"You're exceptionally beautiful this morning." He found he was in an irrepressibly good mood.
"Thank you," came her muted response from the depths of the bed.
"Shall we stay in bed all morning? All afternoon, even. Though I'm rather torn between throwing myself into bed and staying here to look at your lovely back."
She made a reflexive movement, reaching for the blanket around her hips. But she seemed to reconsider, stopping herself from pulling it up. Instead, she pushed her arms up and out, stretching like a cat in sunlight. He felt the image sear into his heart, and made a mental note to keep the memory near. If ever he doubted his love for her, he could pull it out and call himself a fool.
"I'd much prefer you to spend the time over here," she said in an endearingly timid voice, her face still turned from him.
"Now that I think of it," he replied, the memory of her earlier abandon making his blood race, "so would I."
He slipped into the little bed facing her, ducking in amidst her heavy hair, the tousled sleepy scent of her, to find her lips and ravage them with a deep kiss. She slid a leg over his hip and strained closer.
"After all," he said between kisses, "we'll soon have a new nursery to fill." And they set themselves to the task with enthusiasm.
Chapter 17
"Smitten," was the word he overheard the servants using a few days later, and it made him smile. "It's a fine thing to serve a love-struck lord, I'm finding," whispered one of them, clearly unaware that the lord in question was within earshot. He proved them right by ignoring it, instead of giving a stern look and having a word with the butler about gossiping servants.
It was only the teasing glint in the butler's eye that kept him from protesting when Helen said she'd be spending the afternoon with Joyce, her one friend in London. He knew it was selfish to want her at his side day and night, but he couldn't help himself. The world felt right when she was beside him, and when she wasn't, he could think of little but her return. He spent the time planning how he would greet her, finding new ways to bring about her now-frequent laughter.
Stephen had wanted to invite himself along when she announced that Marie-Anne would be there too. A reconstruction of his Avalon was much preferable to an afternoon at Whitehall, where the gentlemen now avoided him. Where once he was sought out for advice he was now evaded as though he carried a plague, no doubt because of his performance at Thursby's. He told himself he didn't care, that he had been hoping for just such a thing – to leave the whispering deceptions behind.
But he found to his exasperation that he was upset by it. At least he had had a purpose, something he was good at, which hadn't been handed to him by an accident of birth. Perhaps Helen's practicality was rubbing off, along with her sense of social equilibrium. It was impossible not to see the world through her eyes, to think of the baker in her little town when some bewigged lord argued to raise the tariff on imported grain, or to remember Katie's delight in a handful of cheap ribbons whenever a coach full of ladies splattered mud on the street urchins as it passed. And now he was left useless in the world he had despised, holding a bag of tricks that would only backfire if he used them in the way they could do most good.
However much he might be feared, the invitations poured in. They were afraid of offending him. He politely declined most of them, but occasionally they would make an appearance if he felt it was important, or if Helen showed an interest.
"Shall we go to Chisholm's weekend party?" she asked after Marie-Anne had returned to Bartle. "Alex and Elizabeth are to go, and I would like to spend some time with my sister-in-law."
So they went, because she seemed to want to and because Stephen knew the Chisholms were perfectly harmless, as their other guests would be. It proved the only time he was ever wrong about such a thing.
They arrived in time for dinner, hastily dressing and presenting themselves moments before the meal was served. He took Helen's arm to escort her into the dining room and experienced a moment of unreality as he spied Clara ahead of him. She was here with her duke – a runt of a man who was more occupied with ogling Lady Chisholm's bosom than he was in noticing any of the guests. Clara was seated across from Stephen, Helen at his side, though he did not think the arrangement was made with any malicious intent. The world knew he and Clara were good friends; they had taken pains to appear as though there had never been anything more than friendship between them.
He had never spoken her name to Helen, had never told her who the author of his love letters was. But he knew she would guess in an instant if he let any of his emotions show. Clara looked at him as he sat, a polite smile and nod that he returned, but he felt the urgency in it. She wanted to talk to him. He knew at once, with absolute clarity, that he had to speak to her one last time, to make sure she understood that there was no possibility of a liaison. She must know that he would not answer her letters, that what had been between them was over now.
He watched her husband ignore her in favor of the young Miss Elston's charms and contemplated what it would do to her to hear that there was no hope of finding love outside her marriage. At least not with me, he thought. He turned to his wife in an attempt to enjoy the evening, refusing to brood on the annoyance he felt toward Clara's husband for neglecting her. How anyone could fail to be captivated by her was a mystery. Aside from her beauty, Clara had always been beguiling in so many ways: an excellent conversationalist, comfortable in every situation, attentive and intelligent. She deserved better of her husband than tactless indifference.
But she had chosen this. She had done it quite willingly. He wished, in a wistful kind of way, that Clara could know a little of the happiness he had found. She had married her precious duke, and couldn't know what it was like to make love in the sunlight, to kiss the sleepy and smiling mouth of someone who made life worth living. He was sorry for her, but suddenly found himself wanting Helen now, to confirm that he belonged to her, to drive out the sadness that the sight of Clara had stirred in him.
As soon as dinner was done, he did just that. They pled fatigue from the journey and went to their room, barely allowing the door to close behind them before he pulled her clothes off in a rush of passion and replaced all thought with the feel of her excitement. He gathered the sound and the scent of her, the feel of her skin against his – a talisman, protection against temptation.
"Open to me," he whispered, and she did, a miracle that never ceased to amaze him in its tenderness. She wrapped her body around him and took him into her again and again, the only place where he belonged.
"The grounds are lovely," said Lady Whitemarsh. "I thought you might like to see the little orchard. It's not far. You might get some ideas for your own estate."
They were strolling through Lady Chisholm's celebrated gardens. It was a perfect day. Helen was happy to be with her brother's wife, and out of the city. Though anywhere she was with Stephen was beautiful, she thought as she bent to examine the flowers. She spent her days giddy as a schoolgirl, catching her breath whenever she saw him. He could do something as simple as hold his hand out to her, and she was lost in the thought of what he looked like beneath the fine coat, his muscles moving smoothly as he reached for her. He would speak a polite greeting to an acquaintance, and she would feel her heart rise in excited knowledge of who he was beneath the polished manners.
She blushed even now, thinking of how he had been last night. He made her foolish in love with his smile, her heart filled with tenderness at the thought of him.
"I have been thinking of starting a rose garden," she said to Lady Whitemarsh. "I'll ask Summerdale if he likes the idea."
Elizabeth smiled widely. "I have the feeling he won't refuse you anything. It's easy to see the affection he has for you, if you will pardon my impertinence in observing it."
Helen smiled back at her. "I think we have the love of our husbands in common. My brother is obviously devoted to you," she said warmly. She thought of last summer, before she had known Stephen. She had not known
Elizabeth, or anything about her, had never hoped to know her brother again or the kind of happiness that she now enjoyed.
"But I won't take it for granted that I may change anything on the estate without his approval," she continued. "We ladies must at least pretend to give our husbands the upper hand sometimes."
"Take me at my word," laughed Elizabeth. "If you mention a rose garden, he'll carpet at least ten acres with rosebuds. Alex even remembered some silly little baubles I admired in a shop window long before we were wed. No, they are both quite willing at the moment to do whatever we ask in order to get in our good graces again."
"Good graces?" asked Helen with a slight frown. "I hadn't realized they were out of favor."
Elizabeth slid her a cautious glance, hesitating. "Well, I don't like to bring it up, but surely you know I mean that business with Henley. I fairly skinned Alex alive when he told me what they were up to."
Helen lost her smile at the mention of Henley, but forced herself to listen carefully. There was something here that she had missed, and she searched for it in Elizabeth's next words.
"After all, I was still angry with him for sending Summerdale to you in that little village where you lived, instead of going himself. I couldn't know, of course, how well it would turn out. Still, the idea that Alex would refuse to speak to you for so many years, and then the only thing that could induce him to contact you was Summerdale's business affairs, and only because it involved Lord Henley! My ridiculous husband needed something as insignificant as wool exports to spur him along the path to forgiveness. Men can be such a foolish lot."
Helen stopped walking as the words sank in. She sat on a stone bench beside the path and fought against the feeling that she had been horribly deceived. Her brother had done business with Henley. So had Stephen. And he had lied to her, never telling her why he wished to learn of her past, except that her brother wanted to be reconciled. Why had he never told her? She didn't know if it would have made a difference in her feelings toward her brother. She would never know, because Stephen had taken the choice away from her, concealing the one element that belied her brother's affection.
A business deal. That was what had mattered so much, not herself. She closed her eyes against the pain of it.
Lady Whitemarsh was distressed. "My dear, you're so pale! I'm so sorry! You did not know about that, did you?" She looked like she might cry. "I've spoken out of turn. It's I who am foolish. Oh, how can I be so thoughtless?"
Helen raised a hand to stop her. "Please, sit with me."
She composed herself, knowing that it didn't matter so much now. What had brought Stephen to her, and had brought her brother into her life again – it didn't matter. But still she wanted to know.
"You have not spoken out of turn," she assured her sister-in-law. "It's something I should have known, so please tell me all of it."
Elizabeth sat next to her and obliged her by explained it all. How she had spent months trying to convince Alex to contact Helen, but how he only relented when he needed Henley for some business deal which involved Stephen as well. "He didn't want to seem to approve of Henley when it would cut you so deeply, and make him lose any chance of knowing you again."
Helen nodded. "Well, men have a way of suddenly caring more deeply when their fortunes are involved," she observed. She did not quite manage to keep the disgust out of her voice.
"Yes, that's exactly what Alex said to me before that horrible man came to London," Elizabeth said with distaste. "I told him, as I'm sure you told Lord Summerdale, that it was dangerous to threaten Henley's livelihood in some crack-brained notion of revenge. But no, he thought your husband's scheme was an excellent one. And all their vengeful work only brought Henley to your door. Alex has been quite contrite since then, hoping to placate me with his little gifts. Still, I wonder how repentant he truly is over the affair. He took a real joy in ruining that man, and we must admit it was deserved."
Helen opened her mouth to tell Elizabeth that she was wrong, that she was confused or had imagined it. The image of Henley in London choked off the words before they were spoken. He had asked her, begged her for help. What had he said?
They are ruining me.
The past has come back to you for a reason.
It is your husband I have come to discuss.
She stared at the azaleas before her, a cold spring of fear bubbling up inside her. Oh god, how could she have blinded herself to it? Stephen had hidden his intent when he first came to her. He hid it even now, never telling her that he had come to Bartle in the interests of business. So easy for him to hide a little thing like that. Of course he would hide something far more objectionable.
"I told him never to hide himself from me," she said, vaguely aware that Elizabeth was still next to her and expecting some kind of response. The sun was suddenly too hot, but not hot enough to thaw the chill that shook her. "It was the only thing that was important."
But her husband thought revenge more important. And he'd brought Henley to her because of it. She felt anger and betrayal like a beast inside her, clawing to be let out. She couldn't look at Elizabeth; she could see nothing at all beyond the deep blush of the flower at which she stared, swaying in the breeze.
He wouldn't have done it to hurt her. He wouldn't. He had only thought to protect her. But her anger at being protected grew until it threatened to overwhelm her reason. She knew Henley as no one else did, could have guessed in an instant that if her husband set about ruining him, Henley would have come to her to appeal to her better nature. And he had come to her, remembering her as a compassionate and sympathetic fool.
She thought of Stephen in his rage as he beat Henley into the ground, the blood on his hands as he reached for her, a nightmare vision. He'd gotten his revenge, hadn't he? No matter the cost to her. His love letters and his vengeful task he hid from her, anger and violence cloaked beneath perfect manners and liberal charm.
And worse, oh so much worse – what else did he hide from her? The old chant began again, a refrain she had shut out in the weeks of loving him. The thousand terrible things he could be.
"Helen, you look ill." Elizabeth's concern broke in on her anguished thoughts. "Come, you should rest before tea. I shouldn't have mentioned that horrible man."
Helen shook off her hand as politely as she could manage. "No, really, please... I think I will go in alone."
She felt unsteady on her feet, dangerously close to sobbing. Poor Elizabeth looked no better. What does she have to be upset about, Helen thought peevishly. Her husband tells her things.
But that was unfair. It was all unfair. She must speak to Stephen when they had a moment alone, so that he could explain. He deserved that. She would not lose him over this, only because she was oversuspicious and he was secretive. For now, she had to calm herself and think.
"Please stay and enjoy the weather," she said as steadily as she could manage. "I can find my room." She walked quickly away, looking neither left nor right at the bright flowers. The celebrated gardens seemed to have become nothing but paint on pasteboard, somehow. Nothing but a pretty painting surrounding her, and she could see nothing but the rough canvas and boards beneath.
"Duchess," he bowed over her gloved hand. Having stumbled across her in the library, Stephen had determined to speak with her now and get it over with. "I had not expected to see you here."
"I suspect you mean here at Chisholm's estate, and not here in the library, though you know I've never been bookish." She seemed shy, embarrassed as she plucked at her lavender silk skirt. "You wouldn't have come if you knew I'd be here, I'm sure. Months in London, and you've managed to avoid me completely," she said with a nervous little laugh.
He pulled his gaze away from her. She looked ineffably sad, as though marriage did not agree with her. She did not sparkle as brightly as she had once done. "We do not frequent the same circles anymore, Your Grace. I prefer to move less among Society."
"Yes, I've noticed." She looked at him, her pale blue
eyes scanning his face. "Marriage has changed you. For the better, I think. I've not had a chance to congratulate you," she said with an unnaturally bright smile. "May you find every happiness, my lord."
It was depressing to keep up a pretense of polite conversation. They were friends, or they had been. Aside from his wife, no one knew him at all except for Clara. And he knew her equally well – enough to know that she was sincere in her well wishes, yet sad that she had chosen this life. He couldn't stand pretending as though they meant nothing to each other.
"I have already found every happiness, Clara," he told her. It was true. If he found a scrap more of it, he would burst.
She gave a little laugh, her mouth collapsing as she strove against tears. "I can see that. It's the talk of London, how you are ever at your wife's side. You must be an excellent husband, to have your wife look at you with such affection."
He fought against the need to talk to her as he used to. Do you really think she loves me? he wanted to ask. But it would be unfair to cultivate her friendship again – unfair to her and to Helen.
He shrugged. "I cannot take all the credit. She is an excellent wife."
"Well, that's good," Clara sighed. "I would hate to see you with anyone less than excellent." She reached out and laid a hand over his. "Summerdale, I wanted to tell you. You must believe I would never have written you had I known that you were married. Well," she amended with a twist of her mouth, "at least not if I had known you were happily married. But I do miss you."
He took her hand. "I miss you sometimes, too," he admitted. "But that cannot be between us."
It was not so difficult to say as he had thought it would be, not so hard to give her up. He looked at the corner of her mouth, where he had spent countless hours staring and dreaming of kissing her. She was still beautiful, blindingly so. Yet he did not crave her laughter, nor live to see those lips curl in a smile. It was something of a shock to feel released from it, to truly look at her as nothing more than a dear friend.
A Fallen Lady Page 26