that didn’t mean he had to relish their company.
She stepped back, eyes darting until she spotted a gap in the hedge.
“Don’t go, I…”
Before he could finish, she slipped through the hedge and disappeared.
Hawthorne’s Wife coming soon – please subscribe to www.dragonbladepublishing.com for updates
About the Author
Emily Royal grew up in Sussex, England, and has devoured romantic novels for as long as she can remember. A mathematician at heart, Emily has worked in financial services for over twenty years. She indulged in her love of writing after she moved to Scotland, where she lives with her husband, teenage daughters and menagerie of rescue pets including Twinkle, an attention-seeking boa constrictor.
She has a passion for both reading and writing romance with a weakness for Regency rakes, Highland heroes, and Medieval knights. Persuasion is one of her all-time favorite novels which she reads several times each year and she is fortunate enough to live within sight of a Medieval palace.
When not writing, Emily enjoys playing the piano, hiking, and painting landscapes, particularly the Highlands. One of her ambitions is to paint, as well as climb, every mountain in Scotland.
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