With a snarl, he slung the necklace around Helena's neck. From his vantage point, he could see the rubies sliding into the shadowed crevice between her tits, and Jesus, he could see her nipples now. They were a deep rosy pink, they were shaped like the kind of summer berries that burst with sweetness on the tongue ... His hands were shaking as he struggled with the delicate gold clasp. A few strands of her hair escaped and lashed his hands with gentle fire, tormenting him with their softness and fresh, blossomy scent. He ached to spear his fingers into her luxuriant mane, to pull her head back so he could taste her, drink in the honey of her lips as his hands filled themselves with tit flesh ...
A rush of violent want gripped him in its fist, tugging on his cock, easing down its length and drawing his balls upward. If he leaned but an inch forward, he could grab her by the hips. He could hold her luscious backside against him as he slid his burning prick along the secret valley of her ass. He would hold her tightly against him as he rocked up and down. He'd move his hand in front and delve into her cream-soaked cunny. He'd find her beautiful, glistening little pearl and stroke her over and again ...
So vivid was his fantasy that his hand slackened. The glistening strand of platinum and rubies slowly escaped his fingers. With lust and horror, Nicholas watched as the necklace slid down the slopes of his wife's beautiful breasts, landing in her cleavage before slithering further down into the flimsy bodice.
"Oh dear," Helena said with a gurgling laugh. She dropped her hair and felt along the outside of her bodice. Nicholas swallowed thickly as his wife ran searching hands over her breasts. Did the Lord have no mercy? Apparently not, as she went from touching her breasts on the outside of her dress to fishing diligently inside her bodice. He closed his eyes, unable to bear the sight of her tiny fingers prodding her tits, mayhap encountering those cheerful pink nipples, mayhap brushing them with an accidental caress ...
"I believe I have retrieved it," his wife announced triumphantly. She held the necklace out to him. He had no choice but to take the jewelry in his hand and feel its agonizing warmth, knowing from whence that heat came. Surely, his hand would bear the brand of his wife's infernal necklace, the way it burned against his skin.
"There it is," he said, his voice cracking a little. Damn if that blasted clasp hadn't given him more trouble than the team of thieves he'd once caught ransacking one of the warehouses. As a matter of fact, at this moment he would prefer an army of armed cutthroats to the sweet torture of Helena's closeness. He gritted his teeth as she continued to debate the merits of the ruby versus the sapphire necklace. The thought of having to assist her with another piece of jewelry jolted him into action.
"The ruby definitely is the better choice," he blurted. "It brings out the. . . the. . ."—the juicy redness of your lips, his mind whispered wickedly, the delectable blush of your nipples—"the color of your eyes."
"My eyes, sir? Are you implying my eyes are red?"
"No, of course not," he answered crossly. A stroke of inspiration saved him. "They merely shine like the brightest jewels."
"Oh, Harteford, what a perfectly wonderful thing to say!"
Before he could blink, his wife threw herself at him. Literally, wrapped her arms around his neck and looked up at him with glowing eyes. He went instantly rigid as the rest of her melted sensuously against him. He could feel the warmth of her seeping through his jacket, his waistcoat, through the thin linen of his shirt. His very skin felt scorched by her closeness. Was it possible to feel the points of her nipples through all that material? Because he swore he could feel them, hardened buds rocking tantalizingly against the taut muscles of his chest.
"It has been so long since you have given me a compliment," she breathed.
Do not lose control, he warned himself. Remember you must protect her. Until you can figure out a permanent solution, keep your bloody paws off her.
His good sense had no effect, however, on his erection, which grew with every breath his wife took. Each subtle movement of respiration shifted her body against his, and every fiber of his body—most notably his rampant cock—responded by growing harder, hotter, until he was fairly certain he might explode from her inadvertently teasing touch.
"I thought ... I thought perhaps you were disappointed. In my looks," she confessed. Her eyelashes fluttered like dark butterflies against her creamy skin.
Her words finally caught his attention.
What in God's name was she talking about now?
Perplexed, he gently removed her arms from around his neck and willed the thickened ridge in his trousers to subside. "Why would I be disappointed?"
"I know I am not a Diamond of the First Water. But I have a plan, you see, to improve my looks. I have consulted Doctor Smythe on a promising slimming diet that—"
"Why on earth would you need a slimming diet?" Nicholas interrupted.
"Because ... well, is it not obvious?" Helena appeared to study the folds of his cravat. Her next words emerged as mere whispers. "I am overly plump."
"Overly plump?" Nicholas echoed incredulously. "You?"
"There is no need to emphasize the issue. I am aware of the problem," she responded a bit crossly.
Nicholas stared at his wife. Then he couldn't help himself. He threw back his head and laughed.
"What, pray tell, do you find so amusing?"
His wife's icy tones cut through his chuckling. Her cheeks were stained with crimson, and her mouth wobbled ever so slightly. Tenderness flooded his chest even as another chuckle escaped his lips.
"For God's sake, Helena, I am not laughing at you." Unable to resist, Nicholas caught a tear that rolled down her cheek. "I am laughing because you would even think that you are anything but the most beautiful creature in the world."
"Truly? Truly you think I am ... beautiful? But my figure is abundantly ..."
"Beautiful beyond words," Nicholas stated solemnly. "Perfect exactly as you are."
"Oh." His wife looked at him with shining eyes, the expression in them so wondrous that he had difficulty regaining his breath. Her head seemed to tilt slightly backward, a shy invitation that he could not accept if he wished to refrain from spreading his wife on his desk and having at her like a footman might a housemaid in the linen closet.
Christ, had he no scruples?
He realized his wife was looking at him now in her distinctly perceptive manner. "If what you say is true, that my appearance has not disappointed you ..."
He had no choice but to nod, dreading where her all too logical mind was headed.
"Then I wish to know why you think our marriage was a mistake," she whispered.
Of course she would ask.
And of course, he could not tell her.
Taking her arms from his neck, he returned them firmly to her sides. "It has nothing to do with you," he said. That much was true at least. "The truth of the matter is, the fault is mine. I was too impetuous in offering for you. We did not have sufficient time to ... understand our differences. Differences that I have come to see will make marriage difficult."
Her cheeks flushed, her lashes lowering. In a small voice, she said, "Are you referring to what ... happened, on our wedding night? Because, you see, I think with practice I could learn to be a ... a better wife."
God Almighty, he could not bear the sweet sincerity of her plea. One more minute of this, and she'd find herself being fucked within an inch of her life. By a man who was not fit to shine her boots, let alone share her bed.
"That is not it," he said, swallowing.
"Then what is it?" his wife persisted.
Jaw clenched, Nicholas retreated behind his desk. He shuffled some papers. "I—I simply cannot be the husband you deserve."
"But you are! You are everything I've ever wanted in—"
"For God's sake woman, that is enough. You do not know me, and you never will." His roar seemed to shock both of them equally. Helena stood there, white-faced, staring at him. Exhaling, he said more calmly, "Do not press me further o
n this. Suffice it to say, I assume the blame for the situation we find ourselves in. I will, therefore, find a solution. Until that time, I think it best that we keep a cordial distance."
A pause. In a quiet voice, Helena asked, "What sort of solution do you mean, Harteford?"
The nerve at his temple twitched. Despite the endless hours mulling over that question, he had no answer. The chances of being granted a divorce were slim to none. An annulment? His solicitor had told him the odds were no better. Apparently there were only three acceptable grounds for annulment: fraud, incompetence, or impotence. Though he hadn't been honest with her about his past, he couldn't claim fraud in a legal sense. Nor could he prove he'd been insane at the time of their marriage, though certainly he had been. Which left the third option.
God's blood. It was not one a hot-blooded man could contemplate. Besides, if he was put to test, he'd fail for certain: he walked around in a constant state of rut these days.
Still, if an annulment was somehow possible, then Helena could get on with her life. She could put this mistake of a marriage behind her. Claim her place in Society as she was meant to. In time, she'd find a suitable man to marry, to give her children ... Everything in him tensed in denial. He wanted to punch something. To roar savagely at anyone who'd take her from him.
He had to wait for the red haze to fade before saying, "I don't know as yet. But for the time being, I am certain we will manage as others in your class do. By having separate lives and not interfering with one another."
A pause. "Our class, my lord."
"I beg your pardon?"
His wife was watching him, her eyes narrowed. "You said your class. Last I looked, both of our families were listed in Debrett's."
"Of course that is what I meant," he muttered, furious at his slip. "At any rate, I have work to finish before supper. We have an understanding, do we not?"
For once, her hazel eyes were enigmatic. Veiled. "We are not to live in each other's pockets. We are to have a distant but civil relationship. Am I missing anything?" she asked tartly.
"That about covers it."
She went to the door, her hand pausing on the handle. When she turned to look back at him, he jerked his gaze hastily from where it had latched onto her bottom. Damn his soul.
"For the record, since we hardly see one another as it is, I don't see how this changes anything. As for what you said earlier, about knowing you." Her chin lifted. "How could I, when you make it impossible?"
The door slammed behind her.
ELEVEN
Helena did not see Nicholas the next morning in the breakfast parlor. In gloomy tones, Crikstaff informed her that the master had received a missive before sunrise and had departed in haste.
"Without even trying Cook's gooseberry crumpets," the butler added.
To ward off one of Cook's temperamental displays, Helena took two of the fine pastries. She fiddled with the buttered rounds and pushed the eggs around her plate. Her thoughts were a million miles away. All last night she'd tossed in her bed as her head whirled in confusion, her emotions running a wild gamut from hope to anger. Nicholas' words replayed, over and over.
Perfect just as you are.
No one had ever said such a thing to her before. At least, not since Thomas, and he, being an older brother, had never been so eloquent. Mostly, Thomas had sought to comfort her after her countless scrapes as a child. Whether it was getting thistle weed tangled in her hair or shattering her mother's favorite vase, she could count on Thomas to provide an antidote to her tears. You'll do, he'd say in his gruff way. Helena had treasured those rare tokens of affection.
But no one had ever called her perfect before. Not too plump, too tomboyish, or too shy—just perfect as she was. It recalled to her mind the first time she'd met Nicholas. Even then, he had seemed to see through her dowdy dress and wallflower demeanor to the person beneath. His shadowed gaze had seemed to penetrate her very essence; she had seen her secret passionate longings reflected in the dark well of his eyes. Yesterday, when he'd helped her with the necklace, she'd thought she glimpsed that look again. Desire and loneliness, melded together.
But then, when she had dared to embrace him, his demeanor had undergone a complete turnaround. She felt her cheeks burn, recalling how he'd cut off her attempt to discuss their marital relations. If he professed to find her attractive, why did he not wish to ... make love with her? Was he merely lying about her looks to make her feel better? Or was there something else, something deeper, hidden ...
You do not know me and never will.
With a frustrated sigh, she departed the table with breakfast half-finished and mounted the steps to her sitting room. How was she to understand the blasted man if he closed her off at every opportunity? Her attempts to initiate an honest conversation about their relationship had led nowhere, and she was not a mind-reader, after all. At times, his actions suggested that he might desire her ... and at others, he seemed intent upon pushing her away. On erecting a wall between them—for what reason, she could not begin to guess.
'Twas enough to drive a rational woman mad.
Feeling a spark of temper, Helena seated herself at her desk. She was not going to be the only one to work on this marriage. If Nicholas was determined to freeze her out, so be it. She was not going to try to thaw her way to his heart with nothing but a match in hand. She was tired of all the worrying, of trying to please him. She was not going to waste another minute on that futile task. She would stop thinking about him and attend to her routines.
This strategy worked well for the rest of the morning. With reading spectacles perched upon her nose, Helena busied herself reviewing the household accounts and attending to matters of a domestic nature. She planned the next week's menu and met with both the housekeeper and Crikstaff to discuss their concerns. New linens were ordered, an extra scullery maid was hired, and the second footman was given permission to visit his ailing mother in the country.
At half past eleven, Helena removed her spectacles and rubbed her eyes. She had addressed all pressing matters and, truth be told, thoughts of Nicholas had begun to fray the edges of her concentration. She felt too restless for the pianoforte, but perhaps fresh air would do her some good. She was debating between going for a ride in Hyde Park or calling upon one of the young matrons she had met at the Misses Berry's weekly salon when she was interrupted by a soft rapping. At her bidding, the maid entered and presented her with a lavender calling card.
"Lady Draven to see you, my lady," she said.
Perfect. A distraction.
Helena went downstairs and affixed a bright smile on her face. The smile slipped a notch, however, when Marianne walked in. She had never seen the other in such a state. Normally, her friend's toilette was immaculate—not a hair out of place, every stitch and seam in perfect accordance with high fashion.
Today, however, Marianne wore a non-descript blue walking dress, the kind that eschewed any particular style and that a countrified lady might wear. Helena herself had a closetful of such plain gowns. Rather than its usual elaborate curled coiffure, Marianne's hair hung in a simple braid. Silver blonde wisps haloed her face.
"Marianne, how are you?" Helena asked cautiously.
"I am well, thank you." Marianne seated herself and removed her gloves. Her foot tapped against the carpet. She ran her gaze listlessly around the room. "I am simply dying of boredom and thought you might care to join me for a ride."
"Where?" Helena asked, after a moment's hesitation.
The old Marianne flashed her wry smile. "Do not concern yourself, dear. I had nothing more exciting in mind than Hyde Park. We will have to find a quiet corner, mind you, to avoid the parade of Cits on a Saturday."
"Well, yes, then," Helena said. "That sounds agreeable."
Soon thereafter, Marianne's barouche deposited them on a relatively quiet stretch of the park along the edge of the Serpentine. On the verdant lawn, a trio of ladies picnicked under the shade of parasols while, under the watchful
eye of the nannies, their progeny tossed crumbs to the ducks. Marianne and Helena started along the pebbled path that wound alongside the river.
"Lovely day, is it not?" Marianne said from beneath the brim of her rather large hat. A breeze ruffled the translucent veil that shielded her face.
Helena frowned. The Marianne she knew never bothered with niceties. And she could not help but notice that her friend seemed a trifle energetic, looking about as if she expected to see someone. "What is the matter, Marianne? You do not seem yourself."
"Do I not?" Marianne's laugh sounded forced. "'Tis merely malaise. Who would guess that depravity could become tiresome? You must cheer me up, my dear, with news of your imbroglio. How goes it with Harteford?"
Helena hesitated, but in the end her frustration with her husband won out. A certain relief came from describing Nicholas' incomprehensible behavior to Marianne. Perhaps her wise friend could unravel the mysteries of the male mind.
When she finished, Marianne said, "It sounds to me that Harteford thinks he is undeserving of you. Makes sense, I suppose."
Though she was annoyed at Nicholas, Helena found herself jumping to his defense. "Why do you say that? Harteford is a catch in every way. He is handsome, successful, titled—"
"Come, Helena, you cannot be as naive as all that. Everyone knows your lord is the product of a brief fling between the former marquess and an opera singer. The fact that the marquess was married for a short time to said singer, long enough to make Harteford legitimate, does not change how the ton views your husband. And the fact that he has a profession ..." Marianne shrugged, as if no further explanation was required. "It would hardly be a surprise if he harbors insecurities about his position in Society."
Nicholas, insecure? 'Twas a bewildering notion, given that she'd always seen him as so utterly self-possessed. So masculine and powerful.
"Harteford has mentioned nothing of this," Helena said in disbelief. "Of course I know about his parentage, but what does it matter? Why, I should think people would admire him as I do for all he has accomplished on his own merit. And I cannot recall any snubs or untoward behavior directed at him."
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