by Darcie Wilde
No. It was not permissible. Helene Fitzgerald would not marry Windford, or anyone else of rank or worth. She would never prosper by having humiliated him. Not ever.
***
It did not take more than two or three inquiries at his club for Broadheathe to find the address he needed. It was a square that might have been described as having aspirations. The houses were not new, but they’d been freshly made up, rather like aging dames putting on their wigs and their rouge and telling one another they were still as beautiful as ever. Broadheathe trotted up the steps and noted the brass was bright but the area railing was rusted. The overly pretty maid who answered the door did so with a smirk. But she took his card inside to her mistress without more than one impudent glance. He was inclined to ignore that. Today he had much more serious business than chastising other people’s servants. Especially people like the woman he’d come to see.
The maid came back quickly and invited him to step through into the drawing room where the mistress of the house rose from her sofa to receive him.
“Mrs. Darington,” he said. “Thank you for agreeing to see me.”
Like the house, the drawing room was lushly secondhand. The carpets were silk, and the walls were dressed in yet more silk. The windows and the sofas wore velvet, but the colors clashed, and none of the expensive fabrics had been kept up well.
It was a luxurious nest for an aspiring jewel, but she’d better hurry up about it. Broadheathe made sure his smile was nothing but polite as he bowed. She was getting old. Her dark hair was too obviously dyed, and her cheeks too blatantly rouged.
Mrs. Darington curtsied to him, a little too deeply. “I am most honored, my lord. But I cannot imagine what brings the Marquis of Broadheathe to my poor little home.”
“Somehow, Mrs. Darington, I believe you capable of imagining all sorts of things.”
“One could say the same for you, sir. Will you sit? May I offer you a glass of claret?” Even as she spoke, she moved to her sideboard, where the glasses and the bottle stood ready.
“Thank you,” said Broadheathe as he settled into the comfortable chair. “I am told you keep an excellent cellar.”
“One does one best, although it is difficult without a man in the house to judge such things.” She sighed theatrically.
“What, no man? That’s not what I’ve heard.”
“I do not understand your meaning.”
“I was given to understand you had a man, not necessarily in your house it is true . . .”
“If you are going to be insulting, sir, you may get yourself gone.” Mrs. Darington drew herself up. Aging she might be, but she had enough presence to make herself imposing. Another man who knew less might have been impressed.
Broadheathe waved both the words and the gesture away. “Spare me your protestations, madame. I am here as a friend.”
“My friends do not speak to me in such a fashion.”
“As you please, but I have news that you need to hear.”
She turned her face away, giving him a view of her still fresh profile. “I’m sure you have nothing to say that I could need to hear.”
“Not even if it is regarding the Duke of Windford?”
“What?”
“There, now I have engaged your interest. Perhaps I may beg that claret now?”
She should not narrow her eyes in that fashion. It would eventually give her lines. Broadheathe crossed his legs and waited while she poured out the claret to hand to him. He took his time, swirling it, inhaling its bouquet and sipping. The reports he’d heard had not exaggerated. It was quite good. He might suggest to Regina they hire away her butler.
“Now, sir,” Mrs. Darington said. “You have had your wine, and you have succeeded in pricking my temper and piquing my interest. If you have news, tell me and go.”
“Very well, straight to the point then. I appreciate a woman who knows when to be direct.” He smiled and let his eyes travel lazily to her bosom, which was much exposed. He wondered who she’d meant to display it for. “It is rumored that Windford has recently cast you adrift.”
If looks could kill, he would have been incinerated. As it was, he felt a trifle warm. Another sip of wine cured that.
“My relationship with the Duke of Windford is none of your business.”
“But it is your business, and your livelihood, or at least the best part of it.” She opened her mouth to take umbrage, but he forestalled her with a sharp gesture. “Spare me your further protests, madame. I do not care for them, or for you. But what you may not know is that the reason his lordship is . . . simplifying his household is that he is soon to be married.”
“No.” She spoke the word flatly and finally. “His lordship will never marry.”
“You are wrong, madame. I expect the announcement to come before the end of the season.”
Mrs. Darington said nothing. She did, however, busy herself with pouring a second glass of wine. She drank this down with unseemly haste.
“If you are so well informed, sir,” she said as she lowered the empty glass, “you will be able to tell me the woman’s name.”
“Lady Helene Fitzgerald.”
Mrs. Darington was silent for a long moment. “That would explain your interest in the matter.”
Broadheathe shrugged. “I pay my debts, madame, and I will exact my payment from those who owe me.”
“And what is it you wish? For me to go around to Windford’s house and play the bailiff for you? I think not, Lord Broadheathe.”
He finished his own wine. “It will be you, or it will be somebody else.” He set the glass down on the chipped table at his elbow. “I only point it out as a matter of interest, since I believe you also require a payment from his lordship. You are unlikely to get it in cash, so I thought you might be interested in taking it in kind.” He raised his hand. “Do not bother to tell me you don’t know what I mean, and don’t bother ringing for your maid. I can see myself out. Good day to you, Mrs. Darington. Thank you for hearing me so patiently.”
Broadheathe took himself out of the room, and, pausing only to collect his hat and stick in the hall, he trotted down the house steps, whistling quietly. He glanced over his shoulder in time to see Mrs. Darington lift the curtain to regard him through the window. He raised his hat and proceeded down the street, swinging his cane, entirely satisfied.
XIV
The rest of month flew past. Indeed, it seemed to Helene she barely had time to draw breath. Which was good, because if she had, she would also have had time to be afraid. Because everything was too perfect. Something, somehow, somewhere must surely go wrong.
It was true there had been that nerve-racking encounter between Madelene and Lord Benedict at the theater, which came with the regrettable and very public exchange between Madelene and her stepbrother Lewis Valmeyer. That had all led to a night of concern that the invitations to their ball might be returned with regrets. But instead, they had spent the very next morning amidst a flood of acceptances.
There was endless second-guessing about the wisdom of taking the Tapswell gardens for the ball. Was she really planning an outdoor event on the cusp of the English summer? She must have been mad. Yes, Marcus liked the gardens, but it was sure to rain. This was England. Rain at a party was an immutable fact.
Helene’s life had become a whirlwind of details; food and staffing, musicians, lights, decorations all had to be approved. Calls had to be paid; last-minute requests for invitations had to be approved or gently turned down.
Then there came a week when it did nothing but rain, and Helene feared she might actually descend into a state of nervous collapse.
The question of her finding a place on various charitable committees showed signs of blossoming from a mere hope to a major occupation. Her slim notebook of accounts might be gathering dust in its hiding place in the Anandale House library, but that didn�
��t mean Helene ceased to be interested in education for girls, or the welfare of the poor and friendless, and now she was in a position to do something about it. Lady Rutherford’s invitation had proven to be just one of many. Helene could have filled her days with meetings for good causes. Even she had had no idea how many different committees and societies there were. Someone should organize them. There had to be some way to coordinate all that work. Helene started a new book with notes on the subject.
Then there was Marcus. There were not enough hours in the day for Marcus, and there never would be.
They could not meet above two or three hours at a time, in the tidy house he had hired, but those stolen moments were the brightest of Helene’s busy days. Their exploration of their shared passion was an adventure like nothing she’d ever expected. He brought the books she’d sent him, and they read, and they tried new things, wicked, secret things, some of which were utter disasters that left them laughing. Several proved physically impossible, but the attempts did lead to . . . interesting results.
But no book could substitute for the patient, sweet, mutual discovery of each other’s bodies, and their hearts.
Not that these private hours were entirely sexual. Sometimes, they simply held each other and talked, or drank tea, or read to each other from books on maths or poetry. She showed him all her notebooks, and he read to her his notes for his next paper and talked of the business of the estate.
“I never imagined I would be happy,” she whispered to him one afternoon as they lazed in bed and told each other they must get up soon. “Content, perhaps, but not happy like this.”
“Well, now neither of us will have to imagine it,” He kissed her shoulder, his tongue flicking out to lap at her skin. “We can both live it instead.”
Helene brushed his hair back from his forehead. How was it the curve of his brow could become so fascinating? Or the rough bristle of his eyebrows, or throat, or the crisp curls of hair on his chest? Really. The list was endless . . .
“Helene? You’re frowning. Is something wrong?”
“I’m afraid.”
“Of what?”
“Of wanting you too much, of wanting this.” She gestured around the room. “I’m afraid I still might lose it, and you.”
Marcus captured her hand in his and turned it over to kiss her palm. “You won’t. You are not alone anymore, Helene, and you never will be again. We can make the announcement as soon as you want. We can turn this grand party of yours into an engagement ball.”
She kissed his hand. “I’ve told you, we cannot. If the gala becomes about the Duke of Windford’s engagement, then that’s the reason people will come. Not because it’s a grand party being given by the three of us. It will be the marriage that changes things, not our actions. Do you understand?”
“No. And I haven’t the last three times you explained it.” He pushed himself up against the headboard, and saw she was staring at the expanse of his beautifully muscled chest. Peevishly, he pulled up the white sheet.
Helene blinked and sighed over this piece of male obstinacy.
“I want the world to know, Helene,” he said softly. “I don’t want you to be my secret.”
She pushed herself up so she could kiss him. “I know that, and I love you for it. But I need to reestablish my position in society before my engagement to you can be received as legitimate, and not some kind of trap on my part . . . or . . . or . . . a bargain . . .” Despite her best efforts, Helene’s voice trembled.
Marcus kissed her, and she melted against him. His arms encircled her, and the warmth of his body enveloped her. Slowly, patiently, he held her and attended to her, until her calm returned.
“I wish you’d tell me what happened, Helene,” he murmured, as he ran his fingers through her tumbled curls. “It still hurts you so very badly.”
She nodded. She should tell him. This was her husband, her lover, and her true love. He should know. There should not be such a secret between them.
But she wasn’t ready to speak of all of it. Not yet. Still, she could tell him some, enough so he could understand about the ball. The rest . . . the rest could come later. There would be time.
“You know, of course, that I broke my engagement to the Marquis of Broadheathe.” Helene settled herself against Marcus.
“Did you really fling his engagement gift in his face?” he asked as he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and tucked the sheets around her.
“Yes. I did. In fact I cut his lip with it.”
“I shall choose something smaller then.”
Helene laughed, and it felt surprisingly good. Only this man could make her laugh at such a moment. But the laughter faded, and she had to turn to the other memories.
“Afterward . . . afterward I was ill, for rather a long time,” she said. “The doctors called it nervous strain and recommended complete rest and quiet. That seemed to work; at least it did after Mother could be convinced to stop sobbing at my bedside and actually let me rest.” She grimaced. “After a time, I appeared to be well. That is, I could stand and eat and walk and do all the other things, but when I went into society . . . I couldn’t control my tongue.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I said whatever popped into my head. I couldn’t stop myself. As soon as someone spoke to me about anything beyond the weather, angry, outrageous, spiteful things would come tumbling out. It was like I had no control over my own body anymore. I hadn’t forgotten my manners. I knew exactly what I should and should not say. I just . . . I couldn’t follow the rules anymore.”
“That must have been frightening.”
“Do you know, you are the first person who has ever said that. Most people . . . most people just put it down to heartbreak and being a bluestocking.”
“I hope you do not think I am most people.”
She wanted to answer, but she found she could not. “For a while, it felt like freedom. We are so constrained. We are supposed to talk about the state of the roads and everybody’s health. Or be quiet and let the men talk, or . . .” Marcus nodded and tightened his arm about her shoulders. “To for once be saying exactly what I thought was liberating. For a while. Then it became embarrassing, because I could not stop myself. Then, it became lonely, because no one would talk to me.” Helene dropped her gaze to her hands, which were smoothing out the sheet across her thighs.
“So, for a while, I stopped going out. I confined myself to correspondence, and that worked, for a time. If I went out, it was to places where I wouldn’t be expected to talk, like the library, or lectures. But it wasn’t ever going to be enough. I wanted to be of use. I wanted . . .”
“You wanted friendship.”
“Yes,” she whispered. He understood. Of course he understood. She did not have to tell him about those long, horrid, boring days. She’d tried to keep busy, looking after her siblings, doing what she could to keep the household running. She didn’t have to talk about how she had thrown herself into constructing a complex web of contrivances to come up with enough money to keep at least some of the bills paid and maybe have a little left over for the library fees and some secondhand books to stave off the deadening boredom. Or about how, inevitably, she’d be summoned to the claret parlor, where her parents’ harangues beat incessantly against her.
“Eventually, it did get better.” She tried to smile but made such a bad job of it that Marcus was compelled to kiss her mouth and her brow. “As you see, I can at least be polite these days. But the damage had been done. It wasn’t that I cared a fig for the opinion of the matrons as to my acceptability as marriage material for their sons. I didn’t. But I wanted friends, and I had so much work I wanted to do, and those women control the committees, you see.” Marcus nodded his understanding. “If I couldn’t make friends, or even make myself tolerable, I wouldn’t be able to do anything.” She did not need to mention the loneliness, th
e simple aching desire for someone, anyone, to talk to. “And my sister was getting older and must make her come out sooner or later, and I didn’t want to shame her and . . .”
“And you didn’t want Broadheathe to think he’d broken you?”
“Yes.” She ran her hand along his thigh, smoothing the sheet, taking comfort from the shape and presence of his solid, magnificent body. “So, when I had this idea, about the season and the party, I thought, this is it. This is something that I can do to return to my place.” She bit her lip. “I can salvage something for my family.” He didn’t need to know about the school and her desperate plan to become a headmistress. That was on the list of things that could come out later, when her pride was a little less sore and she had fewer immediate worries. “But that is why it has to be my doing, for my ends. Adele had it right when she turned herself into a beauty . . . and don’t make that face, your sister is a beauty.”
“I don’t care to think about my sister when I am naked in bed.”
“That is entirely comprehensible. However, it does not change the facts. She is a beauty, and she said that she must complete the transformation so the world would believe that the love and marriage that followed could be legitimate. It must be seen that she, on her own merits, could attract and hold a man like James Beauclaire.”
“It shouldn’t matter what society thinks,” growled Marcus.
“No. But it does, and you know it. That is why I have to ask you to be patient, just a little bit longer. We have to let the world see things happen in the order they approve of.”
“They’re already talking, you know.”
“Yes. I’ve had several women try to confirm certain rumors. And those rumors are moving favorably in our direction.”
“Which you’ve observed by your close study of the natural order of the ballroom?”