Page 16 of When Hearts Are Wylde
Her cheeks burned. “I will not discuss this with you.”
“If you aren’t with child then there is no reason to marry Baxter.”
“No,” she said tightly. “I am not with child. But how can I, in good conscience, marry a decent man when I… when I am not pure?”
He gave a derisive snort. “Pure. What the devil does that matter? Hermione, you need not punish yourself for a lapse in judgment by enduring that wretched bore for the rest of your life. There are men who will not care whether or not you are a virgin. Most of us, in truth, simply don’t give a damn.”
Her face flamed. “I cannot have this conversation with you. It’s humiliating.”
“Will it be more or less humiliating than having your husband scold you like a child for speaking out of turn? Hermione, I see Baxter for what he is—a bully. I very much fear that, if you marry him, he will not simply browbeat you with his words. I have not liked him from the outset, and now I know why: He will hit you. He will beat you and bully you. Then I will be forced to kill him.”
Her stomach twisted. She’d hoped he hadn’t seen it. But her brother was a remarkably observant man. She had no choice but to brazen it out. “You are exaggerating.”
“Am I? Has he struck you already? Has he laid his hands on you?”
She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. And in her silence, she had told him everything.
“Hermione, I am begging you… Do not make this mistake. It cannot be undone.”
“Neither can the last mistake I made,” she said with cold resolve. “I trusted Hartley, and it was impossibly foolish of me to do so. I knew it even then, but I wanted him. I was captivated by his wickedness and by his charm. Mr. Baxter has no charm to speak of, but he is respectable, and he is willing to marryme. I cannot throw that away on your suppositions about his character.”
Phinneas’s next question seemed to pain him. “If Hartley had asked you, would you have married him?”
She couldn’t conceal her sadness when she answered truthfully, “Without hesitation.”
“And now? If he asked you now, what would your answer be?”
She looked away. “It hardly matters. We both know he will not.”
Phinneas was silent for a moment, his gaze heavy on her. “You will do what you want, Hermione. I have never tried—with any success—to dictate your behavior. But I beg you to at least consider that you have other options. That is all. Just think on it.”
“I will,” she said softly, though in truth her course felt set. She was out of options and running out of time.
When she left the room, the tension of that heated conversation in the study seemed to cling to her. It had settled over like a shroud, pinned to her by the weight of truths she wished she could unhear. She had told herself that marrying Baxter was a choice born of pragmatism, of duty. But somewhere, deep down, she feared it was also an act of penance. He was her punishment for the recklessness she had acted with, for the temptations she’d given in to. And it was a dear and bitter price she would have to pay.
The Right Honorable Mr. Joseph Baxter, Esquire, entered the gaming hell, his expression darker than thunder. He cut through the haze of tobacco smoke and the hum of drunken laughterwith the purposeful stride of a man spoiling for distraction. He had told himself he was here to win—though recent history suggested otherwise—but truth be told, what he wanted was an outlet for the churning resentment that had plagued him since dinner at Mrs. Waring’s table.
Lord Randford’s words—so calm, so damnably condescending—still rang in his ears. The man had dressed him down in front of Hermione, under the polite guise of fraternal concern, making it perfectly clear that he considered himself the arbiter of her behavior until the day Baxter could claim her as his wife. Baxter had swallowed the retort that had risen to his lips, but it had been a bitter thing to keep down. And Hermione… she had not so much as looked his way in solidarity. She had, in fact, offered opinions at table as if to spite him. In public.
When she was his wife, that would change. No one would question his authority then—not Randford, and certainly not Hermione. He would not have a spouse who thought herself at liberty to countermand him, nor one who measured his worth against her half-brother’s.
He made his way to a table in the back where the play was deep and the players reckless—men who, unlike Randford, would not waste their breath lecturing him on propriety. Baxter was no stranger to their company; he had joined their ranks often enough, and his fortunes had been mixed at best. But losing coin was preferable tonight to sitting at home brooding over Randford’s smugness and Hermione’s quiet defiance.
From the shadowed corner of the room, Aphrodite watched him. Draped languidly across a velvet-covered fainting couch, she looked every inch the decadent ornament in her diaphanous gown, the lamplight catching on bare skin and artfully powdered curves. Most men, Baxter knew, wouldn’t have noticed whether she even had a face. He’d seen her before in such establishments,moving with the predatory ease of a woman who knew her value to the men around her—and how to make them pay for it.
He set himself to the cards, trying to lose the clamor of his thoughts in the play of the hand. It was only when a light touch skimmed across his shoulders that he stiffened, glancing up to find her standing there. She kept herself mostly to the shadows. It might have been a ploy to make her seem more mysterious and therefore more alluring, but he suspected that it was more about concealing advancing age. Still, the curve of her lips was unmistakably that of invitation. And he craved the release that might provide.
“You are so very tense, Mr. Baxter,” she murmured, her tone carrying that practiced huskiness he had heard from women who lived by their allure. “I would be very pleased to aid you in relaxation. I am well practiced in many ancient arts that you will find most enlightening.”
Baxter raised one eyebrow. “And how would Hartley feel about that?”
“Hartley and I do not have any sort of understanding, sir,” she replied smoothly. “We are friends and I attend his parties, but at present, I am free to spend my time where, how, and with whom I choose. And tonight, I choose you. Leave this foolish card game and come upstairs with me.”
“Ho, now, Aphrodite! You cannot steal the players from the table when their pockets are flush!” one of the other men protested with a grin.
The jab might have stung another night, but Baxter knew the truth—they assumed his pockets were full when they most assuredly were not. She knew it too; he could read it in the amused glint she gave the speaker before turning her attention back to him.
“I’ll leave that decision entirely to Mr. Baxter,” she said, shrugging in a way that drew the eye to the swell of her breasts beneath the thin fabric of her gown.
