BLYTHE
EVERETT WAKEFIELD AND CHARLOTTE KILLINGER MARRIED TWO months
later with the midsummer sun beaming down upon them.
It seemed that happiness was everywhere these days. Blythe watched it blossom between the bride and groom as he drew her in for a kiss. It was in the tender touch that Eliza pressed upon her swollen belly, and the way that Elijah laughed when she jolted from the baby’s kick. Eliza was only weeks away from meeting her child, and Elijah had welcomed her into the family without a second thought.
Signa, too, had unfurled like a flower, sighing as she threaded her fingers through Death’s as he embraced her.
Blythe supposed she should be happy, too, now that she had her father back and knew that neither Everett nor Charlotte was the duke’s killer. Even so, no matter how grateful Blythe was for the way things had turned out, there was no ridding herself of the deep unease that coiled like a spring within her.
Whatever Signa had done that night in the garden, it hadn’t just affected Eliza and the child. Blythe hadn’t told a soul of the things she’d seen, or how in the moment their lives were saved, Blythe had fallen into a sea of white light. The warmth of it had coaxed her, easing her worries and stealing her thoughts for seconds that’d felt like hours. And in that sea, she’d dreamed of velvet laughter. Of a faceless man who spun her in his arms, dancing to unfamiliar music that she somehow recognized. Music she knew every step to.
It was ridiculous, and yet Blythe couldn’t rid herself of the memories. They scratched against her mind as she watched Everett cup his hand around Charlotte’s face, reminding Blythe of a time when a faceless someone had held her like that. A time when the heat of his kiss had blazed through her body, and she wanted nothing more than to drown herself in his touch.
Memories was the wrong word for what these images in her head really were, because they didn’t belong to her. Surely Blythe wouldn’t forget falling in love. Especially not with someone whose hands felt so strong against her cheek, or so powerful as they slid down her hips and lifted—
She shook away the image, hoping no one noticed that she was blushing. If she could take a shovel and dig the thoughts out, she would have by now, for they were doing her and her late-night fantasies no favors. She threw her attention instead to the happy couple, clapping with the others as the newlyweds kissed.
After everything that had happened over the past year, the Wakefield manor felt too beautiful for comfort. Its glassware and gilded cakes were too glittering, and the audience too opulent in their suits and gowns. Blythe kept expecting something to break, or perhaps for fire to rain from the sky, which wasn’t at all helping her to focus. That spring within her coiled even tighter, and she wanted to turn around and follow her unease. It felt like someone was watching her, yet she couldn’t sense where those curious eyes were coming from.
“It’s a beautiful wedding, isn’t it?”
Blythe flinched, recognizing the voice as Signa’s a moment too late. She took in Signa’s dark navy gown, a sharp contrast to her own, which was a shade of blue so icy that it almost looked silver. Elijah stood a short distance behind Signa, animated as he spoke to a laughing Eliza.
“He’s going to make a fantastic grandfather,” Signa continued when Blythe didn’t say anything, eyes narrowing on her cousin.
“He will,” Blythe agreed, turning her attention to the bride and groom. “And I daresay Charlotte has never looked happier.”
Blythe’s chest swelled as the couple held each other in tender arms. It was good to see Everett with a light in his eyes, again. The death of his father had been labeled a natural cause. The rumor was that the alleged poison was nothing more than a mistake made by a hasty coroner, thrown
off by the body belonging to such a high-profile figure. A lie, of course, but one Blythe knew she and Signa would take to their graves.
Or at least she would. She wasn’t certain whether Signa would even
have a grave.
“Has a name been chosen for the baby?” Signa asked a touch louder, earning the attention of the other Hawthornes, Eliza included.
She and Byron had announced their marriage days after Elijah’s return to Thorn Grove. They claimed to have been married months prior, citing Elijah’s imprisonment and Lord Wakefield’s death as the reason they’d kept the news from the public. There were whispers, of course, given the prominence of Eliza’s belly. But there would be no way to disprove anything; the two planned to take an extended trip to the countryside for the birth so that no one would know when the child came.
It may not have been the marriage that Eliza envisioned for herself, though it was one that had saved her. There was no romance between her and Byron, and as Eliza had told the girls already, Byron expected nothing that she was not inclined to offer. He had loved Percy, and all he wanted was to be there for the child.
“Cyril for a boy,” Eliza said with tender eagerness, grinning as she looked to Byron. “We’re still deciding for a girl.”
“It’s a strong name,” Elijah said before excusing himself to congratulate Charlotte’s father. All the while his grin was so wide that Blythe feared his face might split in two.
The excitement in Byron’s eyes, too, was undeniable. Signa prodded at it, her voice teasing, “Are you ready for their arrival? I imagine it feels like the child will be here any day.”
Byron placed a hand on the small of Eliza’s back. “It’ll be a relief to have them here.” He tried to sound casual about it, though casual for Byron meant that he might as well have been shouting from the rooftops.
“The day cannot come soon enough.” Eliza’s voice softened, ensuring no curious ears were paying them any mind. “I fear I will not know peace until this child is delivered safely.”
“They will be.” There was an edge of hardness to Byron’s posture. “There is no one to threaten the child’s life anymore, Eliza. You may sleep easy.”
The severity of Signa’s darkening eyes straightened Blythe’s spine.
“Did someone want the child gone?” Signa asked, not the least bit taken aback when Eliza puckered her lips at such a brazen question. Even Byron tensed further.
“My uncle did.” Eliza kept her voice soft, meant only for the four of them. “He gave me two options the night before his death—get rid of the baby or be engaged to Sir Bennet by the week’s end.”
Byron didn’t bother trying to conceal his bitterness. “The child deserves better than someone with one foot already in his grave. The baby is a Hawthorne and should be raised as one.”
Blythe felt Signa’s eyes slide to her and understood the look at once. Byron had not necessarily said anything damning… and yet one could not help but wonder at his tone while remembering how adamant Eliza had been about the dose of cyanide. Blythe had thought it little more than the ramblings of a guilty woman, and yet as she looked upon the possessiveness of Byron’s touch as he held Eliza, sweat trailed a line down her back.
Eliza claimed to have rid herself of the cyanide in a panic that night. And if that was true, it was possible that Eliza had not been the last person to touch the poison or the drink that had made its way to Lord Wakefield.
Byron was one of the few who’d known about Elijah’s sobriety. He was one of the few who could have ensured that it wasn’t Elijah who drank the poison, but Lord Wakefield. Because had Lord Wakefield lived, Percy’s child would have been lost to them, either never born, or made the secret bastard of a father Byron believed was unsuited to raise a Hawthorne.
Looking at Byron now—at the pride in his eyes and the possessiveness of his touch—Blythe realized one thing: Byron never would have allowed either of those scenarios to happen.
Blythe knew that her cousin had come to the same understanding as they watched the two retreat toward a shaded table, Byron taking great care to help Eliza into a seat.
For the sake of Percy’s child, it was Byron who’d poisoned the duke. And though the truth of it weighed upon her chest like a brick, there was nothing to be done. It wasn’t as though they’d ever get a confirmation out of Byron, and even if they did, what would it matter? They’d chosen to protect Eliza. Now they’d have to do the same for him.
So lost in her own thoughts was Blythe that she didn’t hear the clinking against crystal until she noticed several heads swivel toward it. There
wasn’t so much as a moment to check in with Signa about this new information, for her cousin’s attention had already been stolen away by the sound. Only when Signa blanched did Blythe follow her gaze.
Prince Aris did not wear black as the other men did but had outfitted himself in a frock coat the color of autumn moss. He looked every bit a prince as he smiled upon the crowd and raised his champagne into the air, waiting for others to mirror him.
“I’d like to extend my congratulations to the new husband and wife, and to propose a toast to the joys of marriage!” He’d cleaned up nicely since Blythe had last seen him, no longer wild and haggard or raging like a rabid dog. His golden hair had been freshly barbered and his shoes polished, though it was the ring of golden light around his finger that Blythe struggled to peel her eyes from. She wondered whether anyone else could see it.
“You’ve made the commitment to honor one person, for better or worse. Richer or poorer. To cherish and be faithful to them until Death himself comes for you.” He kept his voice jovial even as he scanned the crowd, one corner of his lips twisting upward as his gaze settled upon Blythe. “It’s an admirable commitment, and I can only hope that, one day, my future bride and I will be half as happy as the two of you. Isn’t that right, Miss Hawthorne?”
Several ladies gasped and looked toward Diana, who had undoubtedly still been proclaiming herself the future princess of the imaginary Verena. In the end though, it was Blythe that all eyes sought out, including her father’s. Elijah had gone pale as a ghost, and in that moment, Blythe wanted nothing more than to cross the floor and pluck Aris’s eyeballs from his skull. Then she’d shove them back into their sockets just so she could pluck them again.
She didn’t though, as a better, more vicious plan had entered her mind, refusing to let her shy away from his challenge. It was a decision that would warrant a discussion she really didn’t want to have with her father, but there was no way Blythe could allow Aris to win the war he’d waged.
She lifted her own flute of champagne and threw on her brightest smile as she twirled around the crowd. “You two are an inspiration to us all!” Someone ought to have given her an award for the joy she managed to slip into her own voice. “Let us toast to your brilliant future, and to your many
years ahead. I hope that His Highness and I will soon be as happy.” She tipped the flute back among polite clapping, swallowing the drink in a single swig.
Blythe could have sworn she heard Death’s laughter in the rustling trees, though she didn’t glance back to confirm it. Instead, she tossed her hair, nearly laughing aloud when Aris caught sight of her father, the smug grin sinking from his lips as Elijah brushed past Blythe, heading for the prince himself. Even a deity was no match for a father scorned, and as Aris braced himself, Blythe offered her condolences with a sweet wave.
If this man believed that he would be her ruin, she would show him just how wrong he was. There was nothing in this world that would make Blythe happier than spending the rest of her life making Prince Aris Dryden regret his very existence.
Again the rustle of laughter sounded, and this time Blythe saw Death’s shadows ensnare Signa as he whispered, “And now the show begins.”
