"Tonight you're mine." She felt the vise of his fingers holding her hips in place as he withdrew and slammed inside again. The bliss of impact drew a whimper from her lips. "I won't let him stand between us ... not him, not the past, nothing ..." He groaned as if in anguish. "God, you're so tight. So perfect ..."
Dimly, she realized that questions should be forming in her mind, yet her husband's cock was drilling away the capacity for thought. He was pounding into her, harder, deeper, her breasts swaying from the power of each thrust. Suddenly, he nudged a place deep and exquisite. Her vision blurred; a dam burst open within her. She heard her own muffled scream as she spent again, her pussy clenching on his shaft, the pleasure almost too much to bear.
"Helena, my love."
His guttural cry rang in her ears, and she felt him wrench out, felt the molten splatter against the curve of her spine. For several moments, she lay still, listening to his harsh breaths, absorbing the heat of his body lying collapsed atop her. There was a tugging against her cheek; the cravat loosened, fell away. Large hands turned her gently onto her back and pulled a sheet to cover her trembling nakedness.
"I didn't hurt you, did I?" Nicholas asked gruffly.
In the flickering dimness, she saw with shock the raw sheen in his eyes and the tell-tale moisture that glittered on his dark lashes. In all the times she had imagined this scenario—of her triumph, his defeat—she had never pictured him thus. Had never known this side of Nicholas existed. In this moment, he was not arrogant or omnipotent or indifferent.
He was hurting ... exposed.
Vulnerable.
As if catching wind of her thoughts, he sat up and turned away to sit at the edge of the bed. She had to bite back a gasp. His back ... it was marred with old scars. Even in the quasi-darkness she could discern the raised and jagged lines that flexed as he scrubbed his hands over his face. Tension hung in the air, so thick and palpable that she could feel it clogging her own lungs. She was choked by horror, by helpless fury. What had happened to him? Who had hurt him so?
Still not facing her, he said, "Ironic, isn't it? Pretending a whore is my wife." He gave a harsh laugh, and, even in her shocked state, she could hear the guilt and self-loathing in his voice. "But better than the alternative. I'd rather be skinned alive than let her know what I'm capable of. The bastard I truly am."
Pulse thrumming, she saw that he had his forearms resting upon his thighs. He was staring at his hands in disgust. What was he seeing? What had he done?
She released a shaky breath. "Monsieur?"
"It's for her own good," he said, his voice eerie and distant. "I can't explain it to her, but I'm doing what is best. So help me God, what I must do now that he's found me."
Who was he? The bounder who had given Nicholas the scars?
She wet her lips and tried to summon the courage to tell Nicholas who she was. To demand to know what was going on. Yet as she watched, his hands curled to fists, and she knew he was battling whatever demons lived inside him. His chest rose and fell in uneven surges. The raw weight of the moment pressed upon her: she was filled with stunning, bewildering remorse.
What had she been thinking, to trick him this way? To deceive him into exposing the tattered skin of his secrets? How would he react now, if she was to reveal her true identity?
Forgive me, Nicholas. I didn't know. Yet how could I, when you never told me?
He aimed a glance back at her. His mouth twisted when he caught her looking at his back. "Ugly, aren't they? That's what happens when a boy lets himself be whipped like a mongrel. And worse." The humiliation in his eyes made her want to weep. "Yet another thing I'll take to my grave rather than let my wife see." He halted, his voice sharpening with sudden apprehension. "You don't understand a word I'm saying, do you?"
Head reeling, she did not know how to respond. How could she admit who she was now? So she blurted instead, "Monsieur?"
Relief eased the lines around his mouth. "As I said, 'tis just as well."
Rising, he went to collect his discarded clothes and began to dress with the single-minded purpose of a man who could not get out of there soon enough. When he was finished, he was once more his impassive self, with not a trace of emotion in his dark eyes. He'd closed himself off the way a valet packed a traveling case. Snap and shut.
If nothing else, this convinced her she had made the right choice for now. For if she was to confront him, he would only block her out, as he'd been doing all along. Given her duplicity, she wouldn't blame him, either. Her earlier frustration, her righteous anger gave way to more poignant emotion.
"Thank you, mademoiselle." He deposited a bank note on the table. Bowing, he said in gruff tones, "This will be our last meeting. Do not contact me again."
When his broad shoulders disappeared through the door, she let the hot push of tears spill over. She'd been going about things all wrong, she realized. She'd thought he didn't want her, didn't find her desirable enough. But now she was beginning to understand that what separated them was not lack of desire ... but trust.
'Twas not a problem to be solved by a harlot.
Trust in a marriage had to be earned.
By husband ... and by wife.
NINETEEN
Three days later, Helena found herself before a row of tidy terraced houses in Bloomsbury. Though it lacked the grandeur of Mayfair, the neighborhood was nevertheless well maintained, with freshly painted buildings and small cheerful gardens. The sound of children playing could be heard on the street. The smell of laundry being washed and freshly baked bread wafted on the cool breeze. Home to the increasingly prosperous middling sort, the area possessed an air of comfortable charm.
As she climbed the front step of the large corner house, a carriage pulled up.
Just in time, she thought with a nervous flutter.
Several clipped footsteps later, and she was confronted by her irate-looking husband.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he said.
"Good afternoon, Harteford," she said pleasantly. "I see you got my note. How lovely that could join me in paying a call on Mrs. Fines."
"I'm not joining you on anything. We are leaving this instant—"
Smiling sweetly, she rang the bell.
The door was opened almost immediately by a wizened maidservant in a mobcap. To Helena's astonishment, the tiny woman took one look at Nicholas and began to scold him.
"Well, it's high time you showed your face in these parts, young man." The maid crossed her arms over her non-existent bosom. "And where have you been all this time?"
Clearly trying to rein in his temper, Nicholas said shortly, "I've been busy, Lisbett. My apologies. But unfortunately there's been a change in plans, and my wife and I won't be staying after—"
"Hello, Lisbett. I am Lady Harteford." Peering around her husband, Helena gave the maid a bright smile. "'Tis very nice to meet you, and of course we will be staying. I have been looking forward to this visit for some time."
Lisbett bobbed at the knees. "Pleased to meet you, your ladyship." To Nicholas, she admonished, "Well, don't keep your lady on the doorstep, you scoundrel. You don't need another lesson from Lisbett in manners, do you? For I'll be glad to teach you—marquess or no, you're still a young whippersnapper to me."
A muscle ticked in Nicholas' jaw. An ominous sign. But to Helena's relief, he stepped aside, and she wasted no time in slipping past him and into the house. Inside, the foyer was spacious, marked by a polished walnut table topped with a vase of roses.
"I'll let Mrs. Fines know you've arrived," Lisbett said. "Then I'm off to fetch the rolls from the oven—you still remember my buns, don't you, my boy? I made your favorites especially."
Nicholas' expression softened as he regarded the old woman. "Apricot, of course. Thank you, Lisbett." To Helena's surprise, he bent to kiss her cheek.
"Oh, off with you, you charmer," Lisbett said, blushing.
A soft voice drifted into the room. "Nicholas, is that you?"
&
nbsp; Anna Fines appeared from the hallway, her eyes eager behind her small rounded spectacles. She was a lady of comfortable years, with a maternal quality about her, from her rosy rounded cheeks to the downy faded curls peeping from under a lace cap. She stopped short at the sight of Helena and made an awkward curtsy. "M-my lady."
"Mrs. Fines, how nice to see you again," Helena said warmly. "Please, call me Helena."
A flicker of uncertainty passed behind Mrs. Fines' spectacles. "Thank you for gracing us with your presence. I was delighted to receive your note." She looked over at Nicholas, her gaze warming. "We have not seen Nic—I mean, Lord Harteford for quite some time."
Nicholas took Anna's hand; the affection in the gesture was unmistakable. "In this house, I will always be Nicholas Morgan," he murmured. "I am sorry I have been away so long. How are you, Anna?"
"As well as a woman of my advanced years can be," their hostess replied with a tremulous smile. Her hands clasped Nicholas'. "Doing my best to attend to home and hearth and the children, of course."
"Your home is lovely. Thank you for having us," Helena said. "And I do look forward to seeing Miss Percy and Mr. Fines again."
Anna looked at Helena, then back to Nicholas. Her smile broadened. "You are most welcome, my dear. The children will be back shortly from an errand. In the meanwhile, do come in and refresh yourselves."
They retired to a homey front parlor, where Lisbett had laid out a cold collation of pickled meats, cheeses, and her famous apricot buns. Holding a surly-looking pug in her lap, Anna expounded upon her plans for the small garden in the back. Helena nodded and nibbled at one of the golden rolls. She noticed that beady canine eyes followed her every movement.
"I have been amiss in not paying a call sooner," Nicholas was saying.
Anna answered with a charming laugh. "You are forgiven, dear boy. After all, you are a newlywed and have more important matters to attend to."
She slid a sly look at Helena, whose eyes dropped to the fringed edge of the seat pillow.
"We were blessed with Paul when I was about Helena's age and Percy not too long after," Anna continued in that same coy manner. "The nursery is the cornerstone to a happy marriage, I've always said."
At the image of a black-haired babe with his father's eyes, Helena's breath caught. A slow ache expanded in her chest. If only the barriers to her marriage could be surmounted ... how magical it would be to hold a part of Nicholas in her arms.
Beside her on the settee, Nicholas cleared his throat. "And Percy, how is she?"
"She is well, although lately she has gotten a bee in her bonnet about becoming a novelist. Can you believe it? A female writer, of all things." Anna gave a visible shudder, her hand stilling on the pug's head. "It is all those dreadful novels she reads. She visits the circulating library at least once a week."
"Percy has a good head on her shoulders," Nicholas said. "I am sure she will outgrow any foolish notions."
The door bell chimed, and the pug issued two high-pitched yelps. Moments later the two other Fineses appeared, their faces flushed from the outdoors.
"Nick!" With a wild cry, the younger Fines hurtled on coltish limbs toward Nicholas, who stood to receive her in a brotherly hug.
"Persephone Fines, where are your manners?" Anna chided. "Her ladyship is here."
"Oh." Percy stepped back, her heart-shaped face abashed. Helena thought she looked exactly as Anna might have as a young woman, with wayward blonde curls and lively blue eyes. Percy dipped into a pretty curtsy. "How do you do, my lady?"
"It is nice to see you again, Percy. And do let us forgo formalities—I am Helena."
"Delighted to be graced with your charming presence, Lady Helena," Paul Fines drawled as he sauntered over. He swept over Helena's hand with practiced flourish. "The color of your gown is delectable. Like the ripest of peaches. It makes me quite ravenous, come to think of it."
"Thank you, Mr. Fines," Helena said, warmth tingling her cheeks.
"Paul. We are nearly family, after all, and need not stand on ceremony." His voice had a caressing quality to it.
"Fines," Nicholas growled.
"Yes, Morgan?" Paul asked innocently.
"Haven't you anything better to do but flirt with my wife?"
"Of course not," Paul said. "What could be better than flirtation?"
"Keeping all of one's teeth, perhaps?"
"Oh, stop it, you two." Rolling her eyes, Percy plopped herself down on a chair next to Helena. "They're even worse in the ring," she confided with sisterly derision.
Still aglow over Nicholas' rather husbandly reaction, Helena asked, "The ring?"
"You know, sparring." As if to demonstrate, Percy tapped a seat pillow with her fist. "Nick and Paul are mad over boxing. One time, they left Gentleman Jackson's with eyes big as coal lumps, the both of them. Papa had a fit. He said they looked like two bloody—"
"Percy, haven't you anything better to talk about?" Nicholas asked with a frown.
"Not really," Percy said. "My life is utterly boring."
"Lord, so commences the melodrama." Paul yawned. "Someone call the Minerva Press."
Percy spared her brother a scathing glance. "I'm not being dramatic. It's true. Nothing of interest ever happens around here."
"Really, dearest, I do not know where this vulgar desire for excitement comes from," Anna said, her tone reproving. "You ought to show gratitude for the comforts Papa has provided for us. There are so many less fortunate than you."
Percy crossed her arms petulantly over her chest.
"Yes, Percy, show some gratitude," Paul said.
"As for you, young man," Anna continued, turning a steely eye upon her eldest, "you would do well to change your attitude. All that debauched living can lead to no good end."
"Mama, let us not revisit this topic again," Paul said, groaning.
"You cannot dispute that you have been nigh living at Boodle's these weeks past. I cannot know where you have developed this penchant for cards—Heaven knows your dear Papa never condoned gambling."
"Yes, well, Papa was a saint."
"I do not like your tone, young man." Beneath Anna's softly spoken words was a core of iron. "If attitude is a prelude to behavior, then you had best begin reforming your mind. You need something worthwhile with which to occupy your time. Perhaps you should ask Nicholas for a position at the Company."
"Can we not discuss this later?" A pleading edge entered Paul's voice.
"As Nicholas is right here, I can imagine no better time," Anna said firmly. "Nicholas, what think you about Paul at the company?"
"There is always a place for Paul, should he wish it," Nicholas said.
"Excellent. It is settled then. Paul will start next week." Anna patted the pug, who turned belly-up in pleasure. "Now, Percy, perhaps you'd care to entertain our guests on the pianoforte."
As Percy rose to her feet with obvious reluctance, Paul's expression shifted from sulky to devious. "Please, not the pianoforte," he drawled in tones of abject horror.
Helena saw that Paul's comment scored a direct hit.
"That is not amusing!" Percy said, her hands on her hips. "I have been practicing very diligently on the Concerto. It's not my fault if the instrument is poorly tuned."
"'Tis your ear that's poorly tuned, not the instrument," Paul said, calmly helping himself to the collation.
A cushion sailed through the air, the fringes spreading like a sunburst. It fell several feet wide of the target, who smirked and bit into a slice of cheese.
"Your aim is no better than your ear," he said.
Another cushion whizzed by, knocking the plate of buns off the table.
With a joyful squeal, the pug leapt from Anna's lap.
"Fitzwell, no!" Anna exclaimed. "Paul, stop him! Buns will ruin his digestion."
Paul reached gingerly toward the feasting dog. "Come here, you insipid beast ..."
Fitzwell growled, the hairs rising on his neck. With a resigned sigh, Paul put down his plate an
d lunged. At the same time, Fitzwell flung his stubby legs upward in a desperate bid for freedom. Anna screamed. Before Helena's shocked eyes, man and dog collided into the sideboard, sending a shower of food into the air. A symphony of dishes and silverware crashed to the ground.
In the general pandemonium that ensued, Nicholas waded in and picked the squirming dog up by the scruff.
Fitzwell issued a series of indignant snorts.
"Stop," Nicholas ordered.
The pug stopped and was deposited back onto Anna's lap.
Helena had remained quiet throughout. Flustered, Anna kept one hand on the dog. The other went to her chest. "What you must think of us, my dear!"
"Oh, no ... I ..." Helena shook her head, her shoulders shaking.
"See how you have shocked this poor lady with your disgraceful behavior." Anna's reprimanding glare included both her children and Fitzwell, who blinked innocently back.
Helena felt her face turn red.
"Take a deep breath, Helena," Nicholas said.
"I'll fetch the smelling salts," Percy volunteered.
"Get some for me, will you?" Wincing, Paul removed a bit of ham from his once spotless waistcoat.
"What you must think of us!" Anna repeated, wringing her hands.
It was too much, really.
"I think," Helena gasped, "you are all ... wonderful!"
She dissolved into laughter.
TWENTY
What the bloody hell was Helena up to?
Anna had sent them to inspect her garden, so Nicholas found himself outside and alone with his wife. He didn't give a damn about the romantic vista of flower beds and well-trimmed hedges; what he wanted to know was Helena's intentions. Bending to sniff a yellow bud, she was acting as if she hadn't a care in the world. As if she hadn't spent the last hour enchanting the Fineses. As if she hadn't charmingly milked them for stories about his past—details that Anna, Percy, and Paul had offered up with great hilarity.
Her Husband's Harlot Page 19