He had bathed and Bennet had shaved him. The bruising on his jaw from Shelbourne’s punches was fading. His bright-blue eyes settled upon hers, and that same old spark lit her from within.
“My lady.” He bowed, effortlessly elegant.
“You still intend to go to Shropshire?” she blurted.
“My intentions have never altered.” He prowled nearer, stopping too far away to touch. “I was merely once more the victim of a hellion.”
“A victim of us both, I would argue,” Helena countered. “Although you do enjoy painting yourself as an innocent, I am not the only one of us at fault. If you had never kissed me or touched me, and if you had never disappeared last night to drown yourself in drink, you would not currently find yourself where you are.”
He stroked his jaw, his stare burning into hers. “Because I am a fool.”
“Is it so foolish to kiss your wife?” she dared to ask him.
“It is when she is as trustworthy as an asp, and need I remind you that you were not yet my wife then?”
His quick reply stung.
She bit the inside of her lip. “You need not be so cruel. What is your pressing concern in Shropshire?”
His countenance remained cool. Aloof. “It is far from you.”
“You are not the only one capable of taking a train,” she pointed out.
“Do you intend to follow me there, Helena, knowing I have no desire for your presence?”
His question should not hurt. Nor should his anger come as a surprise. Their impasse was nothing new, though the day was. Her husband, momentarily diverted from his intended escape, was every bit as unavailable to her as ever.
She decided a change of subject was in order. “When are you going to show me the rest of the house, Huntingdon? Yesterday’s tour was regrettably brief.”
While she refrained from reminding him of the heated kisses they had shared in her apartments, the sudden clenching of his jaw told her he was remembering. Good. Let him pretend he felt nothing for her but disdain all he wished; she knew what it felt like to be held in his arms.
“I suppose we may as well go now, since I will be leaving for Shropshire as soon as I am able. Bennet is seeing to new tickets.”
“You need not sound so grudging about it, my lord,” she told him. “I am your wife now, and this is my home, when in London.”
His nostrils flared, the only sign her words had affected him. “Come, then, if you must.”
She settled her hand on his arm. “Hating me will not make our marriage any less a reality, Huntingdon.”
“As I said, I do not hate you, my dear.” His response was smooth as he led her from the library with long-limbed strides. “I trust you are already familiar with the library?”
He spoke nonchalantly, as if they discussed something of no greater import than the clouds in the sky rather than his enmity for her.
“Not as familiar as you are,” she returned sweetly, unable to resist the verbal jab.
If he wanted for them to be at odds, she could play this game every bit as well as he could. Indeed, she would have to, for what other choice did she have? She needed to harden her heart.
“Do not all husbands spend their wedding night on the library chaise longue?” he asked, leading her up the staircase they had traversed together the night before.
“I regret to inform you that is not my understanding of the manner in which a husband ought to proceed with the night of his marriage,” she said, cursing herself for her breathlessness.
She could only hope he would ascribe it to their ascent of the stairs. This afternoon, it was much easier to travel at his side since he was not leaning on her so heavily. She had to admit, she rather missed his face buried in her neck.
Bad Helena. Do not lower your guard yet. He may be your husband, but he still intends to desert you forthwith.
The thoughts crowded her mind, the worries, the doubts, the fears. Unpleasant and unkind. All the feelings she had been able to thrust aside yesterday in the madness of their wedding day buffeted her now, like the winds of a storm.
He never wanted to marry you.
He may be in love with Lady Beatrice.
Tender emotions for his former betrothed, coupled with Helena’s actions, could certainly be responsible for his coldness.
“And how do you have any understanding of what should have transpired, hmm, hellion?” he asked as they reached the next floor.
She opened her mouth to answer him, but he was quicker than she.
“Never mind,” he growled. “I should not have asked. I am certain Lady Northampton would have informed you. If you have been indulging in the middling literary talents of Shelbourne’s bawdy books once more, I do not wish to know.”
“How do you know they are middling?” she asked flippantly, wondering if it was possible that a paragon such as the Earl of Huntingdon could have flipped through the same pages.
He most certainly kisses like he has, trilled a wicked voice she promptly expelled from her mind.
That voice could not be trusted, and it most certainly had no place in her cautious dealings with her new husband today. He was not being terribly hateful at the moment, and nor was he inebriated. But that hardly meant she could fall back into his arms. Her battered heart could not endure much more rejection.
“All lewd treatises are.” He guided her into a long, large room that overlooked the street. “If their authors possessed an inkling of talent or creativity, they would not write such twaddle. Behold, the crimson drawing room.”
“One wonders why it is so named,” she commented, taking in the scarlet damask walls, covered with familial portraits, and the matching settees and chairs. “And truly, Huntingdon, has it never occurred to you that what you deem twaddle, others enjoy reading?”
“Who could?” A suspicious tinge of color appeared on his sharp cheekbones.
“I could,” she ventured, suspecting she was not the sole person in the crimson drawing room who had relished every wicked word and scenario upon the page. “And I dare say you could as well if you would only cease being such a prig.”
“You go too far, madam.”
She slanted an unrepentant glance in his direction. “I could go further, I think. And so could you. Indeed, you have. Need I remind you?”
His color deepened, and he looked away from her, working his jaw. “I would prefer to forget my folly.”
She was not certain if he was referring to the occasions upon which he had kissed her, the books he may have chanced to read, or their wedding. Mayhap all three.
Helena decided not to ask. She turned her attention instead to the chamber, releasing his arm to take a turn about. The fireplace was fashioned of black marble, the mantel lined with the requisite clock. A massive gilt chandelier hung from the decorated plasterwork of the ceiling. A polished grand piano crafted of rosewood occupied one wall.
“Do you play?” she asked him.
“I am afraid not,” he clipped, sounding so stiff. So aloof.
Beneath the carpets covering the floor, slashes of gleaming, intricate parquet peeked. Although the sun shone in the well-dressed window, the damask wall coverings did not appear to be faded, and neither did the floors.
Helena turned back to find him standing in the middle of the drawing room, looking distinctly uncomfortable and so alone. “Did your mother decorate this room?”
He inclined his head. “She did. As the new mistress of Wickley House, you may change it as you see fit, just as the countess’s apartments.”
He was acknowledging she was his wife at last? Giving her leave to make changes, even?
She studied Huntingdon, sensing his discomfort. He was a man who kept to himself. It occurred to her that she knew shockingly little about his family, aside from what she had gleaned over the years and whatever bits and pieces Shelbourne had offered.
“You were not close to your mother, were you?” she pressed, though she was aware she likely ought not push him too far.<
br />
Entrapping him in marriage and making him miss his train were sins enough, were they not? Now, she had forced him to conduct a tour. The least she could do was have mercy upon him and—
No, what was she thinking? This was also the man who had all but tumbled her on the lady’s withdrawing room floor and then blamed her for telling her brother about what had happened. The man who had spent last evening lolling about in the library, cup-shot and dreaming about bubbies. She still did not know whose.
If he had been thinking of Lady Beatrice, she would never recover.
“She lived her life in the manner that pleased her,” he said, his voice taking on a deeper chill. “She did not care for her husband or her children.”
At the mention of children, Helena thought back to that moment in the gardens when Huntingdon had frozen after she had so carelessly mentioned his having a sister. Her gaze settled upon a portrait hung on the wall opposite the piano. A young, lovely brunette in a beautiful court gown stared back at her. The resemblance to her husband was undeniable.
Helena found herself drawn toward it, moving before she realized what she was about. “Is this Lady Lisbeth?” she asked softly, though in truth she did not need to ask.
“Yes.” One word, succinct. The tone cold and forbidding, suggesting she was not welcome to probe.
And yet, she could not help herself. The more Huntingdon wanted to hide himself away from her, the more Helena wanted to unveil everything there was to know about him.
“She was quite lovely, my lord. I am sure you must miss her dreadfully.” There had been some rumor surrounding her prior to her death, Helena knew. But Lady Lisbeth had been older than Huntingdon, and both she and her scandal had been long gone by the time Helena had made her presentation at court.
Since Huntingdon was Shelbourne’s old school friend, she had always known he had lost a sister. Had known, too, the devastation that surrounded her death. Shelbourne had instructed her never to mention it in Huntingdon’s presence. And yet she dared to now. Not so that she might hurt her husband, but so that she might, at long last, learn something about him.
Find a glimpse of the man hiding beneath the impenetrable façade.
She glanced back at him to find the color had leached from his countenance. He was pale and gray, stony-faced. A stranger who refused to confide in her.
“She was,” he agreed. “And I do. However, missing her will not alter the facts surrounding her death. Shall we move on to the emerald drawing room?”
His abrupt change of subject told her everything she needed to know. Everything, that was, except for his own emotions.
Would he ever lower his walls enough for her to see the real him?
Helena stifled a resigned sigh. She had asked for a tour, and it seemed he was intent upon the delivery of her request. “Yes, my lord. Lead the way.”
Chapter Fourteen
Make no mistake. We find ourselves at an important crossroads in our cause.
—From Lady’s Suffrage Society Times
By the time he was back in the familiar comfort of his chamber that evening, Gabe knew he was in trouble. Clad in his dressing gown, he paced the length of the room, glass of claret in hand. He had learned his lesson the night before, and he had no intention of imbibing more than necessary to ease the edge of fraught tension within him.
He was coiled as tightly as a watch spring, and there was only one reason for his restlessness, the simmering tautness he could never seem to fully escape. Helena. His hellion. His wife.
He had remained in the presence of his new countess for the entirety of the day, largely against his will. However, each time he had attempted to extricate himself from her company, she had asked to see something else. The stables, the terrace, the guest chambers, the portrait gallery, the night nursery, the day nursery, and on and on, until he had squired her to the service closet and the linen rooms. Finally, at her behest, he had taken her to the larder, the kitchens, and the scullery.
He would not have been surprised had Helena requested to be taken to the roof. Or to the carriage house or the bloody coachman’s living room. However, she had somehow restrained herself.
On a heavy sigh, Gabe drained the rest of his claret. He should have requested Bennet draw him a bath after the day he had endured. Mayhap a soak in the warm water would have soothed him. Or at least offered sufficient distraction.
Because he was acutely aware of the fact that only a dressing room and a door separated him from her. That was all. And he was itching to remove the barrier. To end the distance. To take what was his.
But no, he could not.
He had told himself he would not consummate their marriage until some time had lapsed. There was always the possibility for an annulment. If he bedded her as he longed, he would not be able to procure one. He had to cling to that grim realization. To remind himself of it with almost every breath.
Need for her battled with reason. Each step he took was a taunt.
Take her.
Do not dare.
Take her.
You must not.
Damnation. He paced the length of his chamber thrice more. But his body had a mind of its own. One moment, he was in the haven of his chamber where she dared not intrude, and the next, he was in the dressing room, hovering at the door to her apartments. Would it be open for him? What was she doing now? The light beneath her door suggested she was not asleep.
Turn around, you fool.
Go to sleep.
He knocked.
Softly at first, and then with greater insistence. He knew he should simply return to where he belonged, that there could be no temptation in separation and solitude. Bennet had procured new train tickets to Shropshire for tomorrow morning. One more night to resist her. That was all.
The chamber door opened.
It was as if an invisible fist slammed into his gut.
He forgot to breathe.
Helena’s golden curls were unbound, trailing over her shoulders and down her back. She wore a cream nightdress that clung to her curves with sinful adoration. The garment itself was modest, with long sleeves that covered her arms and lace trim kissing her wrists. A small, wispy affair covered her breasts, held in place by a pink ribbon. He had never wanted to undo a knot more. Her nipples poked through the fabric, tempting him. Tormenting him.
She was, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman he had ever beheld.
“Is something amiss?” she asked, a confused frown creasing the pale smoothness of her forehead.
Yes, everything was amiss. The roaring in his head could not be drowned out. Nor could the fire in his blood be cooled.
“Helena,” he said her name, hoarsely. It was all he could manage.
Her nose wrinkled. “Are you soused again?”
He deserved that query. And he wished he could blame the unwanted feelings roiling through him upon wine. But they had nothing to do with claret and everything to do with her.
Gabe swallowed. “I am not.”
“Was there something you wished to ask me, then?” Her gaze searched his, so green and vibrant, like the promise of first grass in spring. “You have been behaving oddly all day. I know you are vexed with me for the circumstances of our marriage and for telling Bennet to allow you to sleep this morning so you missed your train to Shropshire. But I cannot bear much more of your—”
“Nor can I,” he bit out, interrupting her swift rush of words.
He had a suspicion he knew what she was going to say, and he had no wish to hear it. He had been cool and aloof, bogged down by the weight of guilt and need and reckless want.
“Then what have you come to say this evening, my lord?” she pressed, her countenance solemn. “You have not come here to consummate our marriage.”
He ought to agree with her. Ought to say something, anything worthwhile.
Instead, he reached out and caught one of the ends of the maddening pink satin ribbon and tugged. The bow fell apart, and the twain ends o
f the lacy scraps covering her breasts went slack. He hooked his finger in the left half, moving it to the side first. Then the right. He did not think he imagined that he could see the tantalizing hint of her pink nipples through the almost sheer fabric beneath.
Suddenly, the demure covering made sense.
“Huntingdon?” her voice was husky now.
The swells of her breast held him in rapt fascination. He ran the backs of his fingers over her nipple. The soft brush of cotton and the tight bud sent a new rush of lust slamming into him.
Curse her.
Curse this ceaseless want rotting his brain, infecting his mind like an ague.
“Say something,” she murmured, a silken plea.
Instead of obliging, he caught her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, rolling it gently. The caress was simple. There was yet a respectable distance between them. No reason for the pounding of his heart. No reason for the prickles of awareness down his spine. He had only two fingers on her body, separated by a thin barrier of cloth, and he had never been hungrier for a woman in his life.
She had seduced him without moving.
Without trying.
“What shall I say?” he asked with more gruffness than he had intended as he tugged at her nipple, torturing them both.
He felt her stare, hot and hard upon him, searching, seeking. He forced his gaze from her breasts and fell into brilliant, sparkling emerald.
“Why are you touching me this way, if you do not want me?”
Because he did want her, damn her hide. Wanting her had never been the problem. Having her was.
“Do you want me, Helena?” he dared to ask, although he knew he should not.
Her lips parted, her gaze dipping to his mouth. “I have always wanted you.”
The wickedest part of him rejoiced. Ration and reason ceased to exist. She was his wife.
His.
“Good,” he said.
Then he crossed the threshold, venturing into her territory, the knowledge he would regret what he was about to do no match for the need thundering through him.
He took her in his arms, and he settled his mouth on hers.
Lady Reckless (Notorious Ladies of London Book 3) Page 14