“Let us assume we found some priest to do it,” he said, “fine. We’re married in the eyes of God, perhaps. It would not be legally binding with no license.”
“It would be enough,” she said. “It would buy time. No duke will risk the crime of polygamy until they sorted the paperwork. Sabotage, just as you said. A complication that stalls the marriage to Lusk.”
“Helena,” he said, “this is direct defiance. What of your parents? Likely they would never forgive you. Your father would act upon his right as your guardian and grant Girdleston permission to use the river and woods. Or they might very well toss you out, disown you. I . . . I cannot provide for you—not right now.” It strangled him to say these words.
“I don’t need provision—”
“You cannot say what you need. You’re the daughter of an earl, you’ve been fed and clothed and housed by your family’s estate for your entire life. You know nothing of what it is like to work—”
“I am an apple farmer.”
“Perhaps you are, but what if your father throws you off your land? And chops the trees to make way for the mining wagons? I . . . I won’t have the liberty and resources to keep you safe and comfortable. I’ve been trying to say this all along.”
“I have some money,” she said. “If they take the land, I still have Gran’s jewelry. And some gold. We will get by.”
“Helena,” he said, “think beyond this year to the rest of your life. The reality of my not being able to provide for you is a knife to my heart. I feel the same way about my father and sisters. Does my anxiety mean nothing? Do you not hear my distress? I am tortured, thinking of you cast out from your family. And your reply is a hidden bag of gold?”
“You would rather see me married to Lusk.”
“I die to think of you going to Lusk,” he growled. “But better than you dying in earnest—cold, hungry, cast out from your family.”
“You’ve no faith in me,” she insisted.
“Helena, you are a marvel to me. Truly. Never have I seen such courage, or resilience, or the cool ability to operate under extreme pressure. Not on the field of battle or among rival gangs on the crime-ridden streets of London. But you are still a young woman, and the duke’s family is unbelievably powerful. You’ve no idea of their far-reaching power.” He thought of the door of his prison cell swinging wide on Girdleston’s command. Then he thought of it clanging shut.
“If your family does not cast you out, Girdleston can make your life miserable, and that says nothing of what he’d do to me.”
“Titus Girdleston,” she said, “is a petty man who resents that his brother’s son is duke and not him. He is forced to pander to the very authority that, by fluke of birth, has made him second-in-command. His greed will eventually consume him. He wants too much, and if we are careful and watchful, we can bring about some misstep or expose cheating that will destroy him. He is not the duke in earnest. And Lusk, as pitiful as he is, gave me some hope last night. He can summon cogent thought. He is not completely dead inside.”
Declan was shaking his head. “This ‘authority’ of which you speak? It is designed to protect landed men like Girdleston and your father. You have fought valiantly, Helena, but you have been powerless.”
She was silent. After a moment, she said, “I am not powerless. I refuse to think of myself without power.”
Declan studied her back. She sat upright in the saddle, her shoulders tight. She held the reins with stiff arms, her elbows at sharp right angles. She was correct, of course. She’d refused to allow her parents or the dukedom or the aristocratic “wedding mill” to force her into a future that she did not want. How fierce she was.
And now, ever so fiercely, she pursued what she wanted. Or what she thought she wanted.
Which was him. Unbelievably. Remarkably. Whether he liked it or not.
Did he like it? In a perfect world, without the threat of prison, without his current penury—yes, he would like nothing more than to take Helena as his wife.
The collective weight of his feelings for her felt like a mountain. He stood at the bottom, barely able to climb the first rise.
“I’m tired, Declan,” she said. “I’m tired of trying to convince you and tired of being with you only in wet carriages and dark gardens. I’m not made of limestone. I’m simply a woman, and I have my limits. For now, I will carry on, trying to marry Lusk off to someone else, but if he doesn’t take to one of them, I’ll run away again. In earnest. Gone without a trace.”
“You will not,” he countered.
“Then I will marry Lusk,” she said.
“You will not.” His voice sounded like gravel. “We will continue with the plan. You said yourself that Lusk has some spark of a soul. One of these girls will manage to ensnare him. Your parents’ bad behavior and Girdleston’s every move is motivated by greed for Lusk’s money and title. These potential duchesses will be driven by the same. It is enough.”
“And then what?” asked Helena. Anger radiated from her ramrod posture in the saddle.
Fine, he thought, let her be angry. Simply—let her not be defeated or rejected. Let her not be hurt by him.
“Meaning?” He was afraid of the answer.
“I mean,” she explained, “after one of the girls enchants him, and he throws me over. And I’m finally able to go home. Then what happens? Between us?”
“Helena,” he growled. “What do you wish to hear? That I love you? Alright. Fine. I love you.”
He took a breath. If he stopped to examine this statement, he would lose heart. Instead, he kept talking. “I’ve loved you since the moment you stepped into the duke’s house and turned down three private servants but chose me.
“I’ve loved you since you sailed into the stable in the white gown, and I’ve loved you for every ridiculous debutante you’ve cultivated for your own jilting.
“I love your beautiful peridot eyes, and your lithe body, and your onyx hair. I love that you are an apple farmer, and I love that you are relentless. I need relentless. I can see that now. I need you.”
He was breathing hard. Sweat trickled down his neck. The horse danced beneath him, confused by his tense thighs and taut rein. The words poured from him like blood from a wound.
He thought of his mountain of unexplored emotion. He hadn’t climbed it so much as jumped off the top.
“Love,” he finally finished, “is not our problem. It is simply not enough.”
He’d said this to the back of her head, riding four paces behind. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she reined her horse around. Her face was lit by a sunbeam through the trees. Smiling lips. Bright eyes. Glowing cheeks. She shined brighter than the autumn morning. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She breathed in small, tight breaths.
“We should kiss,” she told him, reining up.
“We cannot kiss,” he told her. “I am your groom, and you are my charge, and we are in a public park.”
“You are a terrible groom,” she teased, smiling through her tears.
“There are so many commonplace things that we won’t be able to do, Helena. Not for a very long time, perhaps not forever. My love for you is real, but please begin to consider the challenges we face. I may be a terrible groom, but I’m in no position to be a good partner to you, not for years, perhaps.”
“If you can imagine the worst for us, then I can imagine the best,” she said, reining around. “Perhaps the reality will be somewhere in the center.”
“I pray to God you are correct.”
She shot him a sweet smile, full of love and hope, and dug her heels into the mare. The animal sprang forward, galloping ahead, tossing bright leaves into the air.
Declan tried to think of the task at hand, of finding this seventh potential duchess, of Girdleston’s impending party, but his mind was consumed by the unlikely prospect of marriage to Lady Helena Lark.
Was that what came after proclaiming love? Marriage? He’d never said I love you to a woman in his life; mar
riage hadn’t ever crossed his mind. He was too busy. His father and sisters required too much. No girl had been worth the upheaval of his life.
But his declaration of love had been real—nay, it had been urgent and necessary and long overdue.
But to Helena, it would not be enough. He knew this. She’d already asked what came next. To her, these last five years had meant one, long evasion. She longed to live life, not run away from it. As well she should. And that said nothing of what he longed for.
Declan hadn’t allowed his mind to indulge in the fantasy of marriage to Helena Lark. The probability of success felt too narrow, as thin as a keyhole to his jail cell.
And yet—
And yet he wanted it.
He ached with wanting it—a new and alarming pain. One of the many benefits of life as a mercenary was freedom from want. His clients paid well, the work was active and exciting, and he’d earned the respect of prosperous men. He hadn’t known true, unrequited want until he’d met her.
He would fight that want forever if it meant keeping her safe, but his desire was not the struggle. The struggle was with what she wanted.
From the beginning, he’d not been able to deny her a single bloody thing.
And now she wanted him. Presumably forever.
God help them.
Forgetting the threat of prison, overlooking the differences in their rank, how could he possibly arrange the logistics of a wedding? In a matter of days? Could a Catholic priest be convinced to do it?
Not thinking of it should have been far easier than the mental contortion of sorting it out, but his mind locked on to the notion and would not let go. Now that he’d professed his love, marrying her felt as natural as putting one foot in front of the next.
And perhaps that’s how she’d achieved the daily evasion of her parents and her future with Lusk all this time. One foot in front of the other. One heartbeat after the next.
A quarter hour later, they came upon Miss Tasmin Lansing and Declan was forced to concentrate. The young woman stood alone in a clearing, taking refreshment from a saddlebag while her own liveried groom stood guard.
As they grew closer, Helena observed, “But she’s very pretty. Don’t you think she’s very pretty?”
Declan squinted at Tasmin Lansing. Even from a short distance, he thought she projected a very pretty sort of “difficultness.” She had an I require soothing pout. Her mahogany hair was tucked beneath a sleek green hat; penetrating eyes looked out coolly against alabaster skin. Her expression seemed to dare the world to amuse her.
“She looks guarded,” he said. “Pretty enough, I suppose. Maybe a bit sour?”
“That’s quite an assessment from two yards away,” Helena said.
Declan glanced at her. He’d given the wrong answer. He cleared his throat. “I gave up assessing women when I met you,” he amended.
“Clever man,” she said, trotting away.
Helena sidled up to Miss Lansing and made an eager, chatty introduction. Five minutes later, she was asking if the young woman would ride for a stretch to become better acquainted. Miss Lansing agreed, and Declan exhaled in relief.
One step closer. Another foot in front of the other.
When the women were gone, Declan struck up conversation with Miss Lansing’s groom.
“Your mistress sits a pretty horse,” he said, nodding at the path down which they disappeared.
“Third one this month,” said the groom. “Miss Tasmin can be finicky, like. She misses her horse from Chadwick Hall in Devon, but her father doesn’t want the country livestock in London. She’s demanding, that one.”
“The horse?” asked Declan.
“No, the girl. I’ve learned to stay out of her way, but there’s no pleasing her when things don’t go as she imagines. Temperamental, I’d call it?” A weary sigh.
“Unmarried, is she?” Declan asked. “Maybe a husband will settle her.”
“Maybe,” considered the groom. “I’m not privy to her aspirations, but it’s plain to the staff that she’s in search of a brilliant match. Her sister married an earl and moved to a castle in Wales. She is determined to outdo her. They never got on, the two sisters. Only a chosen few get on with Miss Tasmin.”
“Perhaps my lady will befriend her.”
“Not likely,” sighed the groom.
Splendid, thought Declan, and he said no more. They sat in silence until the women cantered back.
When Helena reined her mare abreast, she gave Declan a quick, knowing nod.
To the young woman, she called, “It was lovely to make your acquaintance, Miss Lansing! I’ll look forward to your very best effort at Titus Girdleston’s birthday party Monday afternoon.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” replied Miss Lansing, examining her gloves.
Helena studied her for a moment longer, nodded to her groom, and galloped away. Declan followed, and when they were out of view, Helena described Miss Lansing’s cool unpleasantness but also her incredible motivation to marry a duke. She was even more beautiful at close range, a circumstance of which Miss Lansing was wholly aware, and Helena believed she knew how to flaunt it. Best of all, Miss Lansing wanted to give Helena’s plan a go, and she admittedly loved to win.
Their third potential duchess had fallen into place.
“Helena, there you are,” said Camille Lark, joining them at the edge of the park. “We’ve just seen the oddest thing. There is a very strange person in a dark velvet cloak, lurking in the trees, watching you.” Camille shaded her eyes with one hand and pointed to the tree line with another. “It was just . . . there. The person saw every turn you made as you rode out with your friend.”
“You’re joking,” Helena said, reining around. She was already looking to Declan. Her face had gone white. “Shaw, the cloaked figure again.”
Declan gathered his reins, scanning the tree line. “Was the person on foot or horseback?”
“Mounted,” said Camille, breathless.
“Astride or sidesaddle?” Declan’s thighs dug into his horse. The animal began to dance.
“Astride,” said Camille, “like a man. But it was a slight person. I never saw a face.”
Declan glanced at Helena. For the first time ever, her expression conveyed the beginning stages of fear.
“Nettle,” Declan called, spinning around, “will you take the ladies safely home? Use very special care. Do not let them out of your sight. Keep to the main roads. I must pursue this.”
Nettle assured him, and Declan spoke to Helena. “Go with Nettle, my lady. Stay close to your sister. Be watchful and do not deter from the shortest route home.”
“But, Shaw?” she called, worry in her voice.
“Go,” Declan said, digging his heels into his horse and bolting for the tree line.
Chapter Twenty-One
Seven Duchesses (Potential)
Happy ✓
Sneezy
Doc
Sleepy ✓
Bashful
Dopey
Grumpy ✓
Declan came to her in the middle of the night.
She was in a deep sleep. Something about the very real, very near smell of him elevated her achingly sensual dream to a vividness that made her body hum. He was in her dream, but now she could taste him, she could feel him.
He shook her gently. “Helena?” he whispered. He put a palm over her mouth.
Helena’s eyes popped open.
“It’s me,” he whispered, hovering above her. “Shhh. It’s Declan.”
She blinked into the darkness. His face was clear, but his body blended with the shadows. He’d dressed again entirely in black. Not the black from the masquerade, but a black overcoat, dark shirt, and buckskins. Without the yellow livery, he looked like a thrilling stranger—an achingly familiar, very thrilling stranger.
“Can I move my hand?” he asked lowly. “You won’t scream?”
Helena nodded and he slid his hand away.
She gasped, “Wha
t are you doing here?”
“Does your maid sleep in the anteroom?”
“No. Belowstairs.”
“Good. Will you get up? Can you dress yourself?”
“Of course. But how did you get in?”
“The window. Which is the way we’re both going to get out.” He nodded to the fluttering drapes at her window box.
“Did you locate the cloaked figure? Do you have—”
Declan shook his head. “I searched the park for an hour, but there was no trace. I was afraid to spare any more time. I’ve . . . I’ve had a change of heart, Helena. That is, a change of plans. I used the time to make arrangements.”
Helena’s rapidly beating heart seized. She stared at his face in the dark. “What change?” she asked cautiously.
“About our future. That is, your future with me. I agree that we should get married. If you will have me. I’ve located a priest who will do it.”
For a long moment, Helena did not move. She examined the words, making sure she had heard correctly. She hesitated, waiting for him to reverse what he said.
He stared at her. “Helena?”
She threw back the covers and leapt up. Working quickly, she began to gather her garments. A dress—she would dress darkly like him—stockings, slippers . . .
“But where will we go?” she asked, dropping into a chair to slide on her stockings.
“To his church,” he said, watching her ease the silk up her legs. After a long moment, he spun around, staring at the wall. “But we must go now and be back before sunrise.”
“You’ve located a priest who conducts weddings in the middle of the night?”
“Actually, it’s early morning. Father Thomas—this priest is called Father Thomas—has parish commitments on Sundays. And Monday is Girdleston’s birthday. It’s tonight or—”
“Tonight,” she proclaimed, pushing from the chair.
Years later, she would amuse herself by looking back on her wedding night. How he came to her through the window, told her they would marry, and carried her down the side of Lusk House on the trellis. He’d turned his back modestly while she’d dressed. They spoke so very little, afraid of awakening the house. They’d already said so much, and the ramifications of what they were about to do felt too significant to say out loud.
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