Page 18 of When Hearts Are Wylde
“It’s too late for that,” Hartley said flatly, shaking his head. The argument lacked the heat and tenacity it would normally possess. “I’m beyond redemption, but that doesn’t mean you should let her throw herself away on him. Whatever you have to do, you must prevent their marriage.”
Randford sighed. “It’s not my choice. She has accepted his offer. If she were to renege now, especially in light of the potential scandal, it would go terribly for her. She’d be a fallen woman and a jilt. Society might forgive one or the other, eventually, but never both.”
Hartley pushed back his chair. “If you will not halt this nonsense, I will. Baxter is not without sin. I know enough about him and his proclivities that he will cry off if I tell him to rather than face the censure I could bring down on him.”
“And that will leave Hermione still ruined… and still unmarried,” Randford pointed out. “And the next man who courts her may well be worse than Baxter.”
Hartley muttered a curse and stalked away from the table. As he moved through the dining room with long strides, the murmur of conversation receding behind him, replaced by the dull echo of his boots on the polished floor. He had no destination in mind, only the need to keep moving before the walls closed in with Randford’s words still ringing in his ears.
If you could see your way clear to being her husband…
The thought was a blade twisting in his chest. There had been a time—God help him—when he might have been worthy. But he had spent too many years hollowing himself out with excess, feeding every vice until there was nothing left but a man-shaped shell. A man like that had no business binding a woman like Hermione to him. Even if he were to grant himself clemency, he’d still never be worthy of her.
And yet, the image of her as Baxter’s wife clawed at him—her spirit slowly ground down beneath the man’s sharp tongue and heavier hand. Hartley had seen it before, in the eyes of women who had stopped hoping for kindness. He would not watch that happen to her.
Still, he knew the truth: she would not want him now. She might have once, before he’d turned away from her, before his own cowardice had made her fair game for a blackmailer and easy prey for Baxter. That failure was his to carry, and it weighed heavier than any brandy bottle he had ever lifted.
At the foot of the stairs, he gripped the banister hard enough to feel the bones shift in his hand. He could not undo what was done—but he could stop what came next. Even if it meant sacrificing whatever remained of his tattered reputation. Even if it meant crossing the final line that would put him forever out of favor—murder.
Whatever the cost, he would not let her marry Baxter. Not while he still drew breath.
Bond Street was gray and gloomy, shrouded in misty rain that mirrored her own glum feelings. Hermione emerged from the milliner’s with a small parcel in hand, her maid trailing dutifully behind. She had told herself this errand was nothing more than a distraction—a way to occupy her mind with silks, ribbons, and the harmless trivialities of fashion.
But her thoughts wandered ceaselessly, circling back to Baxter’s heavy-handed attentions, to Hartley’s scathing words, to the cold dread that seemed to settle deeper with every passing hour. She was weary of her own mind and longed for silence in it, though she feared she would never have that again.
As she stepped to the edge of the pavement, a movement across the street caught her eye. A hired hack waited there, its wheels splashed with mud, the driver hunched against the cold. Inside, behind the lowered glass, a woman sat, her face veiled in dark netting. At first, Hermione thought nothing of it—until recognition pricked at her memory, startling and intrusive as any icy wind.
Perhaps it was paranoia. But what if it wasn’t? Someone was watching her, after all. They had to be given the way the last note had been delivered. She had seen that carriage before. Many times. Always in the periphery, never long enough to speak, never close enough to confront. And always—always—bearing that same motionless figure, face obscured.
Her breath quickened. The realization landed with the terrible, clear ring of truth: this was the blackmailer.
Without thinking, she pressed her parcel into her maid’s startled hands. “Wait here,” she murmured, already stepping from the curb.
A coach rattled past, drenching her hem in filth. She scarcely noticed, her eyes fixed on the hack as though she could will it to remain in place. The veil had shifted slightly, revealing the faintest curve of a cheek, the glint of an earring. She quickened her pace?—
And failed to see the second carriage bearing down upon her.
The thunder of hooves came too late. A cry escaped her lips—cut short as strong arms seized her from behind, wrenching her off her feet and against the solid wall of a man’s chest. The air rushed from her lungs; the pounding of his heart was hard and fast against her back.
The carriage roared past, close enough that the whip of cold air from its passage stung her cheeks.
“Have you taken leave of your senses?” The voice was low, fierce—and far too familiar.
She twisted in his grasp. Hartley’s face loomed above hers, taut with anger, his eyes so dark they glittered like polished obsidian. His hands lingered on her arms, not gently, but as though he could still feel the ghost of how near she had come to disaster. She saw the muscle in his jaw tighten, then release, as if he were forcing something back—whether anger, relief, or something else entirely, she could not tell.
“I saw her,” Hermione managed, breathless. “The woman who?—”
“I know who you mean.” His voice was steadier now, though his fingers flexed once against her sleeves before he abruptly let her go, as though realizing he had held on too long. “Our mysterious widow.”
“Yes! I hadn’t realized it, but I’ve seen her before. Many times. Could she be the blackmailer?”
He shrugged. “Perhaps, but you needn’t concern yourself with that now. Your paragon of a brother and I have come up with a plan. The blackmailer will be found, Hermione. But you must stop putting yourself in harm’s way.”
“I was not?—”
“You were.” His gaze locked on hers with an intensity that left her throat dry. For an instant, his mouth softened, the set of his features betraying some private torment, before the mask slid back into place. “And worse, you are about to make a far greater mistake. Don’t throw your life away on Baxter.”
The bluntness of it struck her harder than the icy air.
