He had announced it casually last night, as if it were of no more importance than purchasing new curtains for the drawing room. Her fork had clattered to the plate as she stared in shocked misery at her uneaten dinner. She mumbled something inane, unable to bring herself to demand that he come to her bed, or kiss her just once with desire on his lips. Instead, she said she'd been unaware that he was looking to improve the townhouse.
"It's quite a bit of trouble to go to," she had murmured.
"No trouble at all," he replied smoothly, and she gathered herself to look at him. It seemed as if he expected her to be pleased.
"Stephen," she said timidly, feeling herself blush to her roots. But she had to say something. "There is no reason you should remove to your own rooms." Her eyes roved over the place settings in mortification at having to speak so plainly. "You are welcome – that is I mean, more than welcome, to..." her voice died to a whisper, "to sleep with me."
He did not answer, and when she looked to him again it was to see a look of such tender pity on his face that she thought she would burst into tears. He might have said more; in fact she had the feeling that he wanted to speak to her of the matter explicitly, uncomfortable as it was. But the footman had come forward with the dessert and the matter was dropped. He had gone out for the evening and left her to contemplate that pitying look all night, not returning until long after she had fallen into a fitful slumber.
It was awful. If he thought this was what she'd meant when she voiced her desire for an ordinary life with him, then she must find some way to make him understand. She doubted her ability to speak of such a thing in bold terms, which was why she'd come to polish silver and think of the proper words.
She pulled off the gloves and set them aside with the polish. A visitor was welcome. No matter who it was, she could use some diversion from her thoughts.
"A Mrs. Navire to see you, my lady," Foster informed her with an anxious look. He was still contrite over the matter of Henley's appearance that fateful day. He hovered about now whenever there was a visitor.
"Navire?" she asked. It was an odd name, and one she didn't recognize, but she stepped into the salon with Foster at her heels to see a petite woman clad in black, as though in mourning. She wore a heavy veil draped over her bonnet that concealed her face completely. As Helen approached, the woman turned around and lifted the veil in a playful gesture.
"Cou-cou!" she cried, her eyes twinkling merrily.
Helen clasped her hand over her mouth to hide the sudden smile that was absurdly close to tears. "Oh, Marie-Anne, what a silly disguise!" She fell into her friend's arms with just enough presence of mind to gesture Foster out of the room.
"My dear Hélène, whatever can be wrong?" Marie-Anne asked with concern. "I knew I should have come sooner. Don't weep like that, ma chère, you must tell me what can be so terrible."
Helen wiped the senseless tears away with a sad giggle. "Well, Mrs. Navire – and there is no need to be so discreet that you must play games with your name. ‘Shipley' does not translate very well, it sounds very awkward."
"I said I would try not to be outrageous, and so I am awkward instead." Marie-Anne waved this topic away and looked with determination at Helen. "I will not be distracted, my friend, from these tears that have greeted me."
"I am only relieved to see you." She took a breath and settled herself on the sofa, determined to speak rationally. "Oh, how perfect that you have come, and at exactly the moment I need you."
An hour later, Marie-Anne had heard the story of Henley's return. She seemed utterly thrilled at Helen's nod affirming that Stephen had assaulted him.
"Marvelous," Marie-Anne declared. "I told you your husband was a good man. Too good to kill the odious beast, unfortunately, or to keep him about long enough for me to spit on him." She gave a delicate shudder. "But this was two weeks ago. Are you still so upset by it, Hélène, that you weep?"
"Oh," said Helen in a small voice, anticipating the conversation ahead. "No, it's not that. It was upsetting, of course, and to see Stephen act so very savagely was disturbing. But it is over now, and it has affected me in a way I never thought to expect."
"It has made you more ready to weep?"
"No, quite the opposite." She struggled to frame her thoughts. It was not easy to explain even to herself. "I feel a kind of freedom because of it. It's as if it is all finished finally, that entire chapter of my life. And now I am free to live as I want to."
"Good," said Marie-Anne with a warm smile that lit up her face. "Life is for the living, and it's time you stop cringing at shadows. But then why did you cry? You are more emotional today than I have ever seen."
Helen stared at her hands gripped in her lap. "It seems to have changed Stephen somehow, to know about… everything."
She stumbled through a description of Stephen's behavior since that day. Marie-Anne stayed mostly silent, listening intently as Helen searched for words. Her eyes widened slightly to hear of the new bedroom he would be moving into.
"But, mon amie," she said with a small frown when Helen had finished. "You sent for me even before all this happened."
"Yes." Helen sighed and resigned herself to being embarrassed for the rest of the afternoon. "I think there may be something terribly wrong between us. I thought perhaps you could help me. Because I am so inexperienced, you know, and I'm not quite familiar with…" she forced the words out, "with matters relating to the marriage bed."
Marie-Anne let out an amused sigh. "Having never been married, I don't know that I can help you. Especially if you drop dead of mortification. You are a lovely shade of aubergine."
"I'll try." Helen took a deep breath. "I will, and you know what I mean. You are more experienced than I in these matters."
"Bien, it is true I am difficult to shock. What is the problem? I mean before now, when you wrote to me."
"But that's just it. I have been perfectly happy with it. Yet there still seems to be a problem. I think that Stephen was unhappy with me, long before this."
Marie-Anne raised her eyebrows. "Absurd. He is besotted with you. And are you satisfied when you come from his bed?"
"Yes, of course." She felt the heat in her face.
"And you leave him in no doubt of your satisfaction?"
Helen shrugged. "Well, yes, I suppose so."
"You suppose so?" Marie-Anne looked as if it was the most inappropriate answer possible. "You only suppose? Very well, I must ask more plainly," she said, with a speculative look. "Do you show him what you like, do you tell him? In the moment of release, I mean."
"Release?" said Helen, mystified. "Should I?"
After a series of questions, each more embarrassing than the last – which Helen answered with painful honesty – Marie-Anne cast her a hard look.
"I'm tempted to say that you are very selfish, Hélène. You take without giving." It was the harshest thing Marie-Anne had ever said to her. "It sounds to me as if you are quite controlling, that you never for a moment relinquish control of yourself, and of course it makes your husband unhappy. He knows what he is doing, and it sounds as if he does it very well. But you hide your pleasure from him. You keep it all to yourself, in the very moment you should abandon all this restraint."
The Frenchwoman looked as though she were prepared to grumble at length about the repressed nature of the English aristocracy, which Helen would have enjoyed under other circumstances. But now she could not be amused by it.
"I know it's my failing," she said. She thought of the countless times she had held herself rigid beneath him as the pleasure came, the very opposite of the word Marie-Anne had used: release. How it must have felt to him, to be closed off in that moment, every time. "I know it, and so does he. But I don't know – oh, Marie-Anne, I don't know any other way. I don't know what's wrong, and I don't know how to fix it," she whispered, fighting tears.
Marie-Anne's face lost the look of reproof. She reached out to take Helen's hand. "It's only normal, I think, because of what yo
u have been through in your past," she said carefully.
Helen looked up at her, suddenly apprehensive. "Do you think that something in me is... That I was damaged in some way, and it cannot be repaired?"
Her friend blinked back tears. "Oh, Hélène..."
For a horrified moment, she thought Marie-Anne might actually burst into weeping. But the emotion was overcome quickly. She straightened her shoulders abruptly and took on a practical tone.
"If that were true, I'd sail to Ireland today and kill Henley myself. No, it can be repaired, it only takes some willingness on your part, to let go of this control which I promise you do not need anymore. But first we must find a way for your husband to stop pitying you, for it's obvious he does. And that's because you let him."
"But I–"
"Your husband cannot be happy unless you are satisfied, and thank God there are men such as him in this world," Marie-Anne said fervently, with a popish gesture that perfectly astonished Helen. "So I will tell you what it is you are missing. See if you aren't willing to try anything to achieve it, after you hear what it can be like. Then," she continued, as if they were drawing up a plan for battle, "some practical advice, which I hope will not shock you into a swoon. We must take some of the English out of you."
It sounded like rather a lot to achieve in an afternoon. Helen took a deep breath. "I'll ring for tea."
Marie-Anne let out a peal of delicious laughter. "Something stronger than tea, Hélène," she giggled. "Have them bring wine, or whiskey. You will need it."
For the thousandth time, Helen doubted her ability to even think of the details she had learned, much less act on them. There seemed so much to remember among the suggestions put forth. She told herself to focus on the most important things, the most salient points. Do not be afraid to lose yourself, that was one of them. Do not be ashamed of wanting him, was another. Most important of it all was not to think. Do not think. Only feel.
There was something else. She racked her brain, suddenly panicking. What was it? Oh, yes – a drink. That was considered imperative if she was to eradicate the enemy inhibitions, as Marie-Anne put it.
She reached for the wine, afraid that if the situation continued much longer, she would become a drunkard. Put your brain between your legs and keep it there throughout, Marie-Anne had said, and Helen had started on the whiskey in the hopes of thinking rationally after such a declaration. But now it was the next day, her friend was gone, and it was time to act before she lost all nerve. And before the blasted builders came.
She could have acted more herself by simply saying to him that they had a duty to try for an heir. But it was cold and practical, not at all true to what she felt nor even the half of what she wanted to tell him. It said nothing about how she did not fear his touch, or how he had brought her to life in a new and cherished way. She had begun to realize, in the course of the long and immodest conversation with Marie-Anne, that she could say all of this with her body. If only she could come to him unashamed.
The first step was to go to him at all. She hovered at the door of the dressing room where he slept. The moonlight shone brightly, showing her his sleeping form. She swallowed down her nervousness, glad of the warmth in her belly that the wine provided, and sat tentatively on the bed next to him. His head rested on his arm, his hair tousled against the pillow and across his forehead. She loved looking at him as he slept. She had spent hours examining his face as he lay next to her in their bed, memorizing the curve of his lips, the fine lines etched around his eyes, the line of his chin.
His chest, his strong broad shoulders rose up out of the blanket, bared to her touch. She did what she had never done before: touched him leisurely, taking a slow and lazy pleasure in the feel and sight of him. She leaned forward and kissed his skin, her lips tingling with the taste of the wine and the fine dark hair that covered his chest. His heart beat slow and steady, and she put her ear against it to listen to his life. Still he did not wake, and she smoothed her hand down his torso, slowly dragging the blanket down over his hip.
He came awake quietly, only the lurch of his heart and the slight tensing of his body announcing his awareness. She lifted her head, letting the moonlight fall on her face as she continued the slow exploration. It was like a dream, the way the tension left him, how she could feel him watching her while she learned him with her hands. A dream when, slowly, he turned onto his back and she felt the rush of excitement shoot through her, a bolt of lightning that awakened her to the possibilities afforded by his offering himself.
She pulled the blankets away, a recklessness stealing over her. He would want this, she reminded herself. That's what she must trust.
Her palm curved around him as her lips played over his chest and down his stomach to where the dark hair curled. Do you see that I am not afraid? she wanted to ask, but chose instead to show him what she felt by pressing a kiss to the hardened flesh in her hand. He gasped, and she felt a warm flush that was not embarrassment at all. She opened her lips and took him into her mouth, her tongue stroking – only for a moment, just a moment, because the sound he made filled her with a panting desire. It overwhelmed her, as it had always done when they were together, but this time she let it take her. She let herself be an abandoned woman.
She dragged her tongue up a straight path over his body, quicker than his intake of breath, from stomach to chest to throat and she was there, her open mouth hovering over his. He leaned up to capture her lips, and she shifted to bring her leg across to straddle him. His hands moved over her and she felt his mouth on her chin, her throat. It caused the heat in her to leap up, until she was wild with it, with him. She lowered her hips, bringing the liquid burn between her thighs down to trap his hardness on his belly, rubbing herself along the length of him, feeding the fire.
Stephen gripped her hips, wondering if it were possible to die of pleasure. She rose above him, a dream made flesh. He leaned forward in an agony of lust to lick the trickle of perspiration that ran between her breasts, his resolve to leave her in peace sacrificed at her first touch. She paused in her movement, her breath coming harsh as she held his mouth against her. Then she shifted and sank down on him, taking him into her. He watched her head drop back, her hair streaming down, her mouth as she gasped his name and moved atop him. How did he ever think he could live without this?
When his thumb slipped forward to caress her, there where he was embedded in her, she bucked against him and gasped. Instead of restraint and a fierce control, she smiled and gave a low moan. Instead of her dark intensity below, pulling him in, her exultant joy burst forth above him, showering down all around him. Her hand came down and tangled with his on her hip as she stared at the place they were joined, little whimpering moans rising in her throat as she moved faster. Her body clenched around him, delicious and tight, as she cried out in wordless pleasure.
It seemed to take him a long time to come to his senses. When he did, she was still gulping for air, a disbelieving wonder in her face, leaning down to put her lips against his. She kissed him fiercely, and he answered her in kind, his tongue gathering the dark sweetness and drinking it in greedily as she sagged against him. He turned on his side, taking her with him on the tiny bed that was never meant for two people, and pulled the blanket up over them both. Her eyes were drifting closed, looking at him with gentle astonishment.
"Don't let the builders come," she said drowsily.
If there were an ounce of strength left in his sublimely limp muscles, he would have laughed. "You make a splendid case against them," he muttered as she slipped into slumber. He tucked her against his chest like a precious treasure he could hoard all for himself, and lay awake for a long time, marveling that somehow she was his.
He had just woken and was lost in tracing the pink tips of her fingers, listening to her breathing as she slept, when the valet made his entrance. Stephen had just enough time to cover her with his body, knowing how modest she was, how carefully she hid herself behind high collars even when they
dined alone.
"Good morning, my lord," said James, not even sparing a glance toward the bed as he strode to open the curtains fully. He went swiftly about his business as usual while Stephen recovered from the blow his wife had unwittingly struck him in the ribs when she was so rudely awakened.
"Good morning, James," he began, and stopped because Helen had buried her face in his chest and squinted against the sunlight. He had been meaning to say something to the servant, but suddenly preferred to concentrate on the feel of her soft curves pressed into him.
"Would my lord prefer his coffee served here?" James asked, his back toward them as he gathered Stephen's discarded clothes from yesterday. "The carpenters have arrived early as you requested, and await your convenience."
Helen made a small sound, burrowing deeper into him. He pulled the blanket tight to her shoulder.
"Tell them I will not be down for some time, please, James," he said slowly. He dropped a kiss on Helen's hair. "Have Collins inform them their commission has changed, and show them to the nursery with an eye toward refurbishment, instead of renovation. And get you gone from here now, will you?"
The servant's look of surprise changed to satisfaction as he spied Helen's dark hair spilling from under the blanket.
"Immediately, my lord," he bowed, clearly suppressing a happy smile.
As soon as the door was closed behind him, Stephen leapt up to pull the curtains closed. He thought the glare disturbed his wife, but when he turned back to watch the shadows close on her skin, she was watching him, staring at his nakedness.
"Good morning," he smiled, still holding the curtain open. She immediately turned shy, turning over to hide her face in the pillows. It left the sinuous curve of her back bathed in morning light. She mumbled something from the pillows that sounded like "Good morning."
A Fallen Lady Page 25