Page 27 of When Hearts Are Wylde
Her lips curved into a sad smile, one that did not quite reach her eyes. “I know. I’ve always known. If he hadn’t loved me, he wouldn’t have pushed me away. That was his way of protecting me from himself.” She let out a soft, almost rueful laugh. “He was wrong, of course. But that’s who he is.”
Silence settled between them, heavy with the unspoken things—his promise to stand between her and any threat, her determination not to let this day belong to anything but his joy. Finally, she gave his arm a light squeeze and stepped back.
“Go to your wife, Phin,” she urged softly. “Let me, with all my scandals, slink away. I would not have your happiness dimmed by my shadows.”
His throat worked, but he nodded. “Very well. But remember—whatever comes, you don’t have to carry it alone.”
“I know,” she said, and this time the smile was genuine.
Phinneas lingered only a heartbeat longer before turning to go, leaving her in the hush of the corridor, her composure still intact—for now.
Chapter Fourteen
Two weeks had passed since that fateful night when Hermione had let herself into his house for what appeared to be the very last time. And he’d forced himself to do what was expected of him. To maintain his carefully crafted facade. So he threw one of his parties.
The townhouse was filled with lively sounds—music and conversation, flirtations and assignations, and above all, plots and schemes. From the vestibule to the upper gallery, it was filled with the shimmer of silk, the warm scent of perfume, and the low, suggestive murmur of voices punctuated by bursts of laughter that often teetered toward something more primal. In the largest salon, the glow of countless candles painted the guests in gold and shadow. A harpsichord tinkled in the corner, but its music was half-drowned by the competing rhythm of bodies swaying together in the alcoves.
It was precisely the sort of scene that his wicked reputation had been built upon—an invitation to one of his evenings was whispered about for weeks afterward. And yet, as he stood by the carved marble mantel, a glass of the finest claret in his hand, he felt the same detachment he had known for months now. Once, he might have been in the thick of it, laughing with his arm abouta willing waist, but since his very first night with Hermione Waring—since the peculiar quiet she had left in her wake—these events felt increasingly hollow. Even before her, truth be told, the thrill had been wearing thin. The performances, the excess, the pretense of pleasure… all of it felt worn at the edges.
Still, appearances mattered. His role tonight was that of indulgent king presiding over a court of revelry, even if he no longer sampled from the feast.
Belle drifted toward him, a vision in pale green silk that clung to her figure, her golden hair gleaming under the candlelight. She set her shoulder against the mantel beside him, her smile playful and edged with challenge. “You preside like some aloof monarch,” she teased, “but do not join in. Surely you are not so jaded as all that?”
Hartley glanced at her over the rim of his glass. “Would it disappoint you if I said I might be?”
“Only enough to make me try to cure it.” Her smile turned knowing. “I can be quite persuasive, you know.”
Once, he might have taken the offer for what it was and followed her upstairs without hesitation. But now he only inclined his head politely. “I am certain you can. But I have no wish to be cured of this particular ailment.”
“So it’s love then,” she mused.
“For someone reportedly blind as a bat, you see things very clearly, Belle,” he observed.
“It helps… I could see you from across the room, but up close? You’re naught but a blur, my lord. That means I can’t see the masks you don to hide your true self behind. You’re a man with a broken heart, I think.”
“Have you ever been in love, Belle?”
She laughed. “I fall in love at least once every fortnight.”
His lips quirked at that. “Belle, if you ever want out of this life, to find a more lasting love and settle somewhere far fromthese glittering ballrooms and the rot that lurks beneath them, you have but to ask. I’ll see to it you’re set up well enough that any man you welcome to your bed will have earned the privilege rather than paid for it.”
Her brows lifted, but her amusement remained. “You are a strange one, my lord. I daresay your guests would be shocked.”
“Let them be,” he said easily, taking a slow sip of wine. Then, in a quieter tone, “It was Randford who told me about your condition.”
Belle tilted her head. “You mean about my eyesight?”
He nodded. “I told him you couldn’t possibly be the blackmailer troubling his sister, not if it required fine work close at hand. I have no reason to think otherwise. But this… parasite… clearly has only malice in their heart for Ranford and Miss Waring. And that kind of malice is born only from something deeply personal. Their viciousness is unlike anything I’ve ever encountered. More than is reasonable. More than is… natural.”
He let the words hang, studying her face.
Belle shifted under his gaze, her smile faltering for the first time that evening. “Aphrodite has said some ugly things about them,” she admitted. “Particularly Miss Waring. And Randford. She calls him arrogant, undeserving of his title. She never speaks of them without some bite in her tone.”
Hartley’s interest sharpened. “Has she?”
Belle nodded, glancing away toward the crowd. “I do struggle with my vision, yes, but only up close. From a distance I see more than people think. And one of the things I have noticed is just how much Aphrodite resembles Randford.”
That landed like a hammer striking an anvil. A click, a shift—and suddenly the months of seemingly unmatched puzzle pieces fell into place. Hartley masked the surge of satisfaction behind a mild smile. “That is… enlightening, Belle. You have my thanks.”
