Page 28 of When Hearts Are Wylde
She seemed relieved to have given him something of value, and he let her drift away to rejoin the festivities.
The rest of the evening, he played the genial host while laying his trap. In the upstairs withdrawing room, where Venus lounged draped in silk and idly toyed with a string of pearls, he remarked in the tone of idle gossip, “Cavendish is to ask for Miss Waring’s hand, or so I’ve heard. He is in want of her fortune, poor devil. She could do better.” He left the morsel dangling before taking his leave.
Later, in the gaming room, he found Aphrodite. She was masked, though the tilt of her chin and the calculated tilt of her body toward the gentlemen made her unmistakable. He adopted the air of a man warmed by drink and leaned in as if sharing a scandal too delicious to risk aloud in the open.
“They say Farnesdale is to wed Miss Waring,” he murmured. “Not for her fortune, mind you, but as payment of a debt to Randford. And—” he let his voice drop further, just above a whisper “—she is with child. His child. Or so the whispers go.”
“Is it? His child, that is?” She asked.
“I wouldn’t know,” he said.
She turned toward him, her blue eyes flashing with something he couldn’t quite discern. “I thought you and Miss Waring had… a fondness for one another!”
He forced a smirk, an expression of uncaring disdain. “I’ve a fondness for many young ladies, Aphrodite. I’ll take what they offer, but I’ll not be lured into a parson’s mousetrap by any of them.”
Her eyes flashed, and though her painted smile did not falter, there was a tautness in her stillness that pleased him immensely. He left her to digest it and returned to the salon, refilling his glass.
An hour later, as the night wore on and the excess reached its peak, he caught sight of her again—this time slipping towardthe door with hurried precision, the hem of her gown brushing against the marble tiles. There was no languid farewell, no lingering over a last drink; she was a woman with purpose.
Hartley let his lips curve in the barest of smiles, raising his glass in a silent toast to her retreat.
Got you,he thought, the words warm and satisfying as the finest brandy.
The trap had been baited. And now, it was only a matter of time before it snapped shut.
Chapter Fifteen
Shopping excursions with her new sister-in-law had become, to Hermione’s mild surprise, something she looked forward to. What she had first imagined might be a strained duty had instead evolved into a routine that lent unexpected warmth to her days. After more than two weeks of marriage between her brother and Felicity, these outings had become almost a weekly tradition. Hermione had grown used to Felicity’s company—there was no artifice in her, no calculated conversation meant to curry favor or gain some social advantage. It was simply pleasant.
Aside from her own small circle—her mother, Phinneas, and a handful of acquaintances—Hermione had not often cultivated deep friendships. She found herself thinking, with some relief, that Felicity’s presence was a balm after the months of tension that had preceded the marriage. There was no need to guard her tongue or measure her words.
“You will have to host a ball, of course,” Hermione said lightly as she examined a display of enameled hair ornaments.
Felicity startled so violently she nearly dropped the clutch of ribbons she had been considering. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin! I’d make a muddle of it all.”
Hermione smiled faintly, amused by her sister-in-law’s earnest dismay. She knew well enough that Felicity’s uncertainty did not extend to every aspect of marriage—there was a softness to her expression these days, a glow that told its own story. Phinneas was happy, far happier than Hermione had seen him in years, and that fact alone made her protective of the young woman now blinking at her in alarm.
“You hire musicians, you instruct the servants to arrange for flowers, you approve a menu that is suggested by the cook, and you send invitations,” Hermione replied matter-of-factly. “That is all.”
“Yes, but whom do I invite? Where do I find musicians in London? What sort of flowers are fashionable? I am well out of my depth, Hermione. This is all second nature to you, but for myself… well, I cannot imagine doing so.”
“I will help you,” Hermione promised without hesitation. “Whatever assistance you require, I will be glad to provide it.”
Felicity’s next words took Hermione slightly off guard. “I do wish you and your mother would return to our home. There is no need for us to keep both our home and your father’s at the same time… With him away on business, we’d be happy to have you both. No doubt Mrs. Lynch would be very eager to have that happen. She has no patience for my fumbling efforts to be mistress of the household.”
Hermione laughed softly. “Mrs. Lynch has been our housekeeper for years. When she realizes just how happy you are making my brother—whom she spoiled shamelessly as a child, I might add—she will be devoted to you!”
Felicity’s eyes widened, her voice taking on an almost tentative quality. “Do I?”
“Do you what?” Hermione asked, still distracted by the sparkle of a comb she was turning in her hand.
“Do I make him happy?”
Hermione set down the ornament and turned fully to face her. There was a flicker of vulnerability in Felicity’s gaze that tightened Hermione’s chest. “Can you doubt it? He smiles more freely. He laughs easily now. There is a carefree quality to him that I have never seen, not even when we were children. Indeed, he is the happiest I have ever seen him.”
She saw the relief flood Felicity’s expression, the soft flush that touched her cheeks. It stirred in Hermione a pang of affection and the faintest touch of envy—she herself had never inspired such visible devotion in any man.
Felicity returned the ribbons she had been holding to the basket. “I’ve lost interest in shopping. Let’s return home and discuss what it will take to host a successful ball.”
