Page 19 of When Hearts Are Wylde
“Wait,” he said, his tone roughened, as if the words scraped on the way out. His eyes searched hers, just for a moment, in a way that made her think—hope—that there was more he wished to say. “Wait until you find a man who is truly worthy of you.”
She stared at him, struck mute by the sudden, almost desperate plea beneath the gruffness. Her pulse leapt painfully, and for an instant she imagined reaching for him, seizing the moment, forcing the truth from him?—
But whatever flicker of vulnerability she had glimpsed vanished as swiftly as it had come. He looked away, his hands curling loosely at his sides, then uncurling again—a restless, unguarded movement that seemed born of frustration rather than ease.
When his gaze returned to her, it was shuttered, his voice quiet but implacable. “Go home, Hermione.”
And without another word, he turned and walked into the crowd, vanishing into it. By choice. Because if there was one thing she could count on from Lord Hartley, it would be that he would always walk away from her.
She stood rooted to the spot, the bustle of Bond Street carrying on around her as if nothing had happened. Her maidpressed the parcel back into her hands, but she hardly felt its weight.
Her heart was thundering, though not from the near collision. She loved him. She had loved him from the start—through the sharpness of his wit, the recklessness of his charm, the ruinous decisions that had marred them both. She loved him with the same fierce devotion with which he seemed to despise himself.
And that, she realized with aching clarity, was the wall she could never scale. Whatever demons haunted him, whatever shadowed corner of his soul convinced him he was unworthy, it would always stand between them.
Whether she married Baxter or some other man, she would live her life with this truth lodged deep: Leopold Hartley would be the only man she would ever truly love. And he would never be hers.
Chapter Ten
Hermione had been sitting at the small escritoire in the morning room for the better part of an hour, her pen idle above the half-written letter. The words she had started no longer mattered; they blurred each time she tried to focus, crowded out by her mother’s voice still ringing with disbelief and no small amount of indignation.
Phinneas was to marry Miss Felicity Wylde. In a hasty ceremony, no less. It was that more than anything that their mother was so deeply offended by. It would not be a huge society affair as befitted someone of Phinneas’ standing, but something hurried and haphazard. For herself, it was the speed with which her brother had gone from simply escorting a young woman on an outing to suddenly being betrothed to her.
It was not that she begrudged him happiness — heaven knew he deserved it — but it was all so sudden. She had never even heard him speak the lady’s name until recently, and now they were to be wed?
Her mind skittered over the myriad possibilities—some charitable and others far less so. Was Miss Wylde genuinely fond of Phinneas, or was she one of those clever young women who was only after an advantageous match? Did she see his position,his wealth, and the family name before she saw the man himself? Hermione hoped not. She knew her brother could be wary of women’s motives. After all, he’d ben avoiding marriage minded mamas for some time. But if he had let down his guard for the first time in years, Miss Wylde must indeed be something very special. Or she was a skilled manipulator. Or perhaps she was being too lenient in her estimation of her brother. He was a man, after all, and not above doing something scandalous in his own right. Was that it? Had he compromised the young woman?
The door opened, and there he was—her elder brother—composed and unruffled, as though the world outside might rail and bluster but he would not be moved by it. She set down her pen and turned toward him.
“It’s true then? You’re betrothed?” she asked without preamble.
He inclined his head. “It is.”
Dear heavens, it was like pulling teeth to get information out of him! “Well?”
“Well what?”
She could have hurled something at him. “What is she like? You must admit this is very curious. Why, it has all happened so quickly, Phin. You scarcely know her.”
His lips curved faintly. “I know enough.”
“That is hardly reassuring.”
“She’s lovely and sweet, but not in that simpering way. In fact, she doesn’t simper at all.”
“A point in her favor, already,” Hermione observed. “But is lovely and sweet enough?”
“She’s also intelligent, witty, fiercely loyal and protective of those for whom she cares… You would like her, Hermione. In fact, it is my fondest wish that the two of you will become fast friends.”
She searched his expression, seeking the kind of softened light in his eyes that she imagined marked a man in love. “Are you—” she paused. Phinneas been somewhat apart from them. Oh, he was present and engaged in family matters, but the more she thought on it, the more she realized that for all his involvement in her life, she knew very little about his. And now she was prying into something very, very personal. “Are you in love with her?”
He did not answer at once. Instead, he crossed to the sideboard, poured himself a modest measure of brandy, and leaned against the edge. It was a stalling tactic she recognized easily enough. It was a chance for him to weigh and measure his answer.
“I am drawn to her,” he said after a moment, “as I have been to no other woman of my acquaintance. Whether that is love… I do not know. I am not entirely certain that sort of love exists. But I know that I cannot imagine letting her slip from my grasp.”
Hermione’s brows drew together. “And does she feel the same?”
“Yes,” he said with quiet certainty, and then added, “Though she did not intend to. Neither of us did, truthfully.”
