Page 3 of When Hearts Are Wylde
Six Months Later
Hermione Waring stepped into the first ball of the Season with a sickening tightness in her chest and a cold, leaden weight in the pit of her stomach. The scent of beeswax, perfume, and too warm bodies pressed too close in the overfull space filled her nose. The low hum of conversationcombined with the distant strains of music set her nerves jangling. The whole of it was overwhelming.
The heat of the crowded assembly room had her perspiring in her finery, the delicate fabrics sticking to her clammy skin. It was suffocating and inescapable. But none of that showed. Her expression was poised, her smile polite, and her steps measured as she moved beside her mother through the crush.
That was her talent, after all—hiding what she truly felt beneath layers of practiced composure and perfectly modulated words. She had spent years becoming the sort of young woman society approved of. Graceful, well-bred, and obedient. But inside… inside she was fraying at the seams.
There were people here who knew the truth. She didn’t know their names. Not yet. But their eyes were on her, she couldfeelit, like prickling heat crawling up the back of her neck. They were watching, waiting. Someone among the glittering crowd had the power to destroy her, and they intended to use it.
There was Leo, of course. Leopold Hartley, her ruin in human form. He knew her better than anyone else alive—better, perhaps, than she knew herself. And their association, her secret folly… it had ended in bitterness and silence. She should have known better. Shehadknown better, and still she had gone to him. Again and again. Each time he’d welcomed her. Each time he’d shown her pleasures that had been beyond her wildest imaginings. Now she would pay the price.
Standing not very far from him at all was Phinneas. Her brother. Dear, stalwart Phinneas, who had always seen her as good and clever and above reproach. He’d protected her throughout their lives. Though she was only his half sibling, he’d never treated her as such. As far as older brothers went, he was the best she could have ever asked for. And telling him what had happened would shatter any illusions he had about her. Worse, it would provoke him to act rashly, to seek out the truth withhis fists , or worse yet, a sword or pistol. And the last thing she needed now was more attention.
Her eyes swept the ballroom, moving past familiar faces and false smiles, past glittering chandeliers and mirrored walls that reflected her image back to her like a ghost. The sensation of being watched hadn’t diminished. If anything, it grew more intense with every step. She reached for her reticule, clutching it in gloved fingers. Inside was the note. Folded carefully and worn at the edges from being handled too often, though she no longer needed to see the paper to recite every word.
She had it memorized.
Miss Waring,
You have been quite naughty. Your association with Lord Hartley would likely be of great interest to your brother. Of greater interest would be the letters exchanged between the pair of you which offer rather intimate details of your time together. But your brother would likely be far more forgiving than the gossips of the Ton.
It is quite fortunate for you that I am possessed of a generous nature and inclined to mercy—for a price. After all, there is always a price for everything. It isn’t money, I will require of you. Merely compliance. Before the night is through, you will receive further instruction.
My mercy, like other things, has limitations. Do not test my patience with willfulness, Miss Waring. I will not tolerate it. And you cannot afford to court my ire.
—The Witness
The name alone had chilled her.The Witness.Notawitness, notyourwitness—just…The Witness, as though some omniscient specter hovered above, recording her every misstep. Someone had seen her, and worse, they had proof. The letters she had written—foolish, romantic, deeply personal things—were no longer hers. They were weapons now. And in the hands of someone who would use them without mercy.
Worse than the letter from the Witness had been the other document that accompanied it. It had been one of her letters, one that she’d written to Leo in the beginning, before things had gone so badly that there was no coming back from it. It was beyond damning, beyond scandalous. It was her ruin wrapped in ink and paper. And if the blackmailer had one letter, it was very likely they had the others.
“Hermione, are you well?”
She blinked and looked up, startled from her thoughts by Phinneas’ concerned voice. His dark eyes studied her, seeming to be all seeing and all knowing. He’d known something was wrong, of course. She’d be unable to hide that. But perhaps she could offer a convincing enough lie to reassure him and buy her some time.
“I’m quite alright,” she said lightly. “It’s simply been a long day. Too many social engagements in too short a time.”
“We can leave, if you wish. I’m sure our host and hostess would understand,” he offered, lowering his voice as they neared a group of dowagers whispering behind fans.
She summoned a smile—fragile and false, but convincing enough. “Absolutely not. There is nothing wrong with me that could not be cured with a glass of champagne and a lively dance.”
His brow furrowed. “If you’re certain.”
“I am.”
It was true. She was certain—certain that her life had taken a turn from which there was no easy return. Certain that this night would bring some new horror, some fresh directive from her invisible tormentor. And certain that the only way to regain any semblance of control over the situation was to confront Leo and determine precisely who had betrayed them.
Another thought burned, simmering at the edges of her mind. Perhaps he was the betrayer. Perhaps he’d been indiscreet and whispered something to a lover. That thought pained her for many, many reasons. Perhaps left one of her letters in the open. Careless but not cruel, not malicious. It would be easier to bear but it wouldn’t change the undeniable fact. She would bear the consequences of his carelessness.And her own recklessness.After all, she’d gone to his home, invaded his private quarters and all but demanded to be seduced. There was no way to avoid taking responsibility for her own part in their peccadillo.
If it became public knowledge she would be the one who was ostracized, shunned by the society that they were both part of. Of course. That was the way of the world. Men indulged every whim, every urge, and were lauded for it. Women, meanwhile, were expected to suffer in silence, to obey the rules even when the rules were unjust. It was not fair. It had never been fair.
But fairness would not save her. So she straightened her spine and lifted her chin, eyes scanning the ballroom with renewed focus.
She had to find Leo.
Leopold, Lord Hartley, already knew she was there. He always knew when Hermione entered a room, whether he saw her or not. There was a shift in the air, a charge like the crackling stillness before a storm. Tonight was no exception.
He stood just beyond the ballroom’s threshold, half-hidden behind a cluster of potted palms near the card room. The scent of jasmine clung to her, faint but unmistakable, and he followed it with the same unerring certainty that had always drawn him to her.
