Hawthorne's Wife by Emily Royal

Author:Emily Royal
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 2019-09-02T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty

AS HAWTHORNE ENTERED the clubroom at Whites, he spotted Ross who waved him over. He sat in the chair next to his friend, and a footman appeared with his favorite brandy. He drained the glass and brandished it at the servant, who nodded, took it back, and retreated to refill it.

Ross raised an eyebrow and sipped his drink with the measured action of a man who appreciated, rather than wasted, the comforts wealth afforded him. Society might think the worst of a man who acquired his fortune through trade. But hard work, though reviled, cultivated a self-control which most men of Hawthorne’s class could only dream of.

Ross might envy Hawthorne for his title, which had eased his entry into establishments such as Whites, but, in turn, Hawthorne envied Ross his freedom—freedom to do what he liked with his fortune, being unshackled from entailments and the whims of trustees.

And freedom to marry whomsoever he chose, even if Ross had squandered that freedom on the colorless de Grecy girl.

If Hawthorne possessed such freedom, he’d have chosen someone far more worthy…

Frederica…

But instead, he’d taken her virtue like a hungry adolescent. Her view of the world had rendered her ignorant of the constraints of rank he suffered and the expectations placed upon him to marry well. Selfishly, he’d taken what she had willingly offered without a thought to the consequences. Then, propelled by a need to possess her for himself, he’d insulted her with his crass offer, attempting to justify his motives by arguing that it was for her benefit.

Ashamed of his behavior, he’d attempted to call on her, but each time he’d arrived at her front door, the footman had informed him she was not at home. He couldn’t blame her—she had every reason to hate him.

Had she told her father what he’d done? If Stanford had turned up on Hawthorne’s doorstep, pistol in hand, demanding retribution, some of Hawthorne’s guilt might have been spent. But instead, that guilt had festered.

For the past fortnight he’d looked for her in every drawing room and ballroom he entered, disappointment dousing his anticipation when he couldn’t find her.

She didn’t seem to be going out at all. Each morning, he rose early and ventured into Hyde Park, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. But, save for the occasional clandestine liaison between lovers or a furtive young boy up to no good, the park was empty. Not even that profligate Markham was about.

“You look out of sorts, my friend,” Ross said. “If I were the sort of man to indulge in the bet book, I’d wager a hundred guineas your ill humor is to do with a woman.”

“I’m in no mood to discuss women,” Hawthorne said. “At least, not with a man who’s soon to slip his neck through the parson’s noose. Tell me, how does it feel? Are you a prisoner awaiting the gallows, or a witless fool blinded by the belief that wedded bliss awaits you?”

Ross snorted. “More a blessed release than wedded bliss,” he said.

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