by Darcie Wilde
“Madame d’Arnau was Broadheathe’s mistress. She had been with him for years. They couldn’t marry. I think . . . I think she had a husband back in France at the time. I was never entirely clear on that point. But, she . . .” Helene closed her eyes and she swallowed. “She gave me to understand, quite clearly, that I was not the marquis’s choice. I was hers.” She opened her eyes and met his. “The marquis asked her—he asked her—to select a wife for him. He didn’t want to be bothered, it seems. She picked me because she knew it was impossible that any man would actually fall in love with me.
“She told me she was speaking to me now because she wanted to be sure I knew exactly what I was and the circumstances under which my presence in their lives would be tolerated.”
“Broadheathe can’t have known.”
“He was there,” she told him. “He was waiting in the garden for us. He stood there and let Madame d’Arnau talk, let her list her ‘rules’ for my conduct. I pleaded with him to spare me. I would have gone on my knees if he’d just . . . just said something to stop her. But he shrugged. ‘You’ve made your bargain,’ he said. ‘You’re getting a prize stallion for the family’s stable and a title to wear and a name for your children. With all that, what can you honestly say you have to complain about?’
“He said some other things as well, which I will not trouble you with.” I paid for you. A pretty sum it is, too, and I expect the women I pay for to know their place. “But he ended with telling me to go collect myself. He would meet me back inside. He kissed his mistress, and they walked off and left me.
“You know the rest. The whole world knows the rest. I threw his engagement present back in his face and screamed and ran away.
“After that . . . I believed I would never fall in love. My heart had been too thoroughly broken and shamed. That was, of course, until I met you.” Her voice dropped to the barest whisper. The strength that anger had loaned her was ebbing, and her mind threatened to slip its moorings again. “And I knew, I knew I could love you more deeply, more truly . . . And then there was her and her children, and most especially her son, who looks remarkably like you.” Finally, she was able to lift her gaze and meet his. “And who, Miss Sewell informs me, is very likely the boy you said you ‘felt some responsibility for’ when you asked me to help secure him a post with a publishing house.
“Now, sir,” she whispered. “What is it you have to say to me?”
***
Marcus drew back to the furthest edge of the room. It was not what he wanted to do. He wanted to move closer to Helene. He wanted to sweep her into his arms, to hold her and kiss her. He wanted to know, somehow, that despite all that had happened, she was still his and could still love him.
That she did still love him.
But he didn’t do or know any of that. Not yet. Neither could he swear he was going to kill Broadheathe, no matter how much he wanted to do that as well, because the man was a monster. Marcus would strangle him with his own hands and rejoice in the act.
He couldn’t tell her it wasn’t fair that all that pain he’d caused was now breaking apart the precious love they shared between them.
All he could do was tell her his portion of the story and pray that it would somehow be enough.
“I do not know whether you will believe me,” he said as steadily as he could. “I have acted shamefully toward you and . . . toward us.”
“That I’m afraid I do believe.”
“I may deserve that. I ask only that you listen to me as I have listened to you.”
She waved her hand. It dropped at once back into her lap, as if she lacked the strength to hold it up.
Then let me hold you until your strength returns. The thought and the need was strong enough to make him shudder. Marcus didn’t let himself move. If his words did not reach her, then nothing else of him would suffice.
“My father was a wastrel,” he said, without preamble or apology. There was no way to soften this blow. “He was a gambler and an adventurer. He let his rank cover his sins and lived as he chose. My mother stood by him, no matter what he did. As was expected for a wife of our society, she covered up his mistakes for him. She made all things right in the house and kept up appearances until it killed her.
“And it did kill her, Helene. I watched it. I cannot . . . I would never blame a woman for choosing something other than that.”
Her mouth twitched. Her chin trembled, but she said nothing. Marcus had no choice but to continue.
“When my father died, I had the task of going through his papers, and I found a cache of letters. I’d suspected for some time my father had a mistress. What I did not realize was that he had more than one. Or that he had also sired a string of bastards.”
She turned her head. He braced himself to see hatred in her amber eyes. But those eyes were dull with exhaustion, and that, somehow, was worse.
“The letters I found were from the mothers, begging for support for the children mostly. Bernadette Darington was one of five—three in France, two in England. Her children are only three of my half siblings, and the last ones I am actively supporting. The others . . . the girls are mostly married, except for Clarice, who entered a convent a few years ago. The boys have all gone into trades, or the army.” He paused again. “I did not want this to fall on my sisters. I did not want . . . I did not want my mother’s name to be raked up again. I thought this was my burden and my shame alone. I was the duke. All the wealth and the privileges of title that had accumulated over the years belonged to me. But so, too, did the long past, with all its sins and follies.” His mouth was dry. His throat hurt. He made himself continue. “That was why I was never with any woman until you, Helene. I vowed that any children I fathered would be legitimate, and born of love. True love. And if I never found such a thing, then there would be no children.”
He stopped. He was out of breath. His hands were shaking, and so was his heart. But he was not the only one who trembled. Helene did, too. Then, slowly, softly, she spoke.
“So why does this come back on . . . you . . . now?” she asked.
“Because of them all, Bernadette was the most ambitious. She wanted me to marry her.”
Helene’s brow furrowed, and Marcus felt his heart thump once, painfully. He knew that expression. She was thinking. She was trying to understand.
She was listening.
“I’d been abroad in my youth,” he reminded her. “It was just possible her children could have been mine, at least the girls could have. She wanted them legitimized, and the boy to be named heir to the Windford title. She thought they deserved it. She deserved it.”
“And when she heard you meant to marry and might produce a legitimate heir of your own . . .”
“She had to do what she could to prevent it.”
Helene blinked. Slowly, she pressed her hand down against the windowsill, and with a great effort she got up from her chair. Marcus wondered how long it had been since she had so much as moved. She was white as paper. White as snow. Her cheeks were so drawn, he could see the shape of her bones underneath. She crossed the space between them. One step, two, three. His breath rasped hard and ragged in his throat, but then, so did hers.
There were barely six inches between them now. Helene looked up at him, and he saw all the heartbreak, all the weariness in her eyes, but something else, too. Hope. Frightened, weak, but there. Hope.
Her hand trembled as she raised it. She must believe him. She must.
She touched his face, drawing her fingers down his cheek, as if she thought to discern his honesty from the warmth of his skin. He closed his eyes, straining with all his might to remain still underneath the touch that meant more to him than his own heartbeat.
Then her hand fell, and slowly, Helene turned away.
Marcus’s world broke apart. It shattered. He shattered. He’d failed. He’d failed. He’d come here with not
hing but love and the truth, but it was too late. He’d lost her.
He turned away. He couldn’t see. He could not breathe or think. He was blind. He was dumb. He was dead.
But, he could hear, it seemed, and what he heard was a bare breath of a whisper.
“Marcus?”
He whirled around, teetering, clumsy, numb with shock and fear.
Helene had turned her head toward him, her eyes bright with tears. His heart strained against his ribs, swollen to the point of pain with hope.
“You have to tell Adele and Patience.”
Marcus felt his jaw drop. This? All these confessions, all this . . . this hellish, damnable, useless talk, and this was what she had to say!
“Damnit, Helene!” he cried. “You wanted honesty. I’ve given it to you. I’ve trusted you, and this is what I get! Another demand! Another blasted hoop to jump through to prove I am worthy of the love of the peerless Helene Fitzgerald!”
Of course she did not move. When had anger ever moved her?
“Mrs. Darington came to me, Marcus,” she said, and they were the steadiest and strongest words she’d spoken since he walked into the room. “If this doesn’t get her what she wants, what’s to prevent her from going to Adele? Or Patience? Or your aunt?”
“Because she knows I will ruin her!”
“The damage will have been done. Isn’t it better that your family hear the truth from you?”
Marcus stared. Marcus closed his mouth, which was hanging open again. He took both his hands and knotted them in his hair like he thought the top of his head was going to come off.
“Do you always pick the worst possible times to be right?” he demanded.
“It is my singular talent.”
Her eye glinted. Her mouth curled, just the corner.
Helene raised her hand again. This time, though, she stretched it out, toward him.
Marcus did not feel himself move. He only knew that all at once Helene was in his arms and he was kissing her. Helene, his Helene, was warm and real and calling his name, and crying, sobbing, beating on his chest and kissing him, and he was kissing her back—her brow, her cheeks, her mouth. He was breathless, lost, uncaring. Nothing mattered, nothing could matter, nothing was real or true, except for her.
Except for them, together. Always.
XVIII
It did not rain.
The day remained fresh and clear, with just enough low heat curling through the London streets that everyone was delighted at the prospect of a charming day in the “countryside” beyond Windsor. A steady stream of fashionable carriages poured down the road to arrive at the gates of the Tapswell Gardens. The immaculate Mr. Tapswell himself stood at the head of the liveried staff to greet them at the doors. Groomsmen took charge of the horses and the carriages. The ladies and gentlemen were shown to the various rooms for retiring and changing, card playing and refreshment, and then conducted out to the sweeping lawns where others already strolled about, or sat chatting in comfortable chairs, or watched swans and sunset drift across the glittering pond. Some were even adventurous enough to risk clothing and dignity and go rowing in one of the boats drawn up at the edges of the grand pond.
Despite all the carefully organized points of beauty and interest outside, one of the gathering’s main attractions remained indoors. No matter how fine the weather, a painting could not be displayed under the stars, especially not a masterwork, which Selene in Her Chariot clearly was. The silver moonlight seemed to shine from the canvas. The delicate and sensitive rendering of Selene as she leaned over the side of her crescent chariot and gazed with wonder at the sleeping shepherd Endymion caused the most impressionable girls to reach for their handkerchiefs.
Which, as Helene would have under normal circumstances been the first to point out, created the right sort of sensation. As it was, she was far too busy with the receiving line, directing the staff, and Mr. Tapswell, not to mention agreeing to invitations to dinners and committees.
As the lights faded, the illuminations brightened, and everyone exclaimed at the delicacy and beauty of the colored lanterns. More carriages arrived, and more glittering members of the haut ton poured out across the lawns. The livered attendants moved discretely through the crowd, politely mentioning that the dancing would soon begin in the garden. Those ladies who had come for the entire day went to change from their walking costumes into their ball gowns. They emerged from the rooms looking like silken butterflies in the twilight.
And every single one of them agreed that Lady Adele had outdone herself in the matter of the ball gowns for herself and her fellow protégés. Adele’s dress was a bold green with a line of silver buckles down the front in the shapes of lilies, presumably a tribute to the fleur-de-lis of France, the native country of James Beauclaire, who had lately returned from Paris and had not left Lady Adele’s side the entire evening.
Madelene Valmeyer was absolutely radiant in a white sheath overlaid with floating golden gauze, her red gold hair dressed with seed pearls and garnets.
Then, there was Lady Helene. Lady Helene was positively unrecognizable. Since she was known for dressing with an almost austere dignity, even in the matter of ball gowns, no one had expected anything dramatic from her on this evening. Certainly no one had anticipated the flowing gown of aquamarine silk with a train trimmed in white and silver beads that looked like a waterfall pouring from her shoulders. Nor the band of silver and topazes in her hair that almost looked like a tiara, or the matching necklace of blue topazes that circled her white throat.
Everyone had plenty of time to admire these creations and their owners during the dancing. All three of the hostesses seemed determine to wear out their slippers. Even Lady Helene, who was generally thought to more be interested in conversation, was dancing almost constantly. She danced with Lord Benedict Pelham and James Beauclaire, and the famous actor Henry Cross (which had those same handkerchief-wielding girls clutching those squares of muslin to their bosoms in pea green envy). But none of these men had the honor of a single one of the waltzes from the long list Lady Helene handed to the musicians.
Those waltzes Lady Helene danced only with Lord Windford. The crowd whirled around them, or they stood and stared, and they whispered. About the bluestocking. About the ice princess. About the transformation. They spoke with shock. They spoke with laughter. They spoke with envy and some little grudging admiration.
And Helene listened as she sailed past them, and so did Marcus. He arched his brows. She felt her mouth curl into a smile.
At midnight exactly, supper was announced, and the guests were conducted into the hall where small tables had been arranged so that everyone might seat themselves as suited them best. Several long tables laden with delicacies were arrayed about the room so no one had to wait too long to help themselves. There were cold meats and roasted fowls and jellies and trifles and cakes and white rolls soft as clouds and more kinds of cheeses than any one person could sample, although several of the gentlemen at least seemed determined to try.
“I think Lord Galloway is finally slowing down,” murmured Helene to Marcus. They sat at the head table with Adele and Madelene, James and Benedict. Despite the fact that it had been a leisurely meal, they hadn’t been able to sample much of the food, because they’d been so busy chatting with all the guests who’d stopped to offer them compliments. “I think it’s about time we made our announcements.”
“I still think you should do it, Helene,” said Madelene. “This was all your doing.”
“I agree,” said Marcus.
Helene lifted her chin. “It took all of us.” She covered his hand with hers. “This once, for this audience, we shall be dreadfully traditional.”
“And afterward?” asked Marcus, a teasing smile playing about his mouth.
“Afterward, they may whistle for their traditions,” she said. “And stand back as we fly past them.”
/> “What do you say to that, ma chère?” James laughed and turned toward Adele. “Shall we fly with them?”
“By all means,” said Adele. “I’m sure flying will suit me perfectly. What about you, Madelene?”
“What? I’m sorry.” Madelene had been staring at Benedict and now blinked in confusion as they all laughed and then explained.
“Oh. Yes. Well,” she murmured. “I think if we’re to announce, I’d better go find Cousin Henry. He’ll want to be here.”
“Oh yes,” agreed Adele. “And Miss Sewell! She’s helped us so much, it would not be fair for her to miss this.”
Of course James and Benedict insisted on going along. The four of them left, moving as quickly as they were allowed by the other guests through the supper hall.
“Do you think we’ll see the four of them again tonight?” murmured Marcus. “They may decide they’ve better things to do.”
“You’ve become wicked and intolerable all of a sudden,” remarked Helene. “Why is that?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” he answered. “The company I’m keeping? My new work? My new bride-to-be?”
“It is difficult to say. I shall have to make a thorough observation as to the nature of your wickedness to be certain of the cause,” said Helene.
Marcus raised her hand and pressed it to his lips. “Well then, I shall have to make sure that wickedness is on full and very private display for you.”
Helene, however, was prevented from making any appropriate answer to this remark by the approach of the Count and Countess Lieven, who were profuse in their compliments and very surprised when both Marcus and Helene were able to render their thanks in passable Russian, the Lievens’ native tongue.
After that, they had to turn and greet Lord Galloway, and Lady Fiero, and a host of others. At last, the tide thinned enough for Mr. Tapswell to make his way to the table and bow. “With my deepest respect, Lady Helene, might I venture to suggest that your announcement might commence shortly? If I may say, some of your guests appear eager that the dancing should recommence.”