A Fallen Lady

by Elizabeth Kingston

  "I'm not looking to purchase a house in godforsaken Bartle-on-the-Glen. I am not in need of a scullery maid. And you'd have to ask for a far greater sum than I suspect you need in order to make a double repayment even remotely interesting to me." He let his contempt and impatience have full reign over his words, attempting to enjoy the sight of her flinch.

  "So," he continued slowly, anticipating the moment when she caved in and told him, against her will, what it was that drove her to this. "What can you offer me that I could possibly want, Lady Helen?"

  She remained as she had been, sitting poker-straight on the edge of the chair, but he saw the change come over her. The grasping desperation in her expression faded away, but did not leave her entirely, settling instead into a resigned determination. In fact, her face took on a perfect blankness, with only a shadow of uneasiness lingering there. Without looking directly at him, she reached up with one hand, slowly, and pulled away the scarf that was tucked around her neckline.

  Had he not been seated, he might have stumbled in shock at this gesture. As it was, he felt close to falling out of his chair at the sight of her deliberate motions. The dress swooped down from the shoulders, exposing the full length of her collarbone before revealing the swelling curve of her breasts. Next to the dark emerald silk, her skin was a field of white, gently interrupted by slopes and valleys that were illuminated and shadowed by the changing light.

  He had thought that the glimpse he'd had of her body, months ago, had been a dream. So quickly did she change from moment to moment, so well did she hide any sign of womanly curves, that he'd convinced himself he had imagined it. It had been no dream, he now knew. It all came back to him: how she had smiled, lifting her arms, laughing, unconsciously revealing more of herself with each slight motion. The difference between that and what was now before him struck him. Then, she had been unknowingly caught in a solitary moment, all unaware of the effect her body was having. Now she bared herself to his eyes, inviting him with purposeful movements.

  Without conscious thought of moving, he stood up from his chair. He felt lightheaded again, drifting slowly around the desk, coming to stand in front of her, staring at her skin. The same impetus drove him as ever, the need to be close to her, the unknown force drawing him inexorably to wherever she was. She had not moved, not even to take a breath, since she had pulled the scarf away.

  His voice was faint. "What are you doing, Helen?"

  She immediately began breathing again. Her throat tightened in a convulsive swallow, leaving him staring at the pulse point in the inviting hollow at the base of her neck.

  "You asked what I could offer you," she said, sounding infinitely calmer than he felt.

  It took a long time for him to translate the sounds of her words into a meaning. When at last he understood her, the force of it pressed his hands into a tighter grasp on the desk. He had forgotten, in gawking at her like a schoolboy, that she saw him as a bankbook. Disgust washed over him – at her, and at himself for still wanting her even in the midst of his revulsion.

  "You offer me yourself, in return for money." It was not a question. It must be said outright, so that there could be no confusion. So that he might remind himself that she wanted payment for her body. That she did not want him, but whatever amount of shillings and pence she required for her secretive purpose. He kept his voice carefully controlled. "Even knowing that I will tell your brother of this conduct?"

  Her face did not change, but her eyes lost their sharp focus on his collar and stared somewhere in the middle distance between them. She blinked once and nodded. "Even knowing that, my lord," she answered. Her voice was quite steady. She meant it. She was prepared to do it.

  So the little fantasy that he'd held so dear – his Avalon, away from the sordidness of society, a place where he was fully welcomed – was truly crushed. She left him not even the memory of it. She smashed everything to pieces with this degrading display. It hardened him to her, made him want to be cruel.

  "It's good of you to show me the wares for sale. I thank you," he murmured. It would be interesting, not to say enlightening, to see how prepared she really was.

  He leaned forward, lifting his hand to her forehead and gently catching a thick strand of her hair. She did not flinch away, staring into the nothingness between them, as his fingers followed the fall of her hair beside her face. He hesitated a moment when his hand came to rest briefly on her shoulder, vividly remembering the way a curl had found its way out of its tight knot to fall on the side of her neck, seizing his heart in his chest seconds before he had kissed her. He looked for it again, among the dark tresses that spilled down her back, but it was lost in the silken curtain, and he could not bring himself to search out the soft place where it had come to rest against her skin. It was as if it had never existed, never happened, and was better forgotten.

  He let his hand trail down to the upper curve of her breast where this strand ended in an upward curl. Hardly able to stop himself, he pressed a finger to the curl, separating the strands, fanning them out over her heart. Then he shifted his hand to her neckline, his fingertips slowly following the sweep of it down from one shoulder to where the shadowed declivity between her breasts made him involuntarily pause. The warmth of her skin made it hard to think, to remember why she was here. He only knew and cared that she was in front of him, letting him touch her. He pulled air into his chest with an effort, and found himself moving closer to her. To keep himself from giving in to the temptation to kiss her, he looked down.

  Her hands were locked on the chair in a death grip, her knuckles white as bone, whiter even than the scarf she still held. She radiated tension, still as a statue. He flicked his glance up to her face and found her staring, wide-eyed, somewhere in the vicinity of his chin. Now he moved deliberately, closing the distance that separated her lips from his, until his mouth hovered over hers.

  When her lips parted, letting go a little rush of air, he spoke. "As tempting as it is, Helen, I decline your services."

  She seemed not to have heard him for a second, staying still and staring at his mouth. Then, as if coming slowly out of a dream, her eyes did a rapid scan of his face and she drew back quickly in her chair. He pushed away and stood upright, looking down at her.

  He gave her a sympathetic look. "If I wanted a whore, I would hire one in town, you see," he apologized.

  A strange mixture of relief and outrage transformed her face before the blank wall took over her features. It, too, was quickly replaced with chagrin and the earlier echo of despair. He watched it all play across her face, waiting in vain for her to voice any of it. But she did not speak.

  He frowned a little. "I suppose I might still be enticed. Tell me, my dear, how much are you asking?"

  She blinked rapidly and turned her gaze once more to his collar. "Ten pounds," she breathed.

  He laughed. "Ten pounds? Good God, I could keep myself in London professionals day and night for a week at that price."

  "I can lower it to as much as eight," she said without emotion. "And you can have me for at least a fortnight, but no more than a month. The entire arrangement is under the condition that I have the money immediately, and that I leave tomorrow morning. I can be back in your service a week hence."

  She had obviously considered all the terms before she'd ever come to his door. It was the most appalling proposition he'd ever heard.

  "I doubt I'd want you for more than a night," he lied quite easily. "And why would I bother paying so much for something you are known to have freely given?"

  He did not think it was possible for her to grow more pale, but she did, drawing in a swift breath as though he had slapped her. Her hands went tighter on the chair, and he had the distinct impression that she was fighting down an attack of nausea.

  "Of course. How...stupid of me. And here I thought I was selling myself cheaply." She paused, her nose flaring delicately as if she smelled something foul. When she at last spoke again, it was with a controlled anger that mirr
ored his own.

  "You asked what I have that you would want, Lord Summerdale. If it is not this, nor anything else that I have offered, I ask you to tell me now if there is any way you will help me."

  He waited until she met his eyes, gauging the depth of her need. She could be brought no lower than this, he knew. Her begging and pleading and willingness to sell herself plainly indicated that he could ask anything.

  "The truth," he announced.

  She stiffened, but did not look away. "You want to know about my engagement?"

  "No, Lady Helen. If I had any doubts that the rumors were true, you have laid them to rest tonight."

  "Then what?" she demanded, a hiss between her teeth.

  "What this money is for. That is my price – to know what you could want so badly. And don't tell me it's some trivial household need, unless that is the truth. I must ask to see for myself what you purchase."

  Her jaw worked. He thought she might balk, but she only closed her eyes for a minute, fighting some internal battle.

  "You're sure you wouldn't prefer to buy me?" she asked with a kind of hopeless sarcasm.

  "Quite sure."

  She slumped back in the chair with a shrug, as if she had suddenly become indifferent. "Very well. But if you care to see this… purchase, it will take quite some effort on your part."

  Her mouth curled up in a humorless smile as he allowed his confusion to show. "You see," she explained, "you will have to leave with me immediately and be prepared to travel for a few days. The required sum will be much less, if we can take your carriage and move with haste. If you have a servant who knows the road to Holyhead, that would also be helpful."

  "Holyhead," he echoed.

  "Yes, in Anglesey. I'm quite sure you've heard of it."

  Lady Helen Dehaven wasted no time or breath on explanations. Obviously, she trusted him to find the truth at the end of their road. In Holyhead, of all places. She sat expectantly, and he saw the mocking challenge in the upward tilt of her chin.

  He pushed himself off the desk, propelled by a stronger curiosity than he could ever recall experiencing. "Let's go."

  Chapter 9

  It was madness to start out in the dead of night, but he was loath to forfeit her wordless challenge when he'd dared to suggest they wait. She had not spoken since she'd come from changing her dress, except to inform Thomas, the sole Welshman among his staff, that a speedy route was of paramount importance before climbing into the carriage to fall silent.

  She ignored him completely, which suited him well. It was more difficult to work up the proper scorn when she was dressed once more in her more usual modest, drab gown. He did not question his impulsiveness in agreeing to this. There were letters to be written and decisions to be made. He could ill afford a week rambling through the countryside. Yet here he was, flaunting all propriety in favor of being in Helen Dehaven's presence.

  The decision to remain in Hereford had been a simple one, and filled with cowardice. It had seemed the easiest thing to do, in order to avoid the temptation Clara offered. Her letters might reach him here, but she could not. Every time he thought he'd managed to forget her, another letter would arrive bearing sentiments that stirred up the memory of their time together and reminders of her loveless marriage, tender appeals to his still vulnerable heart. He feared she had only to speak the word and he would be as helplessly in love with her – more deeply, even, than he had been when she unexpectedly married her duke.

  Treacherous women. One sat before him, as fickle now as she had been in her youth, staring out the carriage window. He still didn't know whether he had truly stayed in Herefordshire in the hopes of avoiding Clara and London, or if it was because he'd only wanted the chance to see Helen's smile again. A foolish wish, it turned out, as he'd seen nothing but anxiety from the moment she'd appeared. He felt a strange sympathy with Henley. If ever he met the man, they might commiserate over the changeability of women in love. He had thought it bad enough to love Clara, to have her admit even now to loving him, though she belonged to another. But poor Henley most likely had it worse, to have Helen love him and go so far as to give herself completely, yet still refuse to marry. It must have driven the man mad.

  Anyone who dared care about her would easily be driven mad, with her penchant for keeping everything within her a secret. It was that way sometimes, he had noticed it in a few others he'd known. They kept everything close, determined not to give the tiniest truth away, even when the telling of it presented no threat whatsoever. It had never mattered so much to him to force the truth out, until he met her.

  He thought he was likely to fall asleep in the dark silence. The swaying of the coach lulled him into a stupor that he tried to wipe away with some kind of useful conversation.

  "Tell me, Lady Helen, what would you have done had I refused to help you?" he asked, hiding his intense interest in her answer by employing a tone of idle curiosity.

  She looked mildly annoyed at the distraction. Apparently pitch black was fascinating to her. "I did not have another plan," she responded with a shrug.

  "No other plan?" he echoed, raising his brows. "As desperate as you seem to be, and yet you gambled all on my willingness to aid you? I thought you more practical."

  "Everything was at stake anyway. It was not such a gamble." She glanced toward him after a moment, studying his face briefly in the little moonlight that filtered in. "Oh, very well. I see you are not satisfied with that answer. I would have taken the horse as far along the road to London as possible before he dropped dead of exertion, then I would have begged or stolen a purse for coach fare, or else stolen a more robust mount to carry me. Failing that, I would have walked or crawled on my hands and knees until I reached my solicitor or Alex and debased myself however necessary. In short, sir, I would do anything. Does that satisfy you?" she asked testily.

  "I suppose it must, though I can't imagine why you would not make your way to London in the first place."

  "Because I have already told you," she said impatiently as she glared out the window. "There is no time."

  "And haste is quite obviously more desirable than any kind of honor," he returned.

  "Honor," she all but sneered. It was amazing, to watch her well-bred manners fall away like this to reveal so much of what she felt. "May God preserve me from men and their notions of what is honorable and what is not. I see plainly that you and my brother are cut from the same cloth. But at least he would not have asked so much as you have."

  He gave a disbelieving grunt at this. "I have asked only the truth." Something that he'd never had to demand before this, allowing time and trust and human nature to do the trick. It was the only thing at which he excelled, to take the measure of another and eventually, but always, learn the truth. "But I can see how preferable it is to you to sell yourself."

  She did not say anything for a while, looking out the window as the darkness sped by. The scant moonlight outlined the curve of her cheek, the only corner of her he could see in the darkness. When finally she spoke, it was to ask him a question.

  "How old are you, my lord?"

  All the fight had gone out of her, and she sounded tired. Indeed, she must be exhausted after riding to his home and hours now in the carriage. "How old?" he asked, wondering if he'd heard her right, and if the sadness he heard in her was imagined.

  "Yes. I would guess twenty-nine years, perhaps."

  There was a kind of wistful melancholy in her voice. "Thirty-one, just barely," he replied.

  "And in thirty-one years, have you never had one thing you would protect above all else, for which you'd forsake honor?"

  He stared at the little bit of her that was illuminated, her eyelashes fanned out on her white cheek. The image of her pulling her scarf away in the firelight assailed him; the memory of her kiss pressed on his lips.

  "Thirty-one years, and you think the truth is so easy to give away." She paused, then gave a slight huff of weary laughter. "But then, you do not ask me to give it. Y
ou buy it from me. My body is not enough of a prize. You are not satisfied unless you can have access to my very soul."

  He felt the pull of her in the dark interior of the carriage. He knew without seeing it, the bitterness and sadness in her face, the lines of exhaustion around her eyes. "Is that where we go, Helen?" he asked quietly, not wishing to demand too much when she seemed like she might speak at last. "Is it your soul that lies at the end of our road?"

  She did not move, did not even blink. "It is," she whispered, and there was such an anguish in her voice that he could not make himself push for more.

  "How old are you, Helen?" he asked, though he was aware of her age. It was only something to say.

  "Old." She leaned her forehead against the wall of the carriage, pressing her eyes shut. "As old as the earth. And quite as trod upon."

  He did not inquire further. She sounded as if she might shatter with another word, a prospect he found unbearable. At the next stopping point, he got out and instructed the coachman to hire fresh horses, no matter the expense, so that they could travel quickly and without pause.

  She followed the barmaid up the stairs to a small room. At least the inn looked clean and comfortable, which set her mind at ease instantly. She felt Lord Summerdale's presence behind her, but for the first time since she'd gone to his home she was less afraid of him than she was of what awaited her here in Holyhead. Anything could have happened – Katie could be at death's door after such a rough crossing over the sea and confinement in a prison. But Maggie would be here, the serving girl had said so. That braced her for whatever else she might find.

  In the room, Maggie was smoothing blankets over the little lump in the bed that could only be Katie. Helen felt a kind of unhinged elation to see proof at last of the child, even though there were only a few black curls lying across the coverlet to confirm Katie's presence.