Page 8 of When Hearts Are Wylde
Hermione schooled her expression into something unreadable. “You didn’t enjoy his company?”
Elizabeth’s grey eyes lifted over the rim of her spectacles. “My dear, I’ve enjoyed head colds more. I half-expected the settee to collapse under the strain of his self-importance. There is nothing so exhausting as a man who believes himself clever. And Mr. Baxter,” she added, dabbing delicately at her lips with a linen napkin, “is a singularly exhausting man.”
Hermione perched on the edge of the nearest chair, her posture straight, hands folded with care in her lap. She felt every inch the dutiful daughter, trapped between obligations—to her family, to society, and now to some unseen threat—while her own desires lay buried beneath them. “He is persistent,” she said, her voice even. “And people begin to notice when gentlemen’s interests are spurned too often. Better to have a suitor of questionable refinement than no suitor at all.”
“I beg to differ! Let them notice that you’ve spurned him, Hermione. To do less reeks of desperation,” her mother returned sharply. “The man is a social climber without the grace to hide it. He flatters with the subtlety of a drunkard and has no more understanding of wit than he does of tailoring. Did you see his waistcoat? It was practically carnivorous. Even at his somewhat generous size, it would have wrapped about him twice. His tailor must deplore whims much as I do.”
Hermione’s mouth twitched, but she could not summon a real smile. The exchange might have been amusing on another day, in another life. But not now. “We can’t afford to alienate everyone,” she murmured. “Not when Phinneas is doing all he can to secure a match of his own. We agreed, mother—moving out of his house gave him the freedom to focus on his future without having to worry about our presence or our prospects interfering.”
Elizabeth’s lips thinned as she set her teacup down with a faint click. “Yes, well. We left Phinneas’s house because he deserved the freedom to build a future of his own, not becauseyouwere meant to endure fools like Mr. Baxter in return. He’s your brother, Hermione, not your guardian. You’re not some sacrificial lamb he needs to advance his prospects.”
“I didn’t encourage him,” Hermione said, voice soft. “I was civil. That’s all.”
“You weretoocivil,” her mother retorted. “Men like Mr. Baxter don’t understand nuance. They interpret politeness as encouragement and silence as agreement. Mark me—he’ll come back. And it will only get worse. He is a bully, my dear.”
Hermione couldn’t bring herself to argue the point. Not when she was in full agreement with it. Instead, she rose and crossed the room to the window, her hands clasped behind her back, shoulders drawn tight. She looked out over the quiet street, watched the gentle sway of the trees, and tried to quell the sick churn in her stomach. Her mother meant well—always had—but even her disapproval could not match the growing certainty in Hermione’s heart that this was the beginning of something far worse than an awkward courtship.
“I think I’ll lie down before the ball,” she said without turning. “I’m suddenly very tired.”
Elizabeth’s voice softened. “Of course, darling. Get some rest. But if he returns tomorrow, I may be forced to claim sudden deafness and leave you to suffer him alone… If I remain in his presence, I will not be able to curb my own tongue.”
Hermione managed a small laugh, then turned, offered her mother a wan smile, and left the room with the practiced elegance of a lady trained since girlhood to make graceful exits, even under the most dreadful of circumstances.
Only when she reached the sanctuary of her chamber did the mask slip. She shut the door carefully, turning the lock, and leaned against it for a moment with her eyes closed. The tray on her writing desk was empty—no message had come yet—but she couldfeelits approach. The Witness would not remain silent forlong. They had already proven their appetite for control, and the charade of entertaining Baxter had surely only whetted it.
She crossed to the desk, opened her reticule, and removed the last letter, still folded neatly and bearing no signature beyond that chilling pseudonym. Reading it again made her stomach twist, but she forced herself to look. The instructions had been simple: charm Baxter. Smile. Pretend he was worthy of her time and attention.
It had been a small humiliation, but one with teeth—and it would not be the last.
She tucked the letter back into her reticule and sat down heavily at the edge of the bed. Her stays pressed uncomfortably against her ribs, but she made no move to loosen it. There was something almost comforting in the tightness, the way it held her together when she felt she might otherwise unravel.
The man she loved wanted her, hadwantedher—but he would not claim her. Would not take the final step that might have made her shameful secret a rightful truth. And so she stood on the brink of social oblivion, haunted by the knowledge that she might end up married to a man like Baxter—if not him precisely—because men like Leo, for all their passion, could not or would not sacrifice their vices for the sake of something as fragile as love.
The ballroom was ablaze with light and filled with the scent of roses, beeswax, and too much perfume. The crush of guests surged and ebbed like the tide, the orchestra playing a jaunty quadrille as bright laughter echoed against the high, arched ceilings. Hermione drifted through it like a ghost. Like most events, her dance card was full enough not to be considered awallflower, but not so full as to be considered a belle of the ball. No doubt the dance offers she received were often only proffered out of regard for Phinneas.
She was pretty enough, with a reasonable fortune and good connections. It was her own outspokenness and stubborn nature—something that she had not made any great effort to conceal—that had marked her. Gentlemen did not seek outspoken wives. In truth, they went out of their way to avoid them.
Moving through the crowd when required, smiling when necessary, her thoughts remained elsewhere. With The Witness. Waiting for the next bit of theater to pass.
She had not received a letter before departing for the ball. That alone was suspicious. The Witness had proven themselves too methodical, too precise, to simply forget. The absence was not a reprieve. It was a reprisal yet to come.
She had just accepted a glass of lemonade from a passing footman when a firm hand closed around her elbow, the grip gentle but unmistakably commanding. She turned and found Phinneas beside her, his face calm but his eyes sharp with purpose.
“Come with me,” he said, and there was no mistaking the intent in his voice.
She obeyed without protest, setting her glass aside as he guided her through the crowd and into a quiet hallway beyond the ballroom. They passed a pair of potted palms and slipped into a small, dimly lit antechamber lined with unused instruments and covered furniture, the hush of it made more profound by the muffled thrum of the music beyond the walls.
When Phinneas closed the door behind them, she braced herself.
“I want the truth, Hermione,” he said quietly. “You’ve not been yourself. You flinch when addressed. You scan every room as if expecting something to leap out at you. And tonight, you’retoo pale, too silent, and too careful. I know something is wrong. I need you to tell me what it is. I know Hartley is at the root of it.”
She looked away. “I’m simply tired. As I said earlier?—”
“No,” he interrupted, voice tightening. “Don’t lie to me. You’ve never been able to do it convincingly.”
“Despite what you may have heard, I am being quite truthful!” She protested.
He shook his head, his expression sad and worried. “You just confirmed everything I feared without realizing it.”
