Page 24 of When Hearts Are Wylde
Instead, he only held her, memorizing the weight of her in his arms, the scent of her hair, the way she fit against him as though she had been made for him alone. And above all, the rightness of having her in his embrace. It seemed as if the entire world made sense when he touched her.
And he knew, with the sick certainty of a man who had lost a battle he never truly wanted to win, that this night — this dangerous, beautiful night — would ruin him more thoroughly than anything in his past ever had.
For a moment, she simply stayed there, held against him, her cheek pressed to his shoulder. He could feel the quick staccato of her breath, the faint tremor still running through her. Hewanted to keep her like that — to believe, if only for a few more seconds, that their time was not borrowed or stolen. That she was, in every way, his.
Then he felt her retreat.
Hermione’s hands slid from his shoulders to his chest, not in a caress, but as though she were bracing herself to push. When her gaze met his, it was shadowed, conflicted, and he felt something in his gut twist.
“This…” Her voice faltered, and she glanced toward the fire, as if the sight of it might anchor her. “This was a mistake.”
He flinched, the words cutting deeper than he would ever admit. “A mistake,” he repeated, his tone rougher than he intended. “Is that truly what you think?”
Her eyes darted away from his, and he saw her throat work as she swallowed. “What else could it be? You know as well as I that nothing changes. Tomorrow I will still be betrothed to Baxter. And you—” She broke off, shaking her head. “You will still believe you are incapable of giving anyone more than moments of fleeting pleasure. Every time we give in to this, we only make it more difficult to sever ties that you never truly wanted.”
He wanted to tell her she was wrong. That she was worth more than Baxter, more than all the damnable compromises life had forced upon her. That she had, against all odds, made him want… more. But the words stuck in his throat, choked by the truth he couldn’t deny — he didn’t know how to be the man she needed.
“I should go,” she said suddenly, reaching for her cloak. Her fingers trembled as she fastened it, and he saw the faint stain of color high in her cheeks, not from pleasure now, but from shame — or perhaps from the effort of not showing any.
“Hermione—” He moved toward her, but she stepped back, her skirts brushing the desk.
“Don’t,” she said, barely above a whisper. “If you say anything now, it will only make it harder to leave.”
And with that, she turned. The door closed softly behind her, her absence echoing around him.
Hartley stood where she had left him, his hands curling into fists at his sides, the scent of her skin still clinging to him, the heat of her body still burning against his own.
It would not end that way, he determined. Not for him and not for her. He would not let her go. Whatever it took, whatever shortsighted vows he’d made to punish himself forever—he knew that he would not let her marry Baxter. He’d served penance enough and would not let her pay the price for it. That certainty brought a strange kind of peace to him.
But first, there was a blackmailer to find. And the pieces of it were beginning to fall into place for him. He knew whom they’d demanded money from. And now he knew from whom they’d demanded other things far more costly. There was one common denominator—Phinneas Merrick, Viscount Randford. Whatever this was, it was about vengeance.
Chapter Twelve
The night closed in around her as she slipped through the streets, her cloak pulled tight as though it alone might shield her from more than the cold. But it wasn’t a comforting embrace. It was oppressive, dreadful, marked by dangers of many varieties.
The wind threaded icy fingers through the loose strands of her hair, teasing them across her damp cheeks. Every shadow she passed seemed to deepen and stretch toward her, and the moonlight, when it broke through the scudding clouds, felt like the cruel gaze of some watchful eye.
Her steps were measured, the soft soles of her slippers whispering against the slick cobblestones. A misstep here could mean more than a stumble; it could mean falling, drawing attention, being seen. And discovery was not the only danger — there were men who prowled the streets at this hour, men who might see a woman alone and cloaked and imagine her to be fair game. The thought coiled low in her belly, a cold knot of fear that had her quickening her pace through the labyrinth of narrow lanes.
But not even fear could outrun the anguish clawing at her chest. She felt the loss of him like a physical blow, as if walking away from him had torn flesh and bone.
The firelight and warmth of Hartley’s study clung to her like a second skin, and instead of comfort, it burned like salt in a wound. She had gone there in desperation, her mind and body drawn toward him as though there had ever been a choice in the matter. She had wanted… she had needed… to take something for herself before she was forced into the grasp of Baxter’s heavy hand. One night to hold against the long, cold years ahead. But she had left with her heart in splinters, the pieces cutting into her with every step.
Baxter’s name was a weight that dragged at her, heavy and suffocating. His voice haunted her — thick with scorn, slick with self-satisfaction — always reminding her that in his eyes she was already his possession. Not a person. Not a wife or companion. Just a thing to be owned, to be controlled. To be browbeaten and potentially worse.
She had told herself she could endure it, that she could take whatever petty cruelties he chose to mete out, so long as it protected her family from scandal. She had almost believed that lie. But now, after tonight, she knew the truth. She could not do it. Death would be preferable.
And that truth left her with only the ruin that surely awaited her. It could not be worse than what her life would become when pressed under his controlling thumb. Phinneas and her mother would endure, and they would do so out of love for her.
If she broke the engagement, the blackmailer would strike. The letters would be made public—their contents splashed in the most lurid terms for all of London to devour. And it would not be only her name that suffered. The shame would seep outward, touching her brother, her mother, even those distant cousins whose only crime was to share her blood. She had indulged herwhims, her secret desires and in turn had given someone the power to destroy them all.But was it worth it?
That question echoed in her mind as did the answer which quickly followed. Yes. Because she’d rather live in ruin as an outcaste, ostracized from society, than to live all her life never knowing what it felt like to be truly loved. And he did love her. She knew it. But he hated himself more and that was the damnable truth of it all. He loved her. Just not enough. Not enough to stop punishing himself and her along with him. Not enough to forget whatever lingering pain from his past that made him feel he was undeserving of future happiness.
Her throat was tight when she turned the final corner onto the square where her mother’s townhouse stood. The familiar facade loomed in the distance, the windows dark and still. No one had waited up. They would never suspect she had been anywhere but her bed.
She slowed, breath clouding in the cold air, and then it came — the sob she had been holding back since she left him. It broke free, harsh and unsteady, and she pressed a hand to her mouth to smother the sound. She could not go inside like this. If she were to wake the household, how could she explain it? She could not face the questions in her mother’s eyes or the sly curiosity in her aunt’s.
She slid into the narrow alcove beside the servants’ entrance, pressing her back against the cold stone. The wall was damp, and the chill bled through her cloak and gown, but she hardly felt it. Her hands curled into fists, the roughness of the masonry scraping flesh through delicate kid gloves as she tried to anchor herself. Her shoulders trembled, her breath hitching in shallow, uneven bursts that left her chest aching. She could feel the heat of tears on her chilled skin, taste the salt of them at the corner of her mouth.
