Page 1 of When Hearts Are Wylde
Prologue
Hermione Waring entered the elegant townhouse through a discreet side entrance, her footsteps soft on the polished floor as she slipped into the shadowed interior. It was, like so many homes in Mayfair, a mirror image of her own in terms of architecture—a stately structure with tall windows, grand proportions, and an air of restrained opulence that bespoke pedigree and wealth. But unlike her mother’s home on Brook Street or her brother’s on Park Lane, this one pulsed with something far less restrained. There was an air of danger here and sensuality.
Her gaze flicked upward to a large gilt-framed painting that dominated one wall of the corridor. It was certainly the sort of piece she would never find in her mother’s carefully curated drawing room. It depicted a mythological scene, though the myth seemed secondary to the ample nudity on display. It was brazen. Audacious. And oddly captivating. A flush touched her cheeks, but she did not look away. That painting was an education in and of itself.
But then it mirrored everything else in the house. The space as a whole was more evocative—more alive—than any placeshe’d ever been. Because it was forbidden? Possible. Because it was his? The truth in that was undeniable.
Yet even with its many differences, there was a kind of familiarity, a sameness to it. To Mayfair. To her world. The layout was shockingly similar to her own home and to her brother’s and to every other Mayfair townhome she’d been in. It was navigable by rote.
But that feeling of sameness extended beyond the townhouses and their fine furnishings. The monotony of life amongst the glitteringhaute tonstretched into every aspect of her life. Every day felt like a tedious reenactment of the one before, punctuated only by the endless succession of balls, routs, and teas—none of which brought her any closer to what she had once dreamed of.
This was her third Season. Her third attempt at parading herself about like a dressed up porcelain doll in the hopes of ensnaring a suitable husband. And she had failed. Not dramatically. Not scandalously. Just quietly. Invisibly. The matches offered her had been tepid at best, and insulting at worst. Dull men, seeking even duller wives. She’d played the game as best she could—smiling, dancing, pretending—but in her heart she had always known she was not made for it.
Perhaps because no one, in all that time, had even come closing to capturing her attention like the very man whose home she had just invaded. And if she were entirely honest, she would admit that it had been for far longer than the three years she’d been out in society. She’d seen him from a distance countless times, and every time her eyes had been cast toward him, there had been a warning issued. Governesses and companions had alternately scolded her and warned her about the scandalous nature of the man in question. And every warning had only deepened her curiosity.
And as one season after another brought disappointment, something else had begun to take root within her. A thought born in a moment of restlessness and sustained by a lifetime of longing for adventure, for something passionate, for something that was just…more.It whispered of rebellion, of seizing something for herself, even if it must be done in secret. Perhaps, especially then.
She had come to a conclusion some weeks prior—terrible in its certainty and irrevocable in its consequence. She would not marry for love.
Such notions, she had realized, were for the fortunate few or the foolish many. The higher one's birth, the rarer the opportunity for genuine affection to play any role in the match. Love, if it came at all, was an accident that occurred after marriage, not before. Position, dowry, connections—those were the true metrics of marital success. Happiness was not a requirement. It was not even expected. Love, passion, desire— according to the whispers she’d heard from others—was the purveyance of lovers and mistresses rather than husbands and wives.
And she—Miss Hermione Waring—had been born to fulfill a role, not a fantasy. Wife. Mother. Ornament. Her life had been charted out for her in painstaking detail, and she was expected to follow that course with quiet dignity.
But dignity, she had discovered, was a poor substitute for desire.
Which was why she now found herself skulking through Lord Hartley’s townhouse like a thief in the night, her heart pounding wildly, her mouth dry, and her gloves damp with perspiration. She had planned this—agonized over it, in fact—and now that she was here, her nerves had turned to something hot and urgent, a blend of fear and anticipation that left her trembling.
It was a mad idea, truly. To throw herself into a clandestine liaison with one of society’s most notorious libertines. Unwise in every possible way. Ruinous by definition. Risky by any estimation.
But not uncalculated.
Because if there was one thing she knew about Leopold Hartley, it was that he valued discretion. She’d studied him from afar, and occasionally up close when they’d been invited to the same events and she’d come to a shocking conclusion about the great libertine. He had an unimpeachable code of honor, though it might not fit the standards of others. He might seduce her. He might ruin her. But he would never expose her. That, at least, she trusted. And if she was going to step outside the bounds of propriety, she would do so with a man who knew precisely how to preserve illusions.
The climb to the upper floor seemed interminable, each stair creaking ominously beneath her slippered feet. Every sound brought the risk of discovery. She paused once, listening, every sense attuned to the sounds of revelry drifting up from the lower floors. Laughter. Music. The low murmur of scandal brewing behind closed doors. Hartley’s gatherings were infamous—where pleasure, not propriety, ruled.
She wondered, not for the first time, if he might already be entertaining company of the sort she had no wish to encounter. The thought of discovering him in bed with another woman—some knowing, experienced courtesan—nearly sent her fleeing back down the stairs.
But she had come this far. Better to regret a failed attempt than a failure of courage.
At the end of the corridor, a pair of dark wood double doors, loomed like a portal to some forbidden realm. For one breathless moment she simply stared at them, her hand hovering over thebrass handle. Then, without knocking, without giving herself another moment to reconsider, she turned it and stepped inside.
The room was dark but for the fire burning low in the grate, casting a warm golden glow across thick carpets and luxurious furnishings. The air smelled faintly of brandy, as if some had just been poured, and a bit of smoke from the fire. But there was something else—the scent of spice and sandalwood and of him. It was a heady combination and one that she committed to memory.
A single wing chair, upholstered in rich burgundy velvet, faced the hearth. It was occupied.
“I’m in no mood for company,” came the lazy drawl from the chair. “The cyprians in attendance are only to entertain my guests. I’’m abstaining for the evening.”
She stepped forward, letting the door fall shut behind her with a soft click. “Then it is quite fortuitous that I am no cyprian.”
He knew the voice.
Recognition surged through him, swift and visceral. He did not need to turn his head to confirm what his gut had already screamed at him—that Hermione Waring stood in his bedchamber, unchaperoned and very deliberately alone.
Desire struck him like a bolt of lightning. So did dismay.
Of all the women in London, why did it have to beher? She, for lack of a better word, bothered him. Women of the ton were quick to look down their noses at him in ballrooms and just as quick to welcome him into their bedchambers with no prying eyes about. The hypocrisy of it had amused him at one time. Like many things, he’d grown bored with it.
But Miss Waring was a different sort. Different altogether. He’d asked her to dance on a lark, never dreaming she’d accept. But she had. She’d agreed to a dance but only if they stayed in the very center of the ballroom where no impropriety would occur. Her request had entertained him and he’d acquiesced to her demands. Then, inexplicably, she’d charmed him. Her wit, her warmth, her willingness to treat him like a human rather than a villain or stud service. And so he’d asked her to dance with him again, at another ball, and another still. Every time they’d crossed paths for the last year, he’d made it a point to have some small interaction with her. And each time, she seemed to claw her way further beneath his skin, until she’d invaded his waking thoughts on a far too frequent basis and, ultimately, his dreams as well. It was… inconvenient.
