Page 25 of When Hearts Are Wylde
The weight of what was to come pressed down on her until she thought she might collapse beneath it.
There would be no way forward without destruction. But perhaps… perhaps she could choose who it would destroy.
Her mind returned to the look in Hartley’s eyes, that flicker — no, more than a flicker — of need he had not tried to hide. She thought of the way his voice had broken on her name, of the warmth of his hands on her face. It only shored up her resolve: she could not, would not, marry Baxter.
If that meant scandal, so be it. If it meant ruin, she would face it. Perhaps there was no gloriously happy ending for her. Even if she refused Baxter, there was no guarantee that Hartley would ever change his mind. But if she married Baxter, then there would be no chance for happiness at all. And she was reluctant to accept a life without hope of any sort.
She straightened, her breath still uneven but her spine stiffening. Her hands fell from the wall to her sides. The fear was still there, but it had been joined by something else — a reckless, dangerous resolve.
What was left of her life was hers to destroy… and hers to save.
And as she dried her tears, and made for the door to her home, she did not know she was not alone.
From the shadowed interior of her nondescript carriage, draped in black and veiled even in the darkness, she watched the figure in the alcove with rapt, almost fevered attention. Even from this distance, she could see the shuddering of Hermione Waring’s shoulders, the way her head bowed as if the weight of the world pressed upon her neck. The sight thrilled her—dark,ecstatic, vindicated. Watching the other woman suffer didn’t prompt any feelings of sympathy, there was no sisterly empathy for her obvious heartbreak. What she was bow viewing was the culmination of her efforts.
The young woman before her, always so perfect with her fashionable clothes and delicate features, was broken. Shattered like the finest porcelain. A smile curved her lips beneath the veil, the motion tugging at the large lesion that had developed in front of her ear. That little tug of pain, that tightness in her skin with such a simple movement, fueled her fury.
She had dreamt of this moment. Some women dreamt of falling in love, of having a man rescue her through the respectability of marriage. But not her. No. Her dreams had been darker. Uglier. Full of vengeful wrath. Every tear Hermione Waring shed was a jewel, a testament to the justice she had long been denied.
Even her name was ridiculous. Hermione. The acknowledged sister—the one put forward with pride and vanity. The one who had been given a name, a place, fine dresses, and a position at her brother’s right hand as he squired her about town like some sort of prized pony. Attention, flattery, compliments from everyone, all of society fawning over her—It was all the things she herself should have had. All the things that had been stolen from her the moment her father, the previous Viscount Randford had died— died without so much as a coin or a line in his will to name her as his own. Forgotten. Ignored. Cast aside.
Born to his mistress, raised in rooms that stank of gin and unwashed bodies, she had learned early that no one was coming to save her. But it hadn’t always been so. Her mother often spoke of the fine house where she’d lived when her father had still lived. But then he’d fallen dead, his heart seizing and death swift on its heels, with no provision having been made for either her mother or her. It had shown precisely how little he cared andjust how destructive it could be to depend upon the fickle nature and empty promises of a man. But she’d had her mother’s looks, at least in the beginning of hercareer. One after another, she’d entertained gentleman from the highest echelons of society, seeing to their pleasure while her hatred for them and their disregard of anyone beneath them had only grown.
And then she had seen him — her half-brother, Phinneas — from across a crowded street one bright afternoon. Seen him step from his carriage, every inch the gentleman. Seen how peoplemovedfor him, how the air seemed to shift in acknowledgment of his importance. And then… she had seen the girl at his side.
Hermione.
His other half sister, the one who had the benefit of legitimacy. Of not being an embarrassment—a stain on his precious reputation. She’d been draped in silks and lace that she hadn’t earned on her back. And they’d walked along the street, her gloved hand resting on Phinneas’s arm, smiling at him in a way that spoke of affection and familiarity. In that instant, hatred had bloomed in her chest, unfurling like a rose but as poisonous as nightshade. Swift, choking, and all consuming. It was not enough that she had been denied her birthright. No, fate had to parade her replacement before her, radiant in all the privileges that should have been hers.
And now… now she had some hell spawned pox gnawing at her brain like a rat in the walls of a decaying house. The doctors spoke of mercury, of rest, of God’s mercy — but she had none of those things in her, not anymore. The disease had sharpened her mind into something bright and cruel, stripped away the last vestiges of pity and left only clarity and hatred.
And tonight, she saw it — the very thing she’d been waiting for. The cracks in the fine porcelain of Hermione Waring’s facade had begun to spread, spidering outward until she was allbut broken. Hermione was hiding, trembling, tears sliding down her cheeks. Oh, the girl still had fight in her, no doubt. But she would grind that away soon enough. She would make her feel the helplessness of being trapped, caged with something that could not be reasoned with.
She knew exactly what she wanted: to see Hermione stripped of every ounce of that high-bred composure, to watch her sink into the filth where she herself had been left to drown.
Her lips curved in a smile, though it was closer to a baring of teeth. She knew precisely what to do next. She would let Joseph Baxter see Hermione like this — vulnerable, wounded. She would give him just the right push, the right poison in his ear, and then stand back to watch the spectacle. Baxter’s temper was a thing of legend; once unleashed, it would be her instrument of perfect destruction.
He would denounce her. Brand her a fallen woman for all the world to see. Every shred of dignity, of hope would be rested from the other woman. And the world would turn on her. Perhaps even her sainted brother might wash his hands of her.
And when everything else had been taken from her, then she would learn the terrible truth. That through Baxter’s fumbling efforts in the bedchamber, she would have contracted the very same pox. It was one last poetic stroke in her grand scheme.
That thought brought a smile to her face. Her only joy in life was the suffering of those who had robbed her, unknowingly, of all that should have been hers.
Chapter Thirteen
The wedding breakfast was a happy occasion. And truly, she was happy for her brother. But the irony of the juxtaposition of her own romantic disaster to his very hopeful beginning did not escape her.
Hermione sat halfway down the long, gleaming table, the air humming with conversation and the faint chime of silver against china. The scent of warm bread, honey, and roasted ham curled through the air. Winter sunlight, weak as it was, slanted in through tall windows, casting the room in a golden glow, and everything in sight seemed touched by joy.
Across from her, Phinneas looked utterly at ease beside Felicity, his hand occasionally brushing hers, his gaze softening in ways Hermione had rarely seen. Her heart warmed for them both, even as painful envy bloomed inside her. She wanted that same quiet intimacy, that same sense of being truly known and cherished. The thought was a bittersweet ache, for her mind went inevitably to Leo—and then, darkly, to Baxter.
She would have to end it with him soon, before things progressed further. The thought sat like a stone in her stomach, not because she doubted the decision but because of the damage it would inflict. Bringing an end to their betrothal would be ugly.He was not the sort to bow out quietly. No, he would rage, as he always did when denied. Yet better an ugly ending now than a lifetime of cruelty. She knew what Baxter’s temper was capable of. She had seen the contempt in his eyes when speaking of others, the quickness with which he used his words like knives. She suspected that, given time, those knives would have been turned on her, sharper than steel, and perhaps not only words.
Hermione had just lifted her teacup when the dining room door slammed open with a violent crack against the wall. The sound was so sudden, so jarring, that the delicate porcelain nearly slipped rom her fingers. She turned toward that sound—and her blood seemed to freeze in her veins.
Baxter.
He stood in the doorway, wild-eyed, his jaw clenched so tightly that the muscle leapt in his cheek. Rage seemed to roll off him like heat from a forge. Her breath caught, her chest tightening as though a hand had closed around it. She had seen this look before—directed at others. Never at her. Until now.
