Lady Disguised (Tenacious Trents Novella) (Tenacous Trents)

by Jane Charles

  “Who would protect you?”

  Hélène blew out a breath. “Because I am a woman, you think I need someone to protect me?” She stood, balancing her weight with both hands on the head of the cane. “I can assure you that I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

  “Women are supposed to be taken care of,” Stanwick said as he came to his feet. “They are delicate and more vulnerable than a man.”

  “By whose standards?” Hélène demanded. “I will grant you, I am not as strong as you, but my mind is sharp.” She took a step away from him and her jaw tightened as pain sliced through her eyes. “And I recall doing very well fencing against you.”

  He gestured to the cane. “Not all that well.”

  Hélène straightened her spine. “It was simply because you have a longer reach.” She leaned toward him. “Admit it, my skill was not lacking.”

  Stanwick shrugged. He wasn’t about to admit he had been impressed. Such an action would only encourage her to put herself in further danger. Besides, her lips were inches from his. All he needed to do was bend slightly forward and they would be touching.

  They drew him, like an addict to opium. Though he knew this was a mistake he would likely regret, Stanwick could not pull back.

  Hélène’s knees nearly gave way when his lips touched hers. Firm, but gentle, coaxing, and delicious. Thank goodness she was leaning on her cane or she would be in a heap on the floor.

  His hand came around to the back of her head, and he tilted just slightly before tracing the seam of her lips. She parted hers, not sure what to do, allowing her instincts to take control. He delved, and she was lost in a sea of sensations. Her hands lost the grip of the cane. It clattered against the table, upsetting a teacup, but she didn’t care. Bracing all her weight on her good leg, she clutched at his shoulders, dearly wishing the corner of the table did not separate them

  Stanwick’s hand snaked around her waist, lifting her from the ground as he moved closer. His kiss deepened further, and all Hélène could do was hold on and be swept away.

  This was nothing like the stage kisses she had encountered in the past. Those had been closed mouth and quick. Even the ones that were supposed to have been passionate never were. She had never been heated to the core as she was now. All Hélène wanted to do was draw Stanwick as close to her person as physically possible.

  “When Jordan told me what happened, he also assured me that you were not familiar with my sister, Stanwick.”

  Stanwick yanked his lips from hers and straightened. Thank goodness he kept a hand anchored about her waist, because Hélène was fairly certain her legs could not hold her at this moment.

  She glanced past Stanwick to find Bentley, Elizabeth and Jordan standing just inside the room. How long had they been there?

  Stanwick slowly let go of Hélène. She balanced herself on her uninjured leg, grasped the arm of the settee, and lowered herself to a seated position. “Would you care for tea?”

  “That would be lovely.” Elizabeth smiled brightly and gave a quick pull of the bell before she settled down beside Hélène.

  The cup Hélène had been drinking from was on the floor, the contents soaked up by the lovely cream and rose woven carpet. The stain might never come out. Every time she saw it, Hélène knew she would remember the moment she was thoroughly kissed for the very first time.

  Why had Bentley, Jordan, and Elizabeth decided to visit now? Couldn’t they have waited an hour, or even a day? How much longer would Stanwick have kissed her? Now that they were here, she would never know.

  She glanced at the men. Bentley was glowering at Stanwick while Jordan studied Stanwick with interest. Perhaps Stanwick shouldn’t have kissed her, but it wasn’t as though her brothers had a say in these matters.

  Stanwick looked grim. Maybe he hadn’t enjoyed the kissing as much as she? He had instigated it and could have stopped anytime he wished. So why did he look far from pleased at the moment?

  Bentley jerked his head towards the hall.

  Stanwick turned briefly towards the ladies. “If you will excuse me.” He executed a slight bow and followed Bentley and Jordan out of the room.

  What was that all about?

  Damn and blast. He lost his head for a moment and would now be shackled for life. Stanwick followed the Trent brothers out of the library and into a sitting room further down the hall.

  He was going to marry a madwoman, and there was nothing he could do about it.

  After they entered the salon, Bentley closed the door behind him. Jordan sauntered over to a sideboard where there was a selection of decanters. He pulled the stopper out of one containing a dark liquid and sniffed. He pulled back quickly as though whatever sat inside had gone to ruin. He chose a second decanter and sniffed the contents. This time he smiled. He set the decanter aside and gathered three glasses before pouring one for each of them.

  “I’ve looked past the fact that Hélène came to Dagger’s dressed as a man,” Bentley said as he took a step forward.

  “That was of her own choosing, as I didn’t know she was a lady until hours later.” Stanwick held his ground even though Bentley was advancing on him. Even if Bentley took a swing, Stanwick would not fight back or cower. He had quite thoroughly kissed the earl’s sister. Even if he knew it would likely earn him a blackened eye in the end, Stanwick suspected he would have still kissed Hélène.

  He hated to admit it to himself, but the moment her lips touched his, the rest of the world ceased to exist. That had never happened to him before. Several times he had enjoyed a lady’s company, even intimacy, but was aware of who else could be in the house or who might call or enter a chamber. He was always very careful never to allow himself to be caught in this situation.

  He hadn’t even bothered to shut the bloody door when the desire to kiss Hélène struck. When had he become so careless? Was it the woman who made him careless? She certainly didn’t bow to convention.

  Jordan Trent pressed a glass into Bentley’s hand, stopping the earl’s advancement. Jordan then handed one to Stanwick. While the two brothers sampled the liquid, Stanwick simply held his and waited. He would drink when this was done and not before. He needed to keep his head about him at the moment.

  “I overlooked the fact that you stayed the night in this house after she was injured.”

  “As you should,” Stanwick agreed. “I was only here because I was concerned with her health.”

  “You still remained in a house, unchaperoned, with an innocent young lady,” Bentley ground out.

  “You think me so low as to seduce a lady who had just received seven stitches because of my rapier?” Stanwick demanded.

  Bentley fisted his free hand and took a step forward.

  Jordan placed a hand in the center of Bentley’s chest and looked at Stanwick. “Perhaps you should refrain from using words such as seduce where one of our sisters is concerned.”

  Jordan took another sip of the brandy and studied Stanwick over the edge of his glass. “You also exposed her leg without thought.”

  She was bleeding and had fainted. Was he supposed to just let her lie there and wait for a doctor to arrive? “Would you prefer I risked her death because of propriety?”

  The brothers shared a look that Stanwick could not read.

  “I barely noticed her leg. All I was fixated on was the gash and the blood.” He glanced away. It was a sight he would never forget and doubted he would ever forgive himself for.

  “I know. I was there,” Jordan reminded him.

  “Then why mention it now?” Stanwick demanded.

  “I would have dismissed the incident on account of your concern at the moment—” Jordan tilted his head and looked Stanwick in the eye “—if we hadn’t found you just now, not only kissing Hélène, but holding her rather close.”

  Stanwick thrust his fingers through his hair. There was no argument he could make to get out of this situation. If he had a younger sister and had come across her and a gentleman i
n the same situation, he would be demanding the fellow marry her. “Very well.” He was soon to be a married man, something he had never wanted, and his wife may very well be mad.

  Hélène kept glancing to the entry, waiting for the gentlemen to return. Why had they gone from the room?

  Elizabeth watched her, saying nothing as she sipped from her tea and sampled the cakes.

  “What are they doing?” Hélène finally asked.

  “I assume Jordan is keeping Bentley from bludgeoning Stanwick,” Elizabeth answered. “And Bentley is encouraging Stanwick to do the right thing.”

  “Do the right thing?” She glanced at Elizabeth in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

  “A gentleman does not kiss a lady as Stanwick kissed you without compromising her.”

  Hélène’s mouth popped open. She began to shake her head in denial. They were not going to force a marriage on her. It was bad enough her brothers wished to rule her life, but this was beyond anything she would allow.

  The gentlemen were talking as they came down the hall, though Hélène couldn’t make out what they were saying. She anxiously watched the door, waiting for them to enter. Surely Elizabeth was wrong.

  Jordan and Bentley appeared much happier than when they left, whereas Stanwick looked more serious and perhaps angry, if the tightness of his jaw was any indication. Perhaps her brothers had simply warned him away.

  “Congratulations,” Bentley began.

  “No,” Hélène said before he could say anything further.

  “They are correct,” Stanwick said, his tone all that was proper and respectful, unlike when he sat with her before they arrived. “I am honored to be betrothed.”

  He certainly didn’t look as though he was pleased. “Whom shall you be marrying? It surely isn’t me.”

  His eyebrows rose in surprise. Did he think she would swoon and thank him for the sacrifice? Did nobody in this room know her?

  “But I compromised you,” Stanwick insisted.

  “By kissing me?” She practically laughed. This was ridiculous.

  “He saw your bared leg as well,” Jordan informed her. “When you fainted, he carried you to your room and saw what damage had been done to your injury.”

  Heat infused her face. She hadn’t known that bit, which was slightly mortifying. Still, it didn’t signify. “He is also not the first man who has seen me near a state of undress.”

  They all stared at her as if dumbfounded. Various stages of shock were registered on their faces.

  “Hélène?” Bentley found his voice first “How could this be?” he asked slowly, his cheeks turning red.

  It took a moment before it dawned on her that he might think she had taken lovers. Clearly, none of those in the room had experience being back stage during a production. She laughed again, which further confused them. Of course, if she claimed to have had lovers, perhaps they wouldn’t make Stanwick marry her or force a Season on her. But Hélène wouldn’t lie to them, nor did she wish to sully her reputation.

  “Costume changes,” she finally said. “Sometimes a scene changes too quickly for an actor or actress to get back to their dressing room, and they change clothing in the wings.”

  Bentley’s shoulders relaxed, and Jordan blew out a breath. They really had thought she had taken lovers. How nice to know how highly her brothers regarded her.

  “I can assure you that many men have seen me in my shift, corset, and pantaloons.” She leaned forward and whispered. “And even more have seen my stockinged calves.”

  Bentley straightened and frowned at her. “That does not dismiss or excuse what we walked in on this afternoon.”

  They were all taking the kiss—a most enjoyable kiss—far too seriously. She wasn’t about to let the delicious incident change the course of her life. “You’re forcing Stanwick to marry me because of a simple kiss? I can assure you that I have been kissed by dozens of men.” Perhaps the number was a little high, but she had been kissed by twelve different men prior to this afternoon. Stanwick made thirteen and by far the best.

  “Pardon?” Bentley choked out.

  “You heard me.”

  Stanwick thrust his fingers through his hair. “How many of these kisses occurred on stage, and how many did not?”

  Why did it matter, she wanted to ask, but she knew the answer and the very reason she didn’t wish to tell them.

  “How many?” Stanwick asked again.

  “All of them.”

  “Stage kisses?” Stanwick clarified. “You certainly can’t compare the two.”

  Heat infused her cheeks. There certainly was a difference, but Hélène suspected that to admit such a thing would only convince Bentley they must marry. “It hardly signifies if there is a difference because I refuse to marry you.”

  Stanwick thought her rejection would bring relief. If the woman refused, there was little he could do, and he was free to continue on as he had. Yet disappointment shot through him. He didn’t want to be married, yet he didn’t like it one bit that she refused to marry him. He was wealthy and had been told he was handsome. One day he would be an earl and she could be his countess. What was so bloody wrong with marrying him?

  “Hélène, I don’t think you understand,” Jordan began.

  She stood and wheeled on him, pain sliced through her features. Perhaps he should insist Hélène sit before she injured herself further. Stanwick was beginning to realize that nobody made Hélène do anything, and if they tried, she would do the exact opposite.

  “No, you don’t understand,” she bit out. “Ever since you discovered my sisters and me, you have done everything in your power to control our lives.” She turned toward Bentley. “I survived twenty-two years without brothers or a man telling me what I could and could not do. I am not about to allow it now.”

  The vehemence of her tone and the anger in her stance took Stanwick aback. He admired Hélène more in that moment than any since first meeting her. This was a woman of strength and beauty. She knew what she wanted and he suspected that she could very well take care of herself. She wouldn’t withdraw into nothingness if life became too difficult as his mother had. Nor did he suspect she would harm her husband if he took a lover. Hélène would more than likely ban him from the house, and most certainly from her bed, and carry on as she wished.

  Maybe she wasn’t mad, as he once assumed.

  He studied her from her mahogany hair to the lavender slippers on her dainty feet and envied the actors in Milan who’d gotten to see her in a shift and pantaloons. If he were married to Hélène, he would have the right to see everything that was hidden by the fashionable morning gown.

  “I don’t need to be protected, and I certainly don’t need a man to take care of me,” Hélène informed them.

  She was passionate as well. Would that passion carry into the bedchamber? As much as Stanwick had not wanted to marry an hour ago, he very much wanted to know what life with Hélène as his wife would be like.

  He turned to Bentley. “Might I have a word alone with Hélène?”

  Bentley studied him and then blew out a breath. “Very well.”

  Elizabeth rose and was escorted from the room by Bentley and Trent. Stanwick waited until he could hear them no more before approaching Hélène. “I will not force you to marry me if that is not your wish.”

  She looked up at him, her blue eyes studying him. Those blasted eyes. He could look into them for hours, and they only made him want to kiss her again.

  “I don’t wish to be married,” she said simply. At least it wasn’t him she objected to, but marriage as a whole. In that they were alike, or…had been until he decided that he just might want her as a wife.

  “You still desire to return to Milan?”

  She nodded. “It is the only place I can live as I choose.”

  He understood her passion. She was an actress first, a lady second. He owned a gaming hell first, being the heir was second and of less importance.

  Yet, he couldn’t let her s
imply walk out of his life. Not when he was uncertain that he now wanted her for his own. No lady had ever made him question his decision to remain a bachelor. Yet Hélène, card sharper, actress and fencer, was making him question what he really wanted.

  Perhaps her answer was no because she hadn’t been asked. She had been told. He needed to do this right. “Hélène, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

  She bit her bottom lip and placed a hand against his cheek. “I thank you for the offer, and appreciate being asked instead of told, but my answer is no.”

  “Why?”

  “I cannot give up the theatre, and no husband would allow his wife to be an actress.” She sighed and turned from him before settling onto the settee. “I am at the theatre until late in the evening. As a result, I sleep late. A wife must be available to her husband and take care of a home. I cannot do that.”

  He nodded. Was this why so many actresses did not marry but took lovers instead? If an actress did marry, wasn’t it usually to someone else connected to the theatre who kept the same odd hours as she?

  “Very well,” he nodded, still wondering why he wasn’t relieved by her rejection. “I shall take my leave and wish you well.”

  She smiled up at him though there was sadness in her eyes. Why sad when she was getting what she wanted?

  Stanwick simply nodded, walked from the room, and descended the stairs slowly. Why wasn’t he happier? Why did his heart feel as if someone had just sliced it in two? He should be celebrating, but all he desired to do was return to his club and drown in a bottle of whiskey.

  Hélène watched him leave as tears formed in her eyes. She couldn’t understand the emotions rioting within her. She wasn’t being forced into a marriage. Stanwick accepted that she would return to Milan and continue acting. Why did she feel like a part of her just walked out the door?

  It was silly, of course. She sniffed and wiped a tear from her cheek. Stanwick had simply awakened a passion she hadn’t known existed. He accepted her for who she was. Hélène regretted that she wouldn’t have the opportunity to explore that passion a bit further, but to do so would require marriage. She wasn’t about to give up her dreams to find out what magic occurred between a man and woman behind closed doors.