Page 15 of When Hearts Are Wylde
Hermione was still in danger. She was still lost to him. And the only thing he had truly managed to destroy was the last illusion he’d been clinging to—that in letting her go, he had done the noble thing. The truth was far simpler, and far uglier. He had been afraid. And fear had cost him the only woman he had ever truly loved. And it might cost her even more, because Baxterwould drain the life out of her, one endless, miserable day at a time.
Chapter Eight
Hermione sat at the dining table, the low flicker of candlelight glinting off the crystal and polished silver, doing its best to lend the evening a genteel glow it in no way possessed. The long sleeves of her gown hid the evidence of Baxter’s temper from the night before. Still, getting through dinner was difficult at best.
The meal, though elegantly prepared, tasted of ash on her tongue—not because of the food itself, but because of the company. Phinneas occupied the head of the table in her father’s absence and their mother, seated to his right, presided over it all with the brisk, unflappable poise she seemed to summon for any social occasion. To Hermione’s left, Baxter prattled on in his usual fashion, wholly unaware that her brother—her half-brother—across from them, was barely tolerating his presence.
It was almost impressive, the degree to which Baxter could remain oblivious to Phinneas’s thinly veiled disdain. Almost—but not quite.
“Lord Randford,” Baxter began, his tone one of forced joviality, “is there good shooting on your country estate? Pheasant and quail?”
Hermione noted, with a kind of fatalistic resignation, that it was the same question Baxter had posed to Phinneas at every opportunity, as if the answer might change from one encounter to the next. As if her brother might suddenly develop an interest in such pursuits.
Phinneas, to his credit, didn’t roll his eyes. “I really couldn’t say. That would be a question for my gamekeeper.”
“Ah,” Baxter said, leaning back slightly, satisfaction curling his mouth. He looked as if he’d just uncovered some great defect. “Not a hunting man, are you?”
“I hunt, Baxter, but I do have other interests outside of it,” Phinneas replied evenly. “I have multiple estates that I must manage. I cannot keep track of every bird on every acre of land I possess.”
Sensing the tension coiling between them, Hermione stepped in, hoping to keep the peace. “Phinneas is typically more interested in riding, and he breeds horses. His hunters and racehorses are some of the best in all of England.”
Her attempt at diplomacy landed with the weight of stone. There was no ripple of ease, only a sharp shift in Baxter’s expression. The smirk faded, replaced by something harder, colder.
“Hermione,” he said, his voice low but edged with censure, “it would be best if you didn’t speak of racing horses and animal husbandry. It’s hardly proper conversation for a young lady.”
Hermione felt the heat rise in her cheeks, not from shame at her own behavior, but mortification at his. Taking her to task in front of her family, chastising her as thought she were a small child—it wasn’t to be borne. She couldn’t even look at Phinneas, but then she didn’t have to. She could feel the sudden tension permeating the air between them.
“You are not yet her husband, Mr. Baxter,” Phinneas said, the words quiet but carrying enough steel to cut. “If anyone is to takeexception to Hermione’s behavior, it would be myself as head of the family. However, I have always encouraged Hermione to speak her mind and to be herself without regard to what others might deem proper or appropriate.”
Baxter’s shoulders went rigid, his chin lifting. His hand clenched so tightly around his fork that the tines warped under the pressure, the silver bending ever so slightly in his grip. Hermione’s stomach tightened at the sight. It was a small thing, almost imperceptible, but she saw it for what it was—a telltale crack in the façade, a glimpse of the temper beneath his barely cultivated manners. That anger would not always be directed toward Phinneas. Thinking of his behavior the night before at the opera, she knew only too well what it might look like when he turned it on her.
“Of course, Randford. Naturally, until Hermione and I are wed, we will both concede to your wishes,” Baxter said smoothly, though the faint tremor in his voice betrayed his irritation.
The implication was clear. Once she was his wife, her voice would be silenced. He would see to that.
The remainder of the meal dragged on, every course an exercise in endurance. Hermione spoke little, her appetite gone. She kept her eyes mostly on her plate, aware that each exchange between the two men was a subtle tug-of-war, one in which she was the prize neither would relinquish.
Her humiliation only deepened with the realization that Baxter seemed wholly unaware of how much her brother despised him. He likely imagined Phinneas’s restraint to be a mark of civility rather than a tightly leashed temper. And as she sat there, she saw with chilling clarity what her future might be if she went through with this marriage—a life lived under Baxter’s constant scrutiny, cut off from her family except when it pleased him to permit otherwise.
When at last the meal ended and Baxter took his leave, their mother walking him out, Hermione exhaled in relief. She had barely risen from her chair when Phinneas turned to her, his expression thunderous.
“You cannot be serious! You cannot possibly mean to marry that braying jackass.”
“I can and I do,” she replied evenly. Glancing toward the doorway to ensure their mother was still out of earshot, she added in a low voice, “And you of all people should know why. I will not be responsible for bringing that sort of shame to this family.”
“The study,” he said tersely. “Now.”
She followed him, her pulse quickening—not from fear of Phinneas, but from the knowledge that he would press her, and she would have to stand her ground.
Once inside her father’s—Phinneas’s stepfather’s—study, he shut the door with unnecessary force.
“You cannot forbid me to marry him, Phinneas. Not when you’ve spent my whole life telling me I was free to make my own choices!”
“But you didn’t choose him, Hermione. You settled for him because he asked, and you were afraid… Is it necessary?”
Her temper flared. “Do I need to remind you what passed between myself and Hartley? Yes, it’s necessary.” She understood perfectly well what he was asking. If only it were so simple as being with child. This was all infinitely more convoluted. How could she explain to him that the blackmailer was forcing her to accept Baxter’s suit? The entire situation was beyond insensible.
He raked both hands through his hair. “Are you with child, Hermione?”
