Page 7 of When Hearts Are Wylde
As he led her onto the floor, she drew in a steadying breath. If she had to play this game, she would play it brilliantly. But somewhere deep inside her, a storm was already gathering—and the Witness had no idea what fury they had begun to stir.
Chapter Three
Hermione was perched on the edge of the settee in the drawing room, spine perfectly straight, hands folded neatly in her lap, and her smile fixed with the kind of precision that came only from long practice. Across from her, lounging in a chair that was far too delicate for his frame and wholly unsuited to his presence, Mr. Joseph Baxter chattered on, utterly unaware that he was being endured rather than enjoyed.
“Of course,” he was saying, with a self-satisfied chuckle, “Lady Hadwell didn’t expect me to win, but I told her—told her plainly, mind you—that a gentleman with strong convictions and a firm right hook never loses at the hunt—or at cards.”
He laughed at his own jest, oblivious to the forced nature of the expression of amusement on her face— and her mother’s, who sat beside her with a look of brittle tolerance.
Hermione’s smile did not falter, though she longed to press her fingertips to her temple and close her eyes against the headache pounding there. Baxter’s voice was loud in the way of men who had never needed to moderate their tone to be heard. Braying ass, Phin would have called him. Other decidedly worse descriptors would have been supplied by Leopold Hartley.
Everything about him—his garish cravat, his clumsy metaphors, his hearty backslaps and boisterous guffaws—grated against her every sensibility. He was a man who fancied himself more clever and just more of everything that marked an accomplished gentleman. And he was not accomplished nor was he a gentleman. He had never once entertained the notion that rooms fell quiet out of relief when he left them rather than awe.
She had only narrowly escaped the horror of dancing a second set with him the previous night by pretending a twisted ankle after the first. But this—this was worse. To suffer his company within the sanctity of her own home, beneath her own roof, and without the possibility of polite escape… it was more than she could bear.
And worst of all, she had invited him. Her skin crawled at the thought. But the alternative, of her letters to Leo being made public—well, there were worse things than suffering the company of an oblivious, self important bore.
Across the drawing room, her mother poured tea with a grace that seemed almost detached, as though she were determined to remain above the proceedings. Hermione could not blame her. Her mother, for all her faults, had always had good instincts about people, and she had taken an immediate dislike to Baxter from the moment he first crossed their threshold. But Mrs. Elizabeth Waring, formerly Lady Randford, was also a realist. They both were. A man like Baxter, as odious as he was, remained aprospect—and they could ill afford to sneer at prospects given her continued failure on the marriage mart.
Phinneas, thank heaven, lived apart. Were he present to witness Baxter’s absurd boasting and lack of even the barest hint of refinement, there would have been bloodshed before the tea tray could be cleared. Hermione loved her brother for many reasons, but at this moment she was most grateful for his absence.
Baxter rattled on, unaware or uncaring that her thoughts had wandered far from him. His voice was simply background noise now—an irritant, like the low hum of a fly that made a nuisance of itself. She wondered idly if it would be possible to feign a sudden headache. Or perhaps an unfortunate case of the plague. That would, one could only hope, be a deterrent for him.
And yet, for all her revulsion, for all the bile that rose in her throat at the prospect, she could no longer deny the truth that pressed down on her like the weight of an iron corset: she might have to marry him. And if it wasn’t Baxter, it would be someone as bad or possibly worse. Someone loud and proud and thoroughly unbearable. Someone who would see her as an ornament or an acquisition rather than a partner. Why else wouldThe Witnessforce her to endure his company? And The Witness was only a threat to her because Leo would never marry her.Because the man she loved—the man who had touched her with reverence and kissed her like she was something sacred—could not, or would not, give up the vices he clung to like armor.
Leo wanted her. She knew that. Had seen it in his eyes, felt it in every aching inch between them. And she believed, with all her heart, that he loved her. There had been tenderness in him, a sweetness in him, that he had not shown to others but that was always present when they were together. But he did notloveher enough to change. And without a willingness to change his ways, they had no future. Not one that society would tolerate. Not one that could be endured with her pride and dignity intact.
And so she smiled, and she feigned listening, and she asked polite yet painfully vague questions of Joseph Baxter as he recounted another tedious anecdote about a hunting party gone awry. Because there were few fates worse than public ruin. And fewer still more unbearable than bringing disgrace to her brother.
When at last Baxter rose to take his leave, she escorted him to the door with all the civility her station required, even offering him her hand, which he bowed over clumsily with far too much moisture. Then he was gone, whistling off-key as he descended the steps and made his way toward his waiting carriage.
She did not watch him go.
Instead, she turned away and shut the door with careful precision, pressing her forehead against the cool wood for just a moment as she drew in a long, steadying breath. Her mother remained in the drawing room, likely silently applauding her restraint. Hermione didn’t want to return to the tea things. She wanted solitude. Just a few blessed moments to breathe.
Inside a modest carriage, the interior dim and shadowed, the Witness watched. Watched Joseph Baxter emerge from the Waring household with a jauntiness in his step that belied his rather beefy frame. Beneath her veil, the woman smiled. She had waited patiently, as she always did. And the reward, as always, had come. Baxter was like a dog. A stupid one, to be sure, but still a dog. He could be led easily enough but one should never turn their back on him. Hermione Waring would discover that soon enough.
Mr. Baxter descended the steps with the air of a man thoroughly pleased with himself, utterly unaware that he was not a player, but a pawn. He had no notion he was being moved, square by square, into position. He believed he was on the cusp of triumph, that the golden-haired prize he’d long desired was nearly in his grasp.
Men were always so eager to believe in their own appeal. It was almost charming.
Almost.
The woman’s smile deepened as she watched him bumble into the carriage, calling out something to the driver that apparently tickled him as Baxter’s braying laugh carried the distance. The driver’s pained expression confirmed that it was as banal and irritating as she’d imagined.
Yes, all the pieces were in motion now. Hermione had danced with him. Now she had entertained him. Soon, she would be compromised—just enough to make the threat of scandal very real. And when that happened, her choices would dwindle to a single, bitter path.
Everything was proceeding precisely as she had directed. The Witness had waited long enough.
And soon, she would take her prize.
Chapter Four
The door had scarcely clicked shut behind Mr. Baxter before the first breath of true relief passed Hermione’s lips. She remained still in the foyer, her hand resting against the polished brass of the doorknob as though it might steady her. The air in the house, though hardly warm given their grim weather, felt oppressive after enduring half an hour of Baxter’s company. It lingered like a bad scent—an invisible residue of arrogance and clumsy ambition, louder than his voice and even harder to scrub away.
Forcing herself to move, to re-enter the drawing room and face her mother, Hermione braced herself for what was to came. When she walked in, her mother lifted one brow and the gentle clink of porcelain as she replaced her teacup on its saucer did not convey the full degree of her irritation. But then it didn’t need to. They were both well aware of her displeasure.
“Well,” said Elizabeth Waring dryly, without even looking up, “I suppose now we know why his family sent him away for his education. It had less to do with the hope exposure to civilization might refine him than it was simply to be free of his presence.”
