Her Husband's Harlot

by Grace Callaway

  "Love really is blind, then." Marianne gave her a faint smile. "Given your lord's status and influence, it's true that the slights are subtle. But they are there. I have also noticed that your husband tends to avoid the affairs of the ton."

  "Harteford is busy. He does not care overly much for social gatherings."

  Even as she spoke, Helena was feverishly reviewing the evidence. If only she had paid more attention to how others reacted to Nicholas—but she hadn't, because she'd been too intent on pleasing him. On not letting him down in Society's eyes. Had her own insecurities, those of a perennial wallflower, blinded her to Nicholas' ostracism?

  Thinking back, on the rare occasion that Nicholas had accompanied her to a society event, he had seemed tense. And perhaps there had been a few subtle smirks and whispering behind fluttering fans. She had thought herself the outcast, but could it be that Nicholas—strong, magnificent Nicholas—was an object of ridicule?

  "Harteford may be admitted into the finest drawing rooms because of his title and his connection to your family, but that is not the same as true acceptance," Marianne said.

  With prickling remorse, Helena wondered if he had run into those prejudices at the musicale. The musicale that she had insisted he attend when he obviously had not wished to go. Was that why he had been so angry? And, to top it off, the scene that Papa had caused ... and she had defended her father's actions as being those of a gentleman. Her lashes fluttered. Could it truly be that Nicholas thought he was not good enough for her?

  "Oh, Nicholas, could you be such a fool?" she whispered.

  "He is, after all, a man," Marianne said.

  "I must speak to him at once." Helena stopped abruptly in the middle of the path. "I must tell him that it is not true, that I care not about his origins or his past—"

  "Since you are considering the business of honesty, might I suggest you confess your secrets as well?"

  Helena swallowed. The fear that she kept suppressed, that had been omnipresent since that night at the Nunnery, bubbled to the surface. What if Nicholas found her lack of virtue disappointing—or worse yet, an insurmountable barrier to his affection? Could he love her if she was not the lady he believed her to be? And could he forgive her for deceiving him?

  "I will tell him eventually," she said in a small voice. "When things are more settled between the two of us."

  "The longer you put it off, the harder it will be." When Helena gave her a pleading look, Marianne sighed. "For what it's worth, take my advice. Whenever and however you choose to reveal the truth, seduce him first. It will improve his disposition."

  TWELVE

  "Welcome home, my lord."

  Well aware of the disapproval lacing Crikstaff's words, Nicholas tossed the butler his hat and greatcoat and strode into the house. With the furor at the warehouse, he hadn't been home in three days. He badly needed a bath and a meal. Perhaps then he might be able to catch a few hours of sleep before heading back to attend to the crisis. He glanced at the clock in the hallway. Nearly half past two. He sighed. Ambrose Kent of the Thames River Police was due to call at three. The man kept time more precisely than a damned Charley. So much for sleep.

  He'd decided to settle for a quick bath, when he heard the music. Soft and mournful, the melody wrapped itself around his senses and pulled him toward the drawing room. The door rested partially ajar, and he could not help himself from peering inside. Helena sat at the pianoforte, her fingers gliding over the keys. He could see her profile, the sensuous tilt of her chin as her head moved with the music. The flawless ivory of her skin was like a cameo juxtaposed against the blue wall behind her. Her eyes were closed. A dreamy smile shaped her lips as she lost herself in the beauty she was creating.

  He backed away.

  A floor board creaked.

  The music halted. The next instant, his wife was in the doorway. Based on their last meeting, he didn't know what to expect from her—anger or coldness, both of which he fully deserved. Yet her full lips formed a hesitant smile. Her luminous brown eyes, shot with green and gold, were searching his, and he felt as if he was drowning in the warmth of a summer pond.

  "My lord, you are home," she said.

  It took him a moment to recover his wits. "Please, do not let me disturb your practice," he said. "I was on my way upstairs—"

  "I was nearly finished and about to take tea. Won't you join me?"

  He was about to refuse, when his stomach growled.

  A dimple peeped out from his wife's cheek. "I'll take that as a yes."

  When still he hesitated, she gave him an exasperated look. "For heaven's sake, Harteford, I know we are to live separate lives, but surely we can have tea from time to time. I don't bite, you know. We can converse on nothing beyond the weather, if it suits you."

  Feeling like an idiot, he nodded. He followed his wife to the sitting area and watched with hooded eyes as she served him. She poured his tea the way he preferred it, with plenty of cream and no sugar; despite himself, it charmed him that she remembered. With silver tongs, she filled a plate with sandwiches and bits of pastry and fruit. Her movements were as graceful as the music she played and wove a similar enchantment around his senses.

  "Thank you," he said, taking the plate she offered.

  He bit into a sandwich. The bread was soft with butter and layered with thin slices of savory ham. Suddenly ravenous, he took another bite. It seemed he had consumed an ocean of coffee today, but he could not recall when he had last eaten. His plate was clean before he knew it. He eyed the service, only to realize that Helena was observing him, an amused glint in her eye.

  "Not had time to eat today, my lord?" she asked, as she refilled his plate.

  "Not much," he admitted. He drank his tea. It was hot and fortifying. "I have been otherwise occupied. The warehouse has been in an uproar."

  Helena handed him the replenished plate. "Really? Over what?"

  He hesitated. He swallowed a mouthful of lemon pudding before answering, "Theft."

  "At the warehouse?" His wife asked in incredulous tones.

  He nodded. "The place was ransacked three days ago. The thieves got away with rum and tobacco. We're still counting up the spice inventory to see what is missing. The pepper bins—" He stopped abruptly, remembering who he was talking to.

  His wife, a lady who should not be hearing about the vulgar details of trade.

  His wife, whom he vowed to distance himself from.

  Yet the concern in her eyes quite undid him. "That is quite a lot of cargo, is it not? Will it hurt the profits badly?" she asked.

  "It won't help, that's for certain, but it would take a much larger hit to hurt Fines and Company." Nicholas gulped down more tea. "The River Police has been alerted. The other merchants on the dock have been informed as well, for the thieves may try to sell off their bounty. A concerted effort may help recover some of the goods."

  "The other merchants, they will help?" Helena asked, a little wrinkle between her brows. "After all, I imagine the lure of quality goods at a cheap price must be great."

  At his wife's perceptive comment, Nicholas felt the corner of his mouth edge upward. It would serve him well to remember that despite her fragile appearance and inexperience in worldly matters, his lady possessed an unusually agile mind.

  "Under ordinary circumstances, you would be correct," he said. "However, it has long been the understanding of us merchants that our interests are best served when we band together in the face of those who threaten our well-being—be it pilferage or detrimental political agendas. Our association met this morning to determine the best plan of action."

  His wife slanted him a glance from beneath her lashes. "So this is why you have been away from home the last three days?"

  "Yes." Feeling the stress and lack of sleep advancing upon him, Nicholas deposited his plate on the coffee table. He leaned his elbows on his thighs and rubbed his hands over his face. "And, I am sorry to say, it is not yet over."

  He stiffened when he
felt the cushion depress beside him. Hands, soft and supple, moved over the shoulders of his jacket. He jerked upright.

  "What are you doing?" His voice was raspy, incredulous.

  Next to him on the couch, Helena smiled in what could only be termed a wifely manner. "Helping you to relax, my lord. Such fatigue cannot be healthful."

  Her hands rolled over his tense muscles again. No doubt she intended her touch to be gentle, soothing. Instead, the pressure of her fingers sent fire raging through his veins.

  "Such ministrations are not necessary," he managed, trying to shift away.

  "Nonsense. Hold still. This shan't help if you are moving all about."

  "Helena, you mustn't—"

  His words were lost in a groan as she found the knots at the junction of neck and shoulder. With unerring strokes, she worked at loosening the balled sinew. Shocks of pleasure-pain jolted through his system. His scalp tingled. Dimly, he knew he should stop this madness immediately, but Christ Almighty her hands felt good.

  Her voice brushed his ear from behind. "You work too hard, Harteford. Though I admire your industriousness more than I can say, you must take better care of yourself. See how stiff you are?"

  He was beyond stiff, Nicholas thought with an inward groan. His belly twitched, his groin burgeoning with heat. He should pull away, go ... but her wifely solicitude was too much to resist. He shuddered as her fingers slipped beneath his cravat and sent the noose drifting to the floor. With a nimble touch, she sought and released the points of tension along his neck, rubbing deeply, caressing softly. No one had ever done this for him before. His mind went fuzzy with bliss. His neck arched into her hands.

  "How does that feel, my lord?" Helena's voice feathered against his ear.

  "Bloody good." He groaned a little as her fingers pushed deeper into his tensed flesh. He was acutely aware of her sitting behind him, the puff of her breath. Tension crackled in the space between their bodies. When her fingers massaged upward, over his neck and onto his jaw, he gave into temptation. He captured her hand in his own and pressed a kiss in her palm.

  "My lord, do you want me to stop?"

  Her breathy tones came from the depths of his darkest fantasies. For an instant, he teetered between desire and sense.

  "Don't ever stop," he growled.

  In the next breath, he was upon her. His lips took hers in a kiss of burning possession as he pressed her back into the cushions. By God, she was soft. Sweet. Through the haze of lust, a faint notion appeared, telling him to slow down, to be careful lest he frighten her again, but she opened to him, welcoming him into her warmth. The shy brush of her tongue annihilated his rationality, his restraint. His sordid past became a blur, his numerous faults incidental as he plundered what she offered. The beast within him roared to life—he had to have her. Nothing else mattered but the primal recognition that she was his.

  He thrust himself deeper into her silky cavern. She tasted of tea and honey, of everything good. His tongue found hers, and the slick twining made them both moan. His fingers tightened in her soft locks, holding her still as he drank and drank of her. The sexy little sounds she made drove him insane. As did the plush softness of her curves as she wiggled against him. She was so innocent, so damned arousing ...

  Unable to resist, he broke from her lips to nuzzle a soft spot behind her ear. The scent of orange blossoms filled his head, luring him down the column of her neck. The skin there was just as fragrant, just as delectable. He flicked his tongue against the pulse throbbing at the hollowed junction. She gasped, her neck arching upward. He obliged her, his mouth travelling to the quivering tops of her tits. He kissed the firm flesh and licked into the crevice between.

  "Oh, yes," she panted. "Please."

  His nostrils flared at the pleading in her voice. A knot deep in his chest relaxed. By some miracle, even after their wedding night, she wasn't afraid of him, disgusted by him. Could it be that his demure lady wanted his touch?

  "Again, darling," he rasped against her breasts. "Ask me for it again."

  "Please." Her voice hitched as he brought his hands to join his mouth. "More, Nicholas. Please."

  Arousal rushed to his head at the sound of his name. His thumbs found the hardened nipples beneath the soft fabric of her bodice. Tenderly, he worked them, rolling, squeezing until she whimpered in pleasure. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, a silent plea for more. He groaned. How ready he was to give it to her. His turgid cock throbbed against his smalls. His head dipped for a kiss, the silky slide of her tongue enticing him into imaging how hot and wet another entrance must be ...

  There was a knock at the door.

  He froze, refusing to believe the Gods would be so cruel.

  More knocking.

  Perhaps if he ignored whoever it was, the bastard would go away.

  "Harteford," his wife gasped. "We must—"

  "Shh," he whispered. "If we remain silent—"

  The rapping came again, only this time more insistent.

  Helena began to struggle in earnest beneath him. Her wriggles spread wildfire over his loins, already taut as a mast in full wind.

  "Bloody hell." He issued several more choice words before extricating himself from the tangle of his wife's skirts. He helped Helena to sit up; her hands fluttered immediately to her hair. Wincing, he attempted to find a comfortable sitting position, one that did not strain his erection any further. In the end, he blew out a breath and settled his jacket over his lap.

  "Yes, come in." He all but snarled the words.

  Crikstaff edged through the door. He looked ready to bolt at any minute. Good. The man had some sense of self-preservation at least.

  Flushed and flustered, Helena nonetheless smiled at the butler. "Yes, Crikstaff?"

  Crikstaff warmed immediately and bowed low. "My lady. There is a gentleman to see Lord Harteford." The butler sniffed to emphasize that the word gentleman was applied generously in this case. "His name is Mr. Ambrose Kent, and he identifies himself as a member of the River Police. He claims he is expected."

  As exact as the damned night watchman.

  "Send him in," Nicholas said.

  After Crikstaff retreated, Nicholas turned to Helena. Even as reality splashed over his brain like a bucket of icy water, he felt his lips twitch. She was madly pushing pins into her gloriously wild locks. With her kiss-swollen lips pursed in concentration, she attempted to smooth her skirts this way and that. He might have told her it was no use—the crumpled material looked as if it had been trampled on by a herd of elephants. But she was adorable, muttering to herself, in complete and utter disarray.

  The door swung open.

  Ambrose Kent entered. He moved with determined energy despite his considerable height. His well-worn garments hung from thin limbs, giving him the appearance of a ragged scarecrow. He had a long ascetic face, like that of a monk. His eyes were an odd shade, like the pale amber of ale, and they immediately took stock of the room. From his past interactions with Kent, Nicholas suspected the man missed very little. It was the reason he both trusted and remained wary of Kent. The police man's eyes sharpened on Helena.

  "Lady Harteford, may I introduce Mr. Ambrose Kent, of the Thames River Police," Nicholas said as he stood, carefully keeping his jacket in front.

  "Lady Harteford," Kent said, sweeping an unexpectedly elegant bow. "My felicitations on your recent nuptials."

  "Thank you, Mr. Kent. Won't you sit and have some tea?"

  Kent looked nonplussed at her invitation. On the social ladder, a police man fell several rungs below even a merchant, hovering just above the criminals he apprehended. Nicholas supposed it was an unusual day when Kent was offered tea by a marchioness.

  Not that Kent was complaining. He was too busy polishing off a slice of cream cake and enjoying the attention Helena lavished him with.

  "Is it true that children are oft found to be perpetrators of crime?" Helena asked.

  "Aye. The prisons are full of them." Kent took a gulp of his tea.
"Newgate, for instance, is rife with thieves as young as five or six."

  "Five or six?" Helena echoed, clearly appalled. "I should think a child is not capable of knowing his own mind at so tender an age. How can he possibly be aware of the consequences of his actions?"

  "You speak like a reformist, my lady," Kent said.

  Helena blushed. "Such political energies I cannot claim, Mr. Kent. However, at the weekly salon I attend there is often talk of the works of Mrs. Fry and others like her. I find their approach more humane than the gallows or deportation. Education, the relief of poverty—these seem more effective strategies for managing the ills of our society, don't you agree?"

  Kent grunted. "I have no idea, my lady. My job is to apprehend criminals, not nurse them."

  "But wouldn't you say that all people, given food in their bellies and schooling for their minds, might be strengthened against vice?"

  Taking pity on Kent, Nicholas said lightly, "One might say that point of view smacks of democratic fervor, my lady."

  "I do not strive to be political," Helena insisted. "My only point is that children ought to be protected from, not punished for, their unfortunate circumstances of birth."

  To that, Nicholas could think of no response. His wife was full of surprises today. He stared at her, wondering if she knew just how close she had come to describing her own husband's origins.

  Silence weighed heavily for a moment. Helena got to her feet. "I am afraid I have taken too much of your time as it is. As I am sure you gentlemen have important matters to discuss, I will excuse myself."

  Both he and Kent had risen immediately.

  At the door, she stopped and turned. "My lord?"

  "Yes?" Nicholas asked warily.

  She blushed prettily, her lashes lowering. "I wanted to thank you for having tea with me today. I most enjoyed it."

  With a swish of skirts, she was gone. A trace of her perfume lingered in the air.