A Lady Out of Time (Helen Foster)

by Caroline Hanson

  “You do not know me,” he whispered furiously, as though the slightest increase in volume would make him snap. His cheekbones stood out in harsh relief. He stayed rooted to the spot as she advanced upon him, refusing to give ground.

  She moved in closer to him, and he let her, watched her with glittering intensity, several feet still between them. “I know you’ll do what I want you to do because what I want costs you nothing, and not helping me would cost you everything.”

  For a moment there was complete silence, and she was surprised she couldn’t hear echoes of their shouting match reverberating around the room. He moved towards her, and she shifted on her feet, raising her arm defensively, automatically reacting as though he was about to attack.

  He froze, his head jerking back as if she’d slapped him. His eyes narrowed. “You expect me to hit you?” The words were oddly flat, half statement, half question.

  “Is that a threat?” she asked. He dropped his gaze and walked past her, leaving four or five feet between them. He stopped at a sideboard that contained alcohol and tumblers. She heard the faint glug-glug sound of liquid going into a glass, but she could only see his broad back.

  “No. 'I will see you caught and hung’, that is a threat. Would you like a drink?” he asked, not bothering to look at her as he made one for himself.

  “Um,” she had visions of a poisoned decanter. “Yes, please. I’ll have what you’re having.”

  He cast her a brief, appraising glance. “I’m having whiskey,” he said, in a tone that implied she didn’t want what he was having.

  “I like whiskey.” I don’t know shit about whiskey.

  “Of course you like whiskey,” he said, chuckling unhappily.

  There was a pause while he poured them drinks, a moment where the conversation and antagonism stopped. She had the sense that it was intentional, that he was using these few moments to get himself together and diffuse the tension between them.

  Helen’s body was humming, her breathing a little fast, her heart rate elevated. She wasn’t sure if she needed a good fight or a good shag, but the odds of getting either were zilch. The Duke was a beautiful man; even more attractive than his icy control was him in a red-hot passion. What would it be like to have him act without thinking through the consequences? An image of him stalking over to her, pushing her against the wall and taking her furiously, was distracting.

  He was suddenly in front of her, interrupting her daydream and handing her a drink. That is the kind of distracted bullshit that gets people killed.

  Helen got back to business. “Here is the deal. You are to pretend that I am an American heiress—”

  “Flush with my money.”

  Helen rolled her eyes and let that slide. “And you are—”

  He stopped with the drink halfway to his mouth, as though he’d just put the pieces together. His words were flat with conviction, the syllables like cut diamonds. “I am not going to pretend that I’m courting you. You must be out of your mind to think anyone would believe that. It doesn’t matter how beautiful you are, no one would believe it, and more importantly, my fiancée would castrate me.”

  “That’s…blunt.”

  “I know how much you appreciate colorful language,” he said. “I’ll do you the courtesy of speaking in terms you understand. People would believe you were my mistress. But they won’t believe I’d marry you.”

  Helen had never expected to be the marrying kind, but no one had ever thrown it in her face. She huffed out a breath. “Fine. That’s all I want.”

  He scowled and took the drink he’d forgone a moment before. “Now tell me what you want with Roland Black. Is he a bastard too?”

  “Very funny. I just need an introduction…and an uninterrupted meeting with him.”

  He looked at her oddly. “What are you going to do, kill him?”

  “No!” Helen said, surprised at the question.

  “Then what do you want with him?” He took a step closer to her, and Helen narrowed her eyes. A ‘back-it-up-buddy’ look on her face.

  “It’s none of your business.” She put her glass down on a small side table near the door. He stopped moving. Helen reached into her pocket and pulled out a piece of paper, setting it down on the table too. “Here is the information about the ball and where we will meet and what time.”

  She had a hand on the door knob.

  “Just so we are clear. You are giving me the diary at the end of the night?”

  Helen let him see the sincerity in her eyes, their gazes locking. Trust me, her expression said, I won’t let you down. “I swear.”

  He nodded sharply, setting the half-filled glass down with a loud thunk. Amber liquid splashed onto his desk.

  And then, somehow, Helen found herself out the door and in the street, walking towards her hotel. Shakiness overcame her with each step, almost feeling like the beginning of a fever, except that it was emotional. She’d lied to him, was using him, and he hated her. She didn’t like him and his judgment. Or that she was here doing something good, and he thought she was evil.

  Some part of her wished she could tell him she wasn’t a bad person. I told him I’d give him the diary. Which I don’t have and can’t get. Even though she knew it was for the greater good, she didn’t like lying to him. And she couldn’t imagine how angry he was going to be when she ditched him and didn’t give him the diary. But it would sever the connection between them. She’d see him once more, get the plans and go about her life while he went about his. It was as simple as that.

  Her pace quickened; she had a ball gown to buy.

  Chapter 11

  Edward stood in his study, the sound of the front door closing still echoing in his ears. Was it only days ago that his life was…perfect? He grimaced. Perfect wasn’t the right word to describe his life. It implied a certain calmness, even happiness with one’s life. But he would never go so far as to say he was unhappy either. Maybe the correct word was ‘orderly’. Was it only mere days ago his life was orderly?

  His whole life had structure. All expectations of him were known. Every relationship was identifiable; he had peers and those beneath him. There were very few people above him. He had his mother and family, and soon he would have a wife. He understood all those relationships, and none of them were supposed to change. Those were the foundations of his life.

  Now he was a bastard. The woman he’d grown up thinking was his mother—wasn’t. Everything he had taken for granted: his life, his home, his place in the world, was all in jeopardy.

  Because of her. Who the hell was she? He’d been stupid to believe that the blackmail would end. No matter how regretful she seemed or how much she promised this was the last time, he couldn’t believe her. It would be stupid to believe her.

  And yet, rather oddly, part of him wanted to. Perhaps it was because she was as easy to read as a child. She had no mask to cover her feelings. If he had to guess, he would say that she did regret what she was doing, that if she could make this the final time she took things from him, she would.

  But he also sensed a resolve within her, a steel hardness that she would back up with violence. He’d seen the way she prepared herself when he advanced towards her. She hadn’t even thought about it, her instinct was to protect herself. There had been no fear, no hesitation. In her face, he had seen confidence. In her stance and the way she held herself, he’d seen knowledge.

  She knew how to fight.

  What sort of life had this woman lived that her instinct was that if a man was coming closer to her, he meant to do her harm?

  What was I going to do when I reached her?

  He wouldn’t have hit her, that was for damned sure. He wasn’t that man. No matter the provocation. Not like his father was. Any excuse to beat some sense into someone. Especially someone who stepped out of line.

  Everything about her was contrary to anything he had ever known. Her skin was perfect, her hair gleamed. Everything about her was different. Even her movements were unlike
other women. The purpose in her stride and the directness of her gaze screamed her boldness. Her feelings were obvious. She did not try to hide them. Or if she did, she did a terrible job at it.

  Two days ago she’d been a mess, and even then he’d known she was extraordinarily attractive. But now, clean and dressed, styled and confident…Edward had never seen a more beautiful woman. Everything about her was alive and exotic. As though he’d spent his life surrounded by roses, and she was an orchid.

  She was a beautiful, shocking and morally bankrupt creature, and—he ran his hands through his hair, instantly regretting it—she wanted him.

  She looked at him as though he were equally exotic, which was enough to make him laugh out loud. Rather bizarrely, she looked at him as though she had no concept of who he was. The title, the money, the history of his family. Even his place in the world. He could almost see her attempting to reason out just how important he was.

  And some base part of him responded to her. To the mix of confidence and confusion that clung to her. When he had moved closer to her, it hadn’t been to hurt her. He had wanted to tame her. He had been perilously close to holding her still with his hands and his body.

  Surely, he would have stopped himself. Right? There was no way he would have cradled her face in his hands and forced her to look at him. He would not in a million years drag her body against his and make her be honest with him.

  He could barely focus on her words when she spoke to him, the sound of his pounding blood, the fury of emotion she unleashed in him came close to overriding every self-preserving thought.

  She is destruction.

  Being near her inflamed him. As if he were a piece of paper carried along with the wind, and she was the devil with a match. He wasn’t paper. He wasn’t weightless. He was rock and mortar, a pillar of English society. People’s lives depended upon him. She will ruin me, and she will laugh. She will destroy my family, and she won’t give a damn.

  And yet he wanted her.

  She made him hate himself. Hate his base self that became distracted from his duty and responsibilities, and thought only of lifting her skirts and seeing the rest of her legs before he captured her with his body, making her cease the detonation of his world by being inside of her.

  Edward blinked, startled to see that he was halfway to his club. He’d left the house without a coat or a hat. He’d told no one he was leaving. His body was coiled and taut; he was half-hard just walking down the damned street.

  This was unacceptable. He’d go to his club, work out his frustrations, and then he’d go back to being the man he was: Purposeful. Restrained. Even cold.

  The antithesis of her.

  Why the hell did she want to meet a gun-maker? He stopped abruptly, the sea of humanity parting to give him space, people flowing around him as if he were a boulder in the river. People did not touch a duke. He should have sent his businessman to get information on Roland Black before he left the house. He’d send a note when he reached his club.

  Edward had given her a lot of money, and now she wanted weapons. Everything clicked together with a horrible rightness. Her cause was violent. The whole of Europe was either engaged in a revolution, or waiting for one to start. And she was no stranger to violence. Violence did not frighten her. If anything, it excited her.

  She would not flinch from pain or harm. Maybe she even plotted death.

  In his mind, he laid the facts on the table, like turning over cards in a game of chance. She was willing to do illegal things, i.e. blackmail. She was familiar with violence and was seeking out weapons. She had no loyalty to England. She was resolved to her course of action.

  That was the sticking point.

  Yes, she was resolved, but why? Was she being forced into this? Was that why she was used to men hurting her? If he took her to Roland Black and she secured a shipment of arms, which resulted in death, wasn’t he complicit in that? Did that make him a murderer as well, simply because he was willing to protect his place in the world at the expense of lives? Edward would not be responsible for the death of others.

  But he could not destroy his family, either. Thus far, he hadn’t done more than give in. She wanted money, so he gave it. She needed to go to a ball, so he was taking her. He couldn’t let her call the shots. She had weaknesses; he just had to use them.

  Someone bumped into him, squeaking out a stammered apology. Edward couldn’t stand still any longer—not on this sidewalk, and not for her blackmail—he had to do something to stop her.

  Chapter 12

  As soon as Edward’s carriage rolled up, Helen got out of the hackney and paid the driver, scanning her surroundings as she crossed the street. In her note, she’d told Edward to pick her up at the west entrance of Green Park, and that they would make the journey to the ball together.

  The family crest on his carriage was covered, presumably so that no one could gossip about his whereabouts or whom he’d been seen with. The driver opened the carriage as she approached, and Helen’s heart thumped nervously in her chest as she entered the closed space.

  Helen sat down, smoothing her skirts, partially out of nervousness, but also because she loved the feeling of the fabric. She looked like a princess. A princess who could kill people, but close enough.

  Helen had gone back to the seamstress, throwing the woman into a tizzy when she told her she needed a ball gown fit for a mistress. The neckline was absolutely plunging. Her breasts were lifted, molded and shaped into perfection, her shoulders bare. Her stockings were white, which struck Helen as surprisingly shocking. The ones she wore during the day were black and serviceable. These were stockings that were meant to be removed.

  “I confess that I had hoped you would change your mind,” he said softly in the dark. Some of the tension eased out of her, the tone of his voice indicating that he had calmed down since that afternoon.

  “Good evening to you, too,” she said, careful to keep the sting out of her voice.

  The coachman shut the door, the carriage swaying gently as he got back up on the box. She thought she could feel the Duke looking at her in the dark. “I don’t want to give you anything of the family’s for obvious reasons, but I thought we might go to a jeweler and see if we could find something appropriate for tonight.”

  Helen froze. “You want to give me jewelry? Why?” Her eyes adjusted to the dark interior, and she could see him, his face cast in darkness, sharpening his features and giving him a roguish, even dangerous cast. She shivered.

  He smiled coldly. His disdain for her obvious. “If I’m presenting you to the world as my mistress, you should at least look expensive. I couldn’t send you a dress seeing as I have no idea where you live. But if the jewels are large enough, no one will notice what you’re wearing.”

  He bought his mistresses dresses? Did all men do that? “Why do I feel like you’re leading me into a trap?”

  He raised a brow at her. A slight shake of his head. “I don’t know. Perhaps because you are suspicious by nature, or because you have a guilty conscience.”

  She wanted to give him the finger. “If you betray me, you lose everything.”

  “So you’ve said.”

  Helen took another breath, the scent of him lightly intoxicating. It was spicy, warm and expensive.

  “Surely you know I wouldn’t risk my family’s future.”

  “No, you wouldn’t,” she said, firmly. As if her conviction could convince him. “You’re a good man, Edward.”

  There was silence for a long moment. “Do you know you’ve said something similar to me already? You know what kind of man I am,” he said, drawing out each word, a hint of steel edging into the vowels. “I can’t tell if you mean it to be offensive, or if it’s some strange compliment. And don’t call me Edward.”

  Had she called him Edward? Helen blamed the dark intimacy of the carriage. “Does it help to know that I meant it as a compliment?”

  He said nothing.

  The carriage came to a stop and Edward st
epped out, offering her a gloved hand. She could feel the heat of his fingers through their gloves, his grip firm but not too hard, and she blushed, thankful for the dark so that he wouldn’t see her ridiculous reaction. Having him help her down from the carriage, having to watch every step she took and lift her skirts out of the way cemented the I’m-a–blackmailing-princess feeling. She felt feminine in a way she never had before.

  The shop was small but elegant, and the owner was waiting for them, exclaiming his pleasure at the Duke of Somervale’s presence. After several protracted compliments, the Duke interrupted him. “We’re looking for a necklace.”

  The man swallowed, his head jerking down in agreement. “Very good, Your Grace. What type of stones did you have in mind?”

  Edward turned to her and smiled, a brief flash of even white teeth. He made eye contact with her, maintaining it as he closed the distance between them. Helen didn’t know what to do besides stay still. She stopped breathing as he entered her personal space, one hand making a fist. If he were any other man, she would think he was being flirtatious.

  Nah.

  When he stopped before her, he was so close that he had to look down to see her face. He raised his hands slowly, touching her neck lightly, his hands brushing the thick velvet of her cloak as he undid the clasp. Okay, this is definitely confusing.

  “You are looking at me very fiercely,” he said, and she took a shallow breath, concerned that anything that she did at this point would give away just how attractive she thought he was. If the eyes were the window to the soul, she was worried he would see the pornographic film going on inside of her.

  She broke contact, looked to the side at the shopkeeper as if seeking help from the Duke’s magnetic attraction, but he was studiously examining the corner, looking at absolutely nothing as he gave them a pretend privacy. The nearness of him seared her, and she looked at his clean-shaven neck, her eyes drawn to the faint smallpox scars below his ear that disappeared into his dark hair at the nape of his neck.