Chapter Text
By most accounts, Stiles would be considered blessed. While he may not have been rich in coin, he was wealthy in the ways that counted, for he had the deep love of a parent, a curious and capable mind, and lived in a place of wondrous beauty. But as the days slid from May to June, he found himself touched by melancholy.
It wasn't that he didn't love this time of year. The sweet smell of meadow grass still lingered, layered with the heady fragrance of bluebells and honeysuckle. But the following months would not only bring with them the weight of summer's humidity, but also exchange nature's fragrant bouquet for the cloying perfumes of the ton. Stiles hadn't minded the crush of people escaping the heat and stench of the city when he was younger. But now that he was twenty-one, the disparity in their circumstances, a consequence of nothing more than wealth and birthright, would only widen with each passing year.
He turned his attention back to his drawing and concentrated on shading the flower's petals, nearly missing the approach of a horse on a nearby footpath until its whinny startled him from his task.
Stiles stood, sending his sketchbook and his crayons tumbling to the ground as he shaded his eyes from the bright sun. The rider was undoubtedly someone of import and means, as evidenced by the majestic carriage of the chestnut thoroughbred and their own elegant bearing. It wasn't until the horse came to a graceful stop, and Stiles could see the rider's raven hair and familiar gray eyes, that he realized who she was.
"Laura! When did you get back?" Stiles ran his fingers through the strands of his hair in an attempt to brush them into something less hopeless as the Countess of Devenford, Laura Talbot, née Hale, alighted from the saddle. "I mean, my lady," he added contritely as Laura's eyes sparkled with amusement.
"Don't be ridiculous." Laura's tone was full of exasperated fondness as she reeled Stiles in. "You're practically family."
Stiles felt his face heat as he stumbled out of her embrace. "It's been years, my lady. And I'm me, while you're you...“ Stiles waved a hand in her direction. Even in her riding habit, an outfit that was smartly tailored and embellished with a minimum of fuss, Laura looked every inch the countess. “And a married you, no less.”
"I am still the same person who dared you to put the toads from Aunt Edna's pond into her favorite rose garden."
Stiles winced as he recalled Lady Belmont's fury upon seeing several warty-skinned frogs jumping amongst her prized Tudors. "It was a cruel dare. I was only six when it happened, but I don't think she's ever forgiven me for that transgression."
"Yet she still asked you to be her companion years later."
"Twas an unexpected and much too generous offer which I had to decline. Which is even more reason now for her to dislike me."
Laura gave him a considering look. "Why didn't you accept the position, though? I know the old biddy can be a bit much. But even she would grow tired of the sound of her own voice if ignored long enough. Plus, you always wanted to travel."
Bright laughter burst forth from Stiles, unbidden. "I was fifteen. Too far below her station, and much too unrefined and outspoken. I wouldn't have lasted a week."
When he was offered the position, Stiles had known how unusual it was. It was enough of an anomaly that he had briefly become a popular subject of the ton, which was a rarity for the son of a mere constable. But while chins may have wagged over speculations of a salacious nature, they had been cut to the quick. It was not only foolish, but foolhardy to earn the wrath of The Dowager Marchioness of Belmont, who had long held the King's favor. Those who hadn't cared if their speculations were to be made public said the dowager had become prostrate with grief following the loss of her only child, Robert, to consumption, and had sought his replacement decades later in Stiles.
Laura's mother once told Stiles that his eyes resembled those of her cousin's. That their color could be as deep as the finest aged whiskey, or as mercurial as molten gold. To Stiles, however, his eyes were a common brown. They were certainly nothing compared to the unique gray of Laura's. Or her brother Derek's, whose eyes would shift from green to gold and blue, depending on his ever-changing moods.
"Well, you must have managed to work your way back into her good graces since she's allowing you on the estate," Laura continued.
Stiles rubbed the back of his neck. "Remember when I asked her for access to the woodlands on the west end of the property? And she said I was free to roam the grounds wherever, and whenever, I needed?"
"Do you mean the time when Finstock asked you to identify and label all the plants in the greenhouse? You were but a mere child then, Stiles!"
"Well, I interpreted her statement to be one of open-ended permission."
"For perpetuity?" Laura burst out laughing as Stiles shrugged sheepishly. "Well, far be it for me to spoil your fun. What are you willing to risk Aunt Edna's wrath for, anyway?"
Stiles bent down to pick up his sketch pad and handed it to Laura. “Look what I found,” he exclaimed, unable to keep the excitement from his voice. It had taken him nearly six years before he had come across the elusive specimen. “Orchis purpurea, or the Lady Orchid." He waited eagerly for Laura's reaction as she angled the sketchpad to get a closer look. "Did you know it can take over ten years for this beauty to get its first bloom? And the flowering period is a small one that only lasts from late April through June."
"It's adorable. The blossoms look like ladies in their bonnets and gowns."
Adorable? Stiles tried not to be affronted. The orchid’s blooms were exquisite; delicate and beautiful.
He sighed as Laura returned the sketchbook. She and Cora had always indulged his eccentricities with a kind, but distant, politeness. It had been Derek, the middle Hale child, who'd seemed genuinely interested in Stiles' pursuits, despite their nearly four-year age difference.
"Is that what all the marriageable ladies are wearing?" Stiles spread out his hands as Laura lifted a brow. "It's been a while since I've attended a rout, never mind a ball."
"A circumstance that is easily changed."
Stiles' eyes widened. Despite it being the summer season, he had nothing suitable to wear to such an event, and nearly as little interest. "I didn't mean to disguise it as a poorly worded request—"
"And it wasn't taken as such. But I don't want to interrupt your work further. And I'd rather catch up with an old friend in a more appropriate setting. Especially since we'll likely be running into each other more often than not."
"More often than—" Stiles grinned. "Does this mean you're finally moving back to England?" It had been years since he'd last seen Laura, ever since her marriage to the Earl of Devenford had taken them to Paris, given the lull in hostilities between the two countries following the Treaty of Amiens.
"Yes. Napoleon's unchecked ambitions have, for all intents and purposes, made him an enemy of the entire world. And with the dissolution of the treaty, it was no longer safe for us to remain. Especially when we have a family to consider." Laura placed a gloved hand over her stomach, and while it was brief and likely unthinking, Stiles suddenly understood what the gesture had meant.
"You are with child. You're going to be a mother," Stiles said softly, under his breath. Laura's cheeks turned pink, a wordless confirmation. She would make an amazing mother, as she had always been fun, yet fair and nurturing. "I am thrilled for you."
"My parents are over the moon. With everything that is going on, there is nothing that would make them happier than having the entire family together. Cora is with them now; she had a very successful first season, although she is hardly of a marrying mind. But she is merely seventeen, and as the youngest, has been granted a wide and indulgent berth."
"And Derek?" Stiles was surprised to discover the hitch in his breath. He last saw the viscount around the time of Laura's wedding. He'd hoped to catch a glimpse of the only Hale son in the summers since, as he and his sisters had often visited their aunt whose property bordered Stiles' father's own. But each successive year only brought disappointment, and after his heartfelt letter to Derek went unanswered, Stiles had accepted that their acquaintance lay in the past.
"My brother will be back, if my parents have any say. Although Derek's been—" Laura sighed, then casted Stiles an apologetic glance as Stiles waited expectantly. "It is not my place to say. Nor will I add to any further gossip." She walked back to her horse and turned down Stiles' offer of a boost with a polite shake of her head as she mounted her steed easily. "We have much to catch up on, Mr. Stilinski. Look out for an invitation to the first rout of the summer where we may do exactly that."
Stiles watched as Laura rode off. As her retreating figure grew smaller in the distance, Stiles' gaze was drawn reluctantly up the hill and to the imposing home that sat atop. As a child, Brightmoon Manor had become equated with hours spent romping in its vast gardens, playing in its endless rooms, or reading a book from its well-stacked library. It symbolized the months where Stiles no longer felt like an only child, but as if he were part of a pack, along with all the Hale children. Now, however, the manse was a reminder of the divide between them. Of the responsibilities that came with age, and of the differences between those who had a title and those who did not.
He sat back down and picked up his sketchbook. He reminded himself to be grateful for the times they did have, even though they appeared to be entrenched in the past.
~oOo~
Jordan's brief hesitation before handing over the rummer of brandy spoke more loudly than any words could.
"It will take a lot more than this to get me foxed." Derek Hale—the Viscount Hemming and son of the third Earl of Beacon—grumbled as his friend held up his hands in surrender.
"Yet you seem determined to be there by night's end." Jordan leaned back in his chair, stretching out his legs in a casual manner that did not fool Derek in the least.
Derek took a large sip of his drink. Its sweet and woodsy notes did little to ease the bitterness in the back of his throat. "So now you're my nursemaid as well?"
"As well? Are you saying you have a legitimate reason for being in a strop?"
Derek rubbed his hand across his face. "Laura. My parents. Cora. Take your pick."
"Their concerns are meritless, I'm sure."
Derek placed his glass on the side table. "Laura and Brett have moved back to his family's estate in Wiltshire. Now that she is enceinte, she suddenly thinks everyone's priorities should align with hers. Although it has always been this way; the two-year advantage she has over me apparently trumps the fact that I am the heir." He held up a second finger as he continued to tick off the reasons. "Which is a fact my parents won't let me forget. I have little desire to insinuate myself in the political arena, and while I am more than capable of helping manage the estate, it is not a responsibility my mother enjoys relinquishing. Why should I languish at home instead of traveling the continent and enjoying the things life has to offer?"
"Enjoying it quite a bit, I'd say. Given all the broken hearts you've left in your wake."
"As if you don't enjoy a frequent tumble in the sheets yourself." Derek sighed as Jordan softly chuckled.
"Aye, I have. But I don't have a bird waiting for me in every town."
"I have never promised anyone more than I can give. They may consider me a cad, but at least I am an honest one."
"And what about Cora? Surely she isn't badgering you about your responsibilities to family and the family name."
Despite his irritation, a small smile broke across Derek's face. He would always have a soft spot for his baby sister. "While the rest of the incomparables are busy choosing their gowns for the next season, Cora prefers to spend her time at Manton's shooting gallery on Davis Street. She has it in her head that she wants to join the Royal Navy in its efforts against Napoleon." Derek shook his head. "She is so young, however. Too much so."
"Even the smallest wolf has claws and fangs."
"And she is, unfortunately, of a single mind. Which is why she doesn't mind throwing me to the wolves if it serves her purpose. I have no doubt Cora would relish having me steal our parents' attention and disapproval should I return."
"Surely there are some things from home you miss." Jordan's eyes widened, and he grinned smugly. "What was that look? I'm right, aren't I?"
"It's…" Derek turned away from Jordan's expectant gaze. He wasn't sure why he had thought of Stiles just then. He hadn't seen the boy since Laura's wedding. Constable Stilinski's son must have been sixteen—perhaps seventeen, at the most—and the movement of his limbs could not seem to catch up with his sudden growth spurt. "I was thinking about someone who lived near my aunt. He was exceptionally bright, if a bit odd. He was closer to Cora's age, although he seemed to enjoy my company." A wave of guilt flooded Derek as he remembered receiving Stiles' letter. He had not been in a good place at the time, and after reading the excited, hopeful words of a mere child, had thrown it away without responding. "I haven't seen him in years. It is for the best; any bit of hero worship he still may have held for me would surely have been destroyed by this point."
"You say your family disapproves of your choices. Yet they all wish you home. I think the only person who can't forgive you for your mistakes is yourself."
Derek gripped the armrest of his chair. Jordan was one of the few people in his life who knew the story; unfortunately, his own family did as well. "There are some mistakes one can't return from."
"Even if that were true—and I strongly disagree that yours was—it has been three years. Are you going to spend the remaining years of your life punishing yourself? The self-flagellation is a bit tiresome. Unless it is a vice of yours I've no knowledge of."
Derek's lips did not quirk remotely at his friend's attempt at humor. "That is enough. I will talk no more of this."
"I know you, Derek. You're the boy who spent hours reading Blake and Goethe; the man who composed romantic songs and filled notebooks with sonnets for the lovely Miss Marshall when we were in Oxford. I can't believe that you no longer wish that kind of love for yourself."
His youthful adoration for Braeden seemed a lifetime ago. "They were the musings of an innocent. A fool. Even Blake knew the difference when he wrote Songs of Experience."
"Blake also married Catherine."
Derek stood suddenly, the forcefulness and speed of his movement nearly causing the table to upend. As it was, it merely spilled his drink.
"It is laughable for you to think there may be a Catherine Boucher in my life." He tugged angrily at the knot in his cravat, the fabric suddenly too constricting against his neck. "I will leave you to your own personal romantic notions, Parrish, but I ask you not to push the issue regarding mine. Everything has a limit. Even long-lasting friendships."
Jordan stood, his expression contrite. "I won't discuss it further. There is no need to go."
Derek adjusted his cuffs. "Ah, but there is. You see, Jennifer Blake has recently returned to town. I had promised her a call."
"It is nearly eleven!"
"But of course. What better time to indulge in a bit of self-flagellation?" Derek added with a mirthless laugh.
~oOo~
As Derek made his way toward Bedford Square, he second-guessed his decision to call on Lady Blake. Jennifer was several years older than he, a much younger second wife to the septuagenarian Lord Blake. Derek's parents and Lord Blake were acquaintances, and while their politics often ran contrary to each other, it seemed not to matter to Jennifer, who had enjoyed the life he afforded her: one of rank, connections, and wealth.
But while she had also enjoyed the fruits of her husband's influence, Jennifer also put little stock in certain matters of propriety. Why else would she have flirted with Derek so outrageously and lured him into her bed when her husband had been laid to rest less than a fortnight previously?
They had spent a scandalous week together between the Michaelmas and Hilary terms of Derek's fresher year at university. Jennifer was beautiful, experienced, and insatiable, and her attention had been a boon to Derek's ego. Their dalliance had resumed when Derek returned for the summer, only to cease suddenly once Derek went back to Oxford and became temporarily enamored with Braeden.
Perhaps it was because Jennifer was easy. She was comfortable in a city that was once familiar, but which had since become, admittedly through Derek's own doing, a place where he no longer belonged. She was ambitious, but unlike others from Derek's past, Jennifer was neither clever nor stony-hearted enough to hide her motivations beyond society's usual masks.
The memory of the person who had played him like a harp, then plucked out his heartstrings one by one, left Derek's gut churning.
"Lord Hemming." Jennifer's butler Brunski, a strange man with an expressionless face and who towered over Derek's own considerable height, greeted him at the door.
Derek felt his own mask slip into place. "Brunski. I believe Jennifer is expecting me."
Brunski's face purpled at the insolent and familiar use of his employer's name. "But of course. This way, sir." He led Derek to the parlor where Jennifer was waiting.
Interesting. Derek was surprised Jennifer was bothering with such formalities.
"The Viscount Hemming, my lady," Brunski announced. Derek nearly laughed at the effort it took for the man to choke out his title. He supposed his now-scandalous reputation had its merits.
"Thank you, Brunski. That will be all." The man barely had time to nod his acknowledgement and step out of the room before Jennifer was out of her seat. "Well?" she asked, holding out her hand. "Is that any way to greet an old friend?"
Derek walked over and took her hand in his, then pressed the back of it to his lips. Jennifer's skin was always incredibly soft, and she still smelled of civet and roses. He lifted his gaze and then let it rake over her body appreciatively. "You haven't aged a moment since I saw you last. In fact, you look even younger." He raised himself to his full height and leered. "How many young men have you seduced to keep you so?"
"Youth has its disadvantages. While I enjoy teaching young men a thing or two, it can also grow quite tiresome. I've discovered I enjoy my lovers with a bit more… seasoning." Jennifer pressed her body against his; the smell of her hair, the sound of her silk gown against the rougher fabric of his clothes inflamed Derek's senses, and he could feel his cock rousing. "You were quite the talk of the ton. Even while you were traipsing all over the Continent." She placed a hand on his hip, running her thumb along his thigh as his cock twitched in response. "Your name befits you, dear Hemming. You are so very much like a shapeshifter; a wolf who dons the disguise of an irresistibly beautiful man while preying on all the pretty things."
Derek knew his arousal was evident through the tight fit of his breeches. "If I was the talk of the ton, even in my absence, it must have been a terribly boring Season."
"Yet you don't deny the rumors."
There was a hint of petulance in Jennifer's tone, and Derek stepped back, eyeing her carefully. It was a good thing she was heading to Brighton for the off-season. The chit was getting too clingy, despite Derek’s efforts to be forthright about his intentions.
Or lack thereof.
"I am unattached. I won't apologize for enjoying the sweets thrown my way. Especially when so many in polite society engage in the same activities they profess to be scandalized by."
Jennifer sighed dramatically. The move caused her chest to heave and her body to tilt closer to Derek's, the calculated action almost laughably obvious. "I forget sometimes, despite your countenance, that you can still be so young. While I won't deny the pleasures of bedding a new conquest, there is something to be said for having a partner in life."
There was little that shocked Derek nowadays, yet he felt himself gape. "I can't see myself being shackled. Not now, nor in any future."
"You'll see," Jennifer said dismissively. "You and I are so alike."
Derek shook his head, his spark of his ardor for Jennifer fizzling out like wet flint. They were nothing alike; Derek had laid out his heart and dreamt of romantic love, once, while Jennifer always saw marriage as a stepping stone for social advancement. Perhaps he was afforded the protection of his family's fortune, but be that as it may, he had no need, never mind the desire, to ever wed.
"We are not the same. Not in this." Derek ran a finger along the low neckline of Jennifer's dress. He dipped his thumb just beneath its lacy, silken edge and soothed the curve of her breast. He had hoped for a fun night with an experienced woman, but he would not engage in one if it was done under false pretenses. The ton may brand him a dishonorable rake, a wolf, but while his partner's hopes for something more may have been crushed, it was because of their own expectations and never because of anything he'd promised.
"I would not be averse to bringing another into our bed," Jennifer persisted. She curled her fingers over the shape of his cock, its outline unmistakable against the tightness of his breeches. "The Lady Kali is quite adventurous, and while her preferences lie more with birds than bucks, you're pretty enough that she would be willing. We would make a formidable triad, don't you think?"
Derek sighed. "While I don't doubt it would make for an interesting evening, I find Lady Kali a bit too sharp for my liking." He clasped his fingers around Jennifer's tiny wrist and pulled it away from his now-softening cock. "You are a lovely woman," he added with true regret. "But you would be wise to cast your spell henceforth on someone other than me."
"Derek—"
Derek tipped his head. "I'm sorry to disturb you at this late hour. I bid you a good night, my lady." As he turned to make his exit, a faint ache bloomed in his chest. He wasn't sure what he would miss most: her responsive, nubile body or the loss of yet another thing from his past.
He had barely made it to the door and past Brunski's disapproving glare before a vase shattered against the wall two feet from his head.
Ahh. The latter, then.
"I will ruin your reputation," Jennifer screeched.
Derek didn't bother turning around. "I think you'll find, Lady Blake, that I do well enough on that end without any help."
~oOo~
Even though he had no regrets about leaving Jennifer, their foiled assignation left Derek without a way to distract himself from his thoughts. Restlessness, followed by guilt and then anger, lodged deep within him, and their claws dug deep. His mind raced as he tried to think of another way to occupy himself. His true friends were few and far between, and while he could find someone else to warm his bed, even a high-end courtesan, it all felt like too much effort.
Perhaps he could swing by White's for a game of whist and some drink. Or he could call it a night and just go back to his apartment in Piccadilly. He had purchased the pied-à-terre with his winnings from the gaming hells, money which he had wisely funneled into various investments. Unfortunately, the building was occupied by many other bachelors from the peerage, but the loss of privacy was a price Derek was willing to pay if it meant having a place of his own.
He had already taken enough from his family.
While Derek's mind wandered, his feet appeared to have done the same, for it was without any conscious effort that he found himself standing in front of his family's townhouse in Bedford Square.
"Well, I'll be damned." Derek's eyes roved hungrily along the facade of his family's home as he was assaulted by memories from his childhood. He remembered when the house was filled with chatter and laughter; mornings at the breakfast table, the times when he and Cora had listened with rapt attention to their father's accounts of the fierce naval battles from the Bourbon War, all while his mother and Laura gushed over Mademoiselle Binet's latest court dresses. He could still see the chip in the quoin on the outside of the building, where Laura's ill-advised attempt to play nine-pin after a summer spent at Brightmoon Manor had landed her in bed without any supper.
For the second time that night, his great-aunt's home had crept into Derek's thoughts. London would forever be the seat of his family's home. But his favorite times as a child were the ones he'd spent at Brightmoon. Derek had traveled to many places since, including exotic locales halfway around the world. But none had ever replaced the fondness that Brightmoon held in his heart.
Laura's latest letter weighed heavily in his pocket. His family had left for Derbyshire several days prior. While his actions of the last several years spoke otherwise, he did miss them. Laura and Cora, especially.
Perhaps Derek could manage a brief visit. He wondered if the Stilinskis still lived next door, or whether the Constable had given into his grumblings of finding somewhere else more manageable to live. Regardless, it would be nice to escape the city, where people tended to either lust over or revile him in equal measure.
He was certain his parents had heard of his reputation—had heard his moniker, The Hale Wolf, whispered by the matrons of the ton, along with their fluttering fans and clutched pearls. What was more worrisome was whether the Dowager Marchioness had heard the gossip as well. Even though he was twenty-four, Derek could admit there was a part of him that still craved the approval of the shrewd woman who wielded a sharp tongue, and who favored wearing dark colors long after the required period for mourning.
Derek shook his head. He had made a promise to himself after his disastrous affair. One that was two-fold: first, that he would avoid bringing further dishonor to his family by staying away. And secondly, that he would never again fall in love.
He knew that if he were to see his family, he would be breaking the first of those promises. But he refused to break the other. Because not only had he been played for a fool, and his heart trampled in the process, but he would have ruined the reputation of his entire family if not for the Dowager Marchioness' influence on the King himself.
I will never fall in love, Derek swore fervently once more.
He'd already accepted the path he had chosen for himself. After all, it was no less than he deserved.
