Hawthorne’s Wife Read online

  Hawthorne’s Wife

  London Libertines, Book Two

  by Emily Royal

  Copyright © 2019 Emily Royal

  Kindle Edition

  Published by Dragonblade Publishing, an imprint of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.

  Additional Dragonblade books by Author Emily Royal

  London Libertines

  Henry’s Bride, Book 1

  Hawthorne’s Wife, Book 2

  Roderick’s Widow, Book 3

  *** Please visit Dragonblade’s website for a full list of books and authors. Sign up for Dragonblade’s blog for sneak peeks, interviews, and more: ***

  www.dragonbladepublishing.com

  Amazon

  Dedication

  To Francesca who, thanks to having inherited her mother’s penchant for procrastination, is unlikely to read the love scenes in this book until she’s old enough not to be embarrassed by them.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Additional Dragonblade books by Author Emily Royal

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  A book is never the effort of just one person. I have so many people to thank who helped make it possible.

  First, my fabulous Beta Buddies: Amanda, Frances, Jennifer, Julie, Kate B, Kate S, Liz, Lorraine, Pauline and Sara. Thank you for your feedback and support, as always. To the wonderfully positive and encouraging Sarah Painter: thank you for your continued encouragement and company when I seek solace in tea, wine and nibbles. And to Neil, Jasmine and Frankie, thank you for everything.

  I’m also grateful to Lys & Nicola, who inspired my love of life drawing and thanks, as usual, to all at Dragonblade for keeping the faith in a new author, to Violetta for the crisp edits and Dar for the stunning cover art.

  A nod to Abby & Hawthorne, for unknowingly naming my hero while this book was only a spark of an idea. And lastly to Fred, for naming my heroine.

  Chapter One

  Hampshire, England

  1809

  Frederica Stanford stepped out from the darkness of Radley woods into the sunshine, disappointed not to have caught a glimpse of him.

  Hawthorne Stiles, the most beautiful person in the world.

  But he was Viscount Radley, the only son of Earl Stiles, the landowner of the Radley estate. He existed too far above Frederica in station to notice her.

  But she noticed him. She could always recognize the sound of his horse’s hooves—the rhythm of a practiced horseman. The air would shift as if to herald the arrival of a perfect specimen, tightening her skin with a thrill almost like she experienced when diving from the trees overhanging Radley Lake into the clear waters. That brief moment of weightlessness was the nearest she would come to flying, except in dreams.

  And her dreams always began and ended with him.

  She used to play with Hawthorne’s friends at the lake, poking at the water, looking for frogspawn. Jeffrey, Edward and Roger, all sons of earls and viscounts, they had at first tolerated her, a commoner, the merchant’s daughter who tagged behind them. But their first term at Eton had opened their eyes to the class divide. Now, they teased her from their elevated positions atop their mounts, while Hawthorne sat astride his own horse, casually looking across the landscape as if she were of too little consequence to merit his attention.

  In her whole life, he’d spoken to her once, but just four words. If those four, precious words were all he’d give her, she would make a treasure of them.

  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 taunted 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, ready 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 the whip had stayed him.

  Like an avenging angel, Hawthorne had stood before her, whip in hand, eyes black with fury. John fled, wailing like a baby from the lash mark across his cheek, while she’d plucked the hedgehog out of the grass.

  Hawthorne’s eyes had focused on her for the first time, taking in her disheveled hair and mud-spattered gown. She ran away, unable to overcome her shame.

  Since then, he’d not noticed her at all.

  But why should he, a man whose company was in such high demand from ladies of his own station? Countless debutantes, with their adoring mamas, rode past Frederica in their carriages on their way to take tea at Radley Hall. Other women visited him outside. Only last week she’d been exploring the woods and heard an unmistakable male voice reading love poetry, followed by a lighter voice whispering his name over and over until those whispers escalated into passionate cries. All the time he recited beautifully constructed verses, telling his companion of her divine beauty.

  What would it be like to be loved by one such as he?

  *

  “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 her father 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 argued. “She’s free.”

  “Nevertheless, she must prepare herself for an 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?” her 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—disapproval coupled with fondness, as if he disliked what he saw but loved her regardless.

  “Sit by me, child.”

  His voice resonated through her body, constraining it as the corsets she wore. 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?”

  “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 an inkpot, a signet ring, and one of Papa’s coat buttons, etched with a distinctive crisscross pattern. Later sketches depicted 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 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 notice. Who cared 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 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 on his 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 he have touched her?

  “Child, these are exquisite.” Pride sounded in Grandpapa’s voice as he returned her to the present.

  “She sketches likenesses, also,” Papa said.

  Page after page revealed a new sketch, until Grandpapa turned to a portrait.

  “Eleanor,” he choked.

  It was Mama. The sketch 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. He shifted away from her. Did he still blame her for Mama’s death which Frederica caused by coming into the world?

  Papa had never once made Frederica feel responsible 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?” Grandpapa asked.

  He’d reached the final portrait in the sketchbook. 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 declaring 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. What did he know about being a parent? Having no mother, either, he might as well have been a bloody orphan.

  Perhaps Father still blamed Hawthorne for Adam’s death—wished the Almighty had taken Hawthorne instead. By virtue of having arrived in the world twenty minutes ahead of him, Hawthorne’s twin brother had been the heir. But Adam had survived only three hours. Father still visited Adam’s memorial, as if the power of prayer could resurrect his firstborn. In Father’s eyes, had his heir survived, he’d have been blessed with the perfect son.

  In all likelihood, Father wished God had taken Hawthorne instead. But as it was, Father’s hopes were pinned on Hawthorne. Mama had left the world before delivering another spare, so there was no younger sibling to snap at his heels for the title of Earl Stiles. The inheritance mattered little to Hawthorne, but his freedom did.

  Having been suspended 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. Hawthorne’s 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. 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.

  Thoug
h 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 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. Like a skittish fawn, she darted away when she thought she was being observed. But Father had taught him that 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. At one time, 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, sloe-black eyes regarded him thoughtfully. Was he friend or foe?

  “Friend, little chap, definitely a friend.”