by Darcie Wilde
It was, in fact, his father’s reasoning. Marcus remembered standing beside this desk and hearing his father roar with laughter as their steward attempted to explain the repairs that were needed to the tenants’ cottages to make them sound for the rapidly approaching winter.
Oh, for God’s sake, MacPhearson, don’t bore me with details. I’m sick of it. If they don’t like it here, let ’em go elsewhere.
Like you did? Marcus thought toward that memory. Like you always did?
He felt his fist clench. But the truth was, he, Marcus Endicott, Lord Windford, was bored, and it was getting worse.
One of the most corrosive of the spiritual conditions, Helene had said. He tried to blame her for putting the idea into his head. Her and Rutherford. He’d never been bored before. There’d always been too much to do, setting the estate and the family fortune to rights.
But that was the problem. He’d done it. The estate was on an even keel. The manufactory was well supervised and profitable. There simply wasn’t as much to do as there had been. Marcus’s active mind was casting about for some way to occupy itself.
Into this came Rutherford and the possibility of new, important work that would make use of Marcus’s passion for maths and puzzles and patterns.
An image flashed in front of Marcus’s mind. It was Helene and himself in his library. She was reading a book, and he was working at his desk. She paused to remark on something she’d observed, something that might make a subject for a paper. And he looked up and saw her amber eyes and her smile. It was a peaceful scene, an entirely domestic scene.
But not in any way a dull scene. Not like the empty room and the full desk in front of him now.
A wife, whispered that voice in the back of his mind. A wife like Helene, and eventually an heir, would give you something of your own to work for. Something beyond repairs and recriminations. Helene could be a true helpmeet. She could be trusted to share the burdens of the estate and the family so there would be room for other work . . .
No, said one half of his mind.
But why not? whispered the other half, and his heart echoed the question.
Because he could not bring her into this house, not with Mrs. Darington lurking in the background. Bernadette on her own, he might have been able to deal with. But there was Marius as well. The boy had been so beaten down by the notion that he must and would be a gentleman that he saw no other possible life. Worse, Marius felt bound by duty to conform to his mother’s notions and ambitions of what he should be.
Marcus had some sympathy for his problem. He also knew that as long as Marius could not see anything worth fighting for, he would simply give in, even though his life was making him miserable. Better the devil you know—wasn’t that what people said?
Marcus had some sympathy for that problem as well. The question was, what did he intend to do about it?
He felt a slow, unfamiliar sort of smile form on his face. The first step at least was obvious. He should talk to Helene.
***
There were a number of logistical difficulties when it came to being an unmarried young woman, such as Helene who was, desirous of a private interview with an unmarried, and notorious, gentleman such as Lord Crispin. They included the absolute necessity of not being seen to be in any way desirous of such an interview.
In a normal season, Helene could have dismissed some of the proprieties, since she was widely regarded as exceptional in the worst possible meaning of the word. This season, however, she labored under the double burden of having to be seen to be as pure as Ceasar’s wife and of not wanting anyone to know about the meeting.
Therefore, arranging this particular encounter necessitated a great deal of letter writing over the course of the next six or seven days, which did not go unnoticed at No. 48 and earned Helene a number of Miss Sewell’s most searching looks.
The next time I lead a conspiracy to lift my social standing, I shall remember to hire a less intelligent chaperone, Helene told herself.
Of course, the situation was exacerbated by having to explain to Miss Sewell why there were a large number of uneaten sandwiches in her parlor when she returned home last Friday. Helene had no wish to have to explain about her private conversation with Lord Windford either.
However, the thing was finally arranged. Now, Helene was seated in a quiet corner of the reading room of Clement’s Circulating Library when Abelard Hoyt, Lord Crispin all but bounced in.
Lord Crispin’s greedy little eyes swept the room eagerly. When he saw Helene, his mouth, which had been smiling enough to hold up his prodigiously round cheeks, fell open abruptly.
Helene nodded in greeting.
To his credit, Lord Crispin rallied with tolerable speed and strolled over to make a polite bow.
“Lady Helene,” he said. “How very pleasant it is to see you again.”
“Lord Crispin. How do you do?”
“Very well, very well. May I sit?” Helene nodded her assent, and he took the chair across the reading table from her. “No need to ask how you do,” he said jovially. “You are quite the toast of the town these days.”
Helene gave a small shrug. “Our friends have been most generous with their invitations this season.”
“But you still find time for your reading.” He waved a negligent hand toward the stack of books that Helene had requested, more as protective coloration than with any intent to study.
“I try, although it is less than I would like.”
“And . . . er . . . are you alone today?”
“Were you expecting someone to be with me, Lord Crispin?”
“No, no. I just thought your sister Susannah might have accompanied you.”
“Because you were in receipt of a letter from her?” Helene inquired.
Crispin smiled. It was a most knowing expression. It also deepened a series of unfortunate folds around his already small eyes.
“Now, now, Lady Helene,” he said waggishly. “You mustn’t think there was any impropriety intended on the young lady’s part.”
“Oh, I know there was not.” Helene leveled her own eyes at him and took some cold satisfaction in watching his smile falter. But again, he rallied. He also leaned back in his chair and steepled his stubby, heavily ringed fingers.
“I suppose you may as well know it,” he said. “I’ve been speaking with your father about her.”
“Yes, I was informed of the matter.”
“Now, I know what you’re thinking.” Lord Crispin adjusted the sapphire ring, and the onyx ring, and the plain gold signet ring, and examined the effect. “A bit young for me, and yes, I suppose that’s true, but I promise you, Lady Helene, your sister will want for nothing in my house.”
Except her dignity and self-respect.
“I’m quite taken with her, you see. Such a lovely, dainty little creature. Just the first bloom of perfection.”
You have no idea at all how revolting you sound, do you? Helene hid her own hands in their worn gloves beneath the table, so he would not see how they tightened into fists. “I see your regard is most sincere.”
“Oh, entirely. And you must know your parents look with favor on the match.”
“Yes,” said Helene flatly. “That has been made quite clear.”
“Naturally, we would wait until after the new year when she turns sixteen. Now, if she’s disappointed that she won’t have a season, you can reassure her that as soon as she becomes Lady Crispin, she will not lack for invitations and society.” He winked one puffy eyelid. “That’s what it is, eh? Been showing some bride’s nerves already, has she? Charming little thing. I shall send round a small present. Or does she prefer flowers? Both?” He smiled and showed all his teeth. “She shall have them. It is my intent to thoroughly spoil her.”
“Yes, that is quite clear as well,” said Helene. “Sir, may I speak frankly?”
“Oh dear!” He made his eyes go as round as they could and made a great show of covering his swollen lips. “Have I earned myself a dose of Lady Helene’s famous plain speaking?” he chuckled. “Well, as I’m to be your brother, I suppose I’d best get used to it, although, I warn you, my girl, I’ll not stand still for any nonsense. I wouldn’t want to have to forbid your sister your company, but I won’t allow you and your . . . advanced notions to become a bad influence on my pretty innocent.”
Helene smiled. I will slit your throat before I ever allow you to touch Suza. My lord.
“Lady Helene.”
She looked up. It was Lord Windford, bowing.
“Lord Windford!” she felt herself blanch, and then blush. “I . . . how do you do?”
“Oh, hullo, Windford!” cried Lord Crispin. “How d’ye do?”
Windford bowed. His sharp blue eyes flickered back and forth between them. “I’m sorry, have I interrupted something important?”
“No, no. Only an exchange of pleasantries.” Crispin heaved his bulk out of the chair. “I was just on my way. So very nice to talk with you, Lady Helene. I know we’ll be seeing each other again soon.” He winked again as he bowed. Lord Windford didn’t miss the gesture.
Dear Lord, please don’t let him think that I was cultivating that repulsive creature.
While she was praying, Helene added a request that Lord Windford should be stopped from looking at her so intently. The touch of his eyes did unusual and uncomfortable things to her, and she’d soon begin to blush from them again. Not that she ever blushed. Except, it seemed, she did.
I must get away from him. From here, she corrected herself quickly. I must get away from here.
“I think my timing must be naturally poor where you are concerned,” said Windford. “I keep intruding on awkward moments and making them worse.”
“No, no.” Helene gathered up her reticule and parasol. “You in no way intruded. I had acquired the information I was seeking.”
He cocked his head toward her. “But you’re plainly upset. It must have been highly unpleasant information.”
Highly. Helene pressed her mouth shut before the word popped out. “You need not concern yourself, sir,” she told him instead. “It was nothing but what I expected to hear.”
“Then I’m sorry for it.”
“Thank you for your sympathy.” What are you doing? After our last conversation you were supposed to have dropped me. She’d been prepared to never see him again, except at a distance. She was not in any way prepared for him to continue to be so kind to her, or so interested.
She was not prepared for how much she wanted to speak with him about what was happening with her and her sister. She did. She wanted to share the burden. But she could not. This man was her friend’s brother, but nothing more. He owed her nothing, and she had no reason to trust him any more than any other stranger. Except for their meeting, their dance, and the yearning in her when she looked at him as she did now.
Yearning is no reason for trust. If anything, it’s a reason for distrust, of yourself and him.
“I need to go.” Helene got to her feet.
“Lady Helene,” Marcus spoke her name softly, and yet that gentle sound stopped her dead in her tracks. “Please, can I be of any service?”
Why are you doing this? Why don’t you go away, appalled at my frankness, like you are supposed to? “I expect you can, but I can’t accept it.”
“Why not?”
She glanced about them. They spoke in the lowest possible tones, but despite this, the other patrons in the reading room were glancing toward them with suspicion and disapproval. Helene ducked her head in shame and hurried out the door, with Lord Windford following stubbornly behind her.
They reached the steps, where they were safe from casual disapproval for conversation. “Truly, Lord Windford, I do not have far to go today, and the weather is most pleasant, so I am unlikely to require your umbrella.” Her smile was faint, and she saw the regret plain in his blue eyes. “Another time, perhaps?” she suggested, although she knew it was a lie. She would be a headmistress soon, never mind her title, and he would remain a duke. She must hold fast to that stern truth and not weaken. If their previous conversation in Miss Sewell’s parlor had not been enough to drive him away, she must find another tactic.
“But you still have not told me why you will not accept what poor service I can offer.”
Drat the man. Helene pinched the bridge of her nose. She seemed to be thinking that a great deal lately. Drat the . . .
Well, perhaps he, too, had earned a bout of Lady Helene’s plain speaking. “It’s dangerous for us to be too much together, Your Grace, and I think you know that.”
“Yes,” he said reluctantly. “I suppose I do.”
“There is already gossip linking your name and mine.” Gossip, conversation, speculation, suggestion. She’d even had to stop trying to deny it when she heard it, because that was only making things worse. “Do you really want to encourage such idle talk?”
“Better gossip about you and me, surely, than about you and Lord Crispin.”
“That was unnecessary.”
“I don’t think so,” he said.
“I did not ask for an opinion.”
“You are very free with yours. You cannot forbid me to be free with mine.”
She pressed her lips together and looked away. “No, I suppose you are correct.”
“And since you assert your right to walk where you choose, you can hardly deny my right to do the same. Even to Berlin.”
“You’ll get your feet wet.”
“Ah!” He held up one finger. “But as a gentleman, I’m allowed stout boots.”
She was laughing. Heaven help her, in the middle of all her troubles and worries, he could make her laugh. Drat the . . .
Helene shook herself.
“Lady Helene,” said Marcus with a deep bow. “May I escort you somewhere?”
“Yes. No. Thank you. Another time perhaps.”
“Why do I get the feeling you don’t intend there to be another time?” murmured Lord Windford.
“I can’t imagine.” How could you see? How could you know? You don’t know anything about me. Nothing important at any rate.
“But it is true. According to my sister, you’re full of plans for your season’s triumph, but standing here, you’re thinking about endings, not beginnings. Why should that be?”
Helene bit her lip and glanced away. Clearly, he had been talking to Adele, rather a lot. That was at least partly her fault. She had, after all, agreed he might be useful to them, at least in the matter of Madelene’s portrait.
As part of the plan for their grand ball, the three of them had decided they must have some unusual, but respectable, attractions to draw the curious matrons. The first of these was a grand guest in the form of the actor Henry Cross, who happened to be a cousin of Madelene’s and, as it transpired, a friend of Miss Sewell’s. The second had required a bit more careful arrangement, and financial investment. It was to be a new portrait by the fashionable artist Lord Benedict Pelham. That this was the man Madelene cherished an attraction to had of course entered into the calculation. But Lord Benedict and Lord Windford were friends, and it was Lord Windford who had been sent to find out if Lord Benedict would accept their commission.
This may have been a tactical error, because it gave Marcus an excuse to talk with Adele further about their plans, and about her. That might explain the very strange and very knowing looks she’d been getting from Adele over their planning sessions.
“You’re not abandoning your project, are you?” Marcus asked her now. “Adele will be crushed if there was to be no ball.”
“No! No. It’s not that. It’s . . .” In the distance, she heard the bells beginning to toll the hour, and Helene sighed. “If we’re to talk, per
haps you’d best escort me to Bassett’s Assembly rooms? I’m to meet Adele and Madelene there.”
“Gladly.”
Side by side, they walked down the steps and turned up the street. He did not offer to take her arm or anything of the kind, which should have been a relief. But even though they did not touch, she could not help but be fully and wholly aware of his body so near to hers. Not to mention the rather smug and superior air that was at the moment rolling off of him.
“You seem to feel you handled that rather well,” Helene muttered.
“Don’t you?”
“You got me to keep you company when I wanted to leave. I would not have thought you to be a managing sort.”
He smiled a little. Today, she’d worn a hat rather than a sheltering bonnet, which was a mistake. It meant she could see Marcus’s face as he walked beside her, and the effect of it was not growing any less with exposure. Drat and drat and drat the man.
“My station rather compels me to be managing,” he said.
“Yes. I do understand.”
“And what were you managing with Lord Crispin? He wasn’t importuning you or some such thing?”
“No, thank Heavens. Not me.” She couldn’t say it; it was too shameful.
Unfortunately, Lord Windford seemed to be rather good at reading silences. “I think I remember you have a sister.”
Helene nodded. She did not trust her voice enough to speak calmly. The fact that she still wanted nothing so desperately as to gut Crispin like a fat codfish did not at all help matters.
“Ah.”
He said nothing more; he just walked along in comfortable, sympathetic silence. It might have been memory or imagination, but Helene would have sworn she could feel the warmth and the strength of him, even across the distance between them. It was, Helene knew, a mistake to equate physical steadiness with steadiness of character, but she had so much emotion roiling within her—anger and guilt and fear and sadness—that remaining silent in the face of Marcus’s quiet sympathy was impossible. She had to trust someone, and she very much wanted to trust him.