Beauty Like the Night

by Liz Carlyle

  Helene laughed unsteadily. Cam’s quiet confession shook her far more than she wanted him to know. “But we were so young, Cam. And life at any age is to be savored. Alittle indolence and mischief can be a good thing.”

  “They are luxuries I can ill afford.” His tone was quietly certain.

  “You are not your father, Cam,” she repeated, softening her voice. “I believe we have ridden over this ground before.”

  “I pray you are right, Helene, for my father was a profligate care-for-nobody.” He smiled at her grimly. “But you always knew that, did you not? Even at a tender age—in the midst of those happy times of which you so nonchalantly speak—you were wise in the ways of the world. I thought it horribly improper that one so young could know so much. Yet I envied you all the same,” he said softly.

  Slowly, it was as if the last remnants of tension between them melted quietly away, leaving the space beneath the tree charged with a warm intimacy, a feeling that transcended sensual awareness. Her gaze caught his, and the sounds of the birds and the water faded away. It felt as if that ethereal, abiding friendship which she and Cam had once shared had been resurrected, at least in this timeless moment.

  She felt inexplicably unconstrained, as if she were a rash young girl again. “Did I corrupt you, Cam?” she softly teased, her own face growing warm. “I confess, I often meant to do so. I was very bad, was I not? And you! You were so perfect, so implacable. So exceedingly tempting. In fact, I almost had your innocence, and you mine. And you are right about one thing—we did not understand the risk.”

  Cam blushed furiously, then burst into sudden laughter. “Oh, God,” he said on a choked moan. His head fell forward against his knee, even as his hand came out to cover hers where it lay on the blanket. “Do you know, Helene, that my father never let me forget that incident? For a time, I collect, it even gave him hope. Until then, I had been something of a disappointment. Indeed, it seemed I never pleased either of my parents.”

  “What do you mean, Cam?”

  He lifted up his head to stare at her, his clear, dark eyes filled with an enigmatic mix of hurt and humor. “You undoubtedly heard the rumors at Chalcote, Helene,” he answered, his mouth quirking up at one corner. “It seems I simply looked too much like a Rutledge to suit my mother, and possessed too much Camden restraint to suit my father.”

  “But your mother loved you dearly, Cam. Everyone said so.”

  “Did she?” He shook his head almost imperceptibly, as if mystified by his own question. “I am no longer certain. I think Mother needed me.”

  “Of course she did,” said Helene gently. “You were her child.”

  “I was her hope,” said Cam flatly. “She was overcome with fear for the future of her children, and for her home. You can have no notion of what such a woman is like.”

  Helene laughed without bitterness. “Oh, Cam, how wrong you are! My mother was the very same, after a fashion.”

  “Your mother?” Cam shot her a warm, but nonetheless skeptical, smile. “Marie Middleton was bold as brass.”

  “Ah, such was the impression she sought to give! But in truth, Maman was always desperately searching for her next husband, her next lover. Could you not see that, Cam? Could you not see that she flitted from man to man out of insecurity?”

  Clearly pondering her words, Cam plucked a long blade of grass and absently stuck it between his teeth. “Do you think so?”

  “Oh, Cam!” Helene gave a brittle laugh. “A silver hair, the tiniest wrinkle ... anything could cast her into gloom because, like your mother, she was insecure. As a girl, I swore I would not be like her.”

  “And so you chose a profession.”

  “Just so,” she answered firmly. “And when my looks fade, I shall be none the worse for it. Indeed, I daresay I shall be better off.”

  Cam chuckled softly, stretched back onto one elbow, and chewed on his blade of grass. “Your sort of looks will never fade, Helene,” he mused with utter candor. “Nor your determination. Do you know, it has so often seemed to me that you need no one. You are strong. A pity my mother was not.”

  Helene wanted to tell him that she was not strong, she was weak. And growing weaker with every passing day spent near him. But that simply would not do. “Your mother did love you, Cam,” she answered instead. “I am sure she must have done.”

  He nodded slowly. “Perhaps. But even as a child, I was destined to be savior of this family. Not a day passed but what she did not point out to me the bitter fruit of my father’s ways. It was a lesson I must learn, I was told. We were always perched upon the brink of ruin, she said. And I was her only hope; I would someday be responsible, not only for her welfare, but for Catherine’s and Bentley’s as well.”

  “That was a rather cruel thing to do to a young boy.”

  “I cannot think she meant to be cruel,” answered Cam thoughtfully. “Indeed, I was the center of her life. And I learnt her lessons well. She made certain of it.”

  “Yes,” said Helene softly, careful not to sound accusatory. “But I am not perfectly sure, Cam, that that was healthy.”

  “Perhaps it had to be done, Helene,” he said simply. “Someone had to take care of Bentley and Catherine. You know what Father was like.”

  Helene shifted her legs uncomfortably, keeping them carefully tucked beneath her hems, reluctant to disturb the harmony between them. And yet, she would never agree that what Mrs. Rutledge had done to her eldest son was just, or even necessary. Therefore, it was best to change the subject.

  “That reminds me, Cam,” she said in a smooth, light tone. “Did I understand aright from Bentley that Catherine married one of Squire Wodeway’s sons? I was rather taken aback. Is it true?”

  “True enough,” he answered, shooting her a teasing, sideways grin, the solemnity of the moment broken. “She married on her eighteenth birthday. To Wodeway’s second. I daresay you remember him rather well, do you not?”

  Helene laughed, her face flooding with warmth. “Oh, lud! Not William? That rather impudent rascal with the thatch of bright red hair?”

  “Oh, aye, the very same. And a big rascal, too, I’ll thank you to remember.”

  “I remember Will well enough,” Helene admitted cautiously. “And I recall, too, that you bloodied his nose once in the middle of the village green.”

  “Defending your honor, ma’am, if you will recollect.”

  Warm memories washed over Cam as he watched Helene blush a deep, beautiful shade of pink. “Were you?” she said, with a demure innocence he knew damned well was feigned. “I do not perfectly remember. What had I done?”

  “Oh ho, Helene!” He grinned again. “You shake the hand of blame easily enough, do you not? Yes, the trouble was—as usual—all your fault.”

  “What?” She blinked naively.

  “Insufferable hoyden! You picked a nasty quarrel with young Freddie Wodeway, then pushed him into some horse dung in the stable alley.”

  Helene laughed. “I don’t think I believe you.”

  “You may well believe me! You did it, right enough. And then, in order to escape the consequences of your action”—Cam squinted his eyes as if in thought— “which, if memory serves, involved some overripe fruit and a rather good aim—you were compelled to scramble up a tree in the village square, thereby exposing your, ah, undergarments to all and sundry below.”

  Helene looked appropriately horrified. “And what was William’s role in all this?”

  “Ah, well!” Cam grinned shamelessly. “As to that, old Will simply had the bad judgment to look up your skirts, so that he might describe in lurid detail just what he saw—the rows of lace, that sort of thing—and all in an overloud voice. Of course,” Cam added, his grin broadening, “I was compelled to plant him a facer for such ungentlemanly conduct.”

  She laughed again, a rich, musical sound, and Cam shook his head in amazement. “I often think, Helene, that it is a wonder I survived our friendship with nothing broken save my foolish young heart.” Delibera
tely, Cam kept his words and expression light.

  Slowly, the smile slipped from Helene’s face and she studied him with an unreadable expression. “You were ever the gentleman, my lord,” she murmured. “And I was a troublesome girl. Hardly worthy of such a champion.”

  Suddenly, she rose to her feet in one smooth, graceful motion. Cam could sense that this time, there would be no stopping her. She was leaving. His half-hour of basking in the paradise of Helene’s company was over.

  “You must excuse me now,” she murmured, pulling close her black velvet pelisse. “I ... I think I should go down to Ariane.”

  With a sudden, hot ache in his chest, Cam watched Helene turn away from him to stroll down the gentle slope toward his daughter. She moved with a fine, fluid elegance; the skirts of her deep burgundy carriage dress swaying gracefully from side to side, brushing the stubbled grass as she picked her way down the path toward the water. It was like watching a blood-red sunset in winter, and knowing full well that with the falling darkness, the cold would come.

  Overhead, the bare branches clattered nakedly in the breeze. On a sharp exhalation, Cam took up his hastily discarded hat and slapped it back on his head. Had he allowed matters—as well as his feelings—to go beyond what was prudent?

  He had owed her an apology for hurting her, but not for making love to her, since they’d both been willing enough. Yet in making his amends, had he allowed himself to be drawn toward an inappropriate level of intimacy? It seemed beyond his ability to treat Helene as nothing more than his employee. Perhaps it was time he accepted the fact that Helene would always be more than that to him; that he would never be able to gird himself against the choking rush of need and tenderness and chaos that her very name evoked.

  And now, Helene had spoken of leaving Chalcote. Her casual remark had left him reeling. But why should it have? What had he believed would happen? Had he imagined that Helene would stay forever? That after educating Ariane, Helene would simply hang about, educating the children that he and Joan were expected to bear? His blood ran cold at that thought.

  No. It was impossible. And the thought of Helene’s leaving was inconceivable. Almost as inconceivable as the idea that he might wed Joan. The whole damned mess suddenly seemed preposterous. And yet, he was all but engaged to the girl. There was an understanding. Joan’s father was dead. It was his duty to care for her. There really was no turning back.

  Was there?

  Good God, there had to be.

  His future loomed up before him, a nebulous, stifling haze. Had it been but a few days past that he had seen so clearly the path he was to take through life? Now, in increments so minute that Cam had failed to notice, that straight and narrow path was bending, dipping down into a wide, uncertain route, and leading into a turn he could no longer see beyond. Indeed, he was no longer sure that the course he traveled was even his to choose.

  Such uncertainty should have made him uneasy. And it did. But for the first time in a very long while, Cam felt an odd stirring of ... intrigue. He felt suddenly curious about life, and about the potential it might hold. And with Helene he felt something else, too. Not just confusion, not just exasperation, but a great deal more than lust. Something which felt vaguely akin to exhilaration.

  Damn it, he felt alive. Perhaps dangerously so.

  Cam stared blindly down the hill toward the scene unfolding on the riverbank. He barely noticed that Ariane was now determinedly tugging at what looked to be a long piece of vine which hung from an ancient oak by the water’s edge. The old tree had grown at an odd angle, leaning precariously forward, as if it might topple into the current at a moment’s notice.

  As Ariane tried to pull the vine away from its bark, Helene drew up beside her, and laid a hand lightly on the girl’s narrow shoulder. Rather than pulling away from the caress, Ariane smiled up at Helene, and Cam’s hot ache melted into an old and nameless longing that lay deep and heavy in the pit of his belly.

  From his position on the hill, Cam could not hear Helene’s words, but as Ariane held one end of the vine, he absently watched while Helene began to pluck away the tendrils of red-brown creeper which lashed it to the tree trunk. Carried on the light breeze, Helene’s musical laughter drew him from the depths of his introspection, and too late, Cam realized what Ariane had discovered.

  They were untangling Helene’s old rope swing!

  It had to be! But surely it would have long since rotted away? Nonetheless, he remembered that long ago summer’s day when Helene had persuaded him to pilfer a brand new length of rope from the stable. Asmall enough sin, as moral transgressions went. But by the time Helene had finished with him, Cam had been left to guiltily toss and turn in his bed for a fortnight.

  Helene had conceived of the scheme on a scorching August afternoon in the midst of one of his father’s infamous week-long house parties. For her part in the conspiracy, Helene had stolen a sturdy piece of hickory planking from Mrs. Naffles’ kindling box. And with the help of an old wood chisel—purloined, of course, from one of the estate shops—they had fashioned the makeshift rope swing and hiked off toward the riverbank.

  Tasked with hanging the swing, Cam had carefully knotted the rope every two feet, then shinnied up and out the thickest branch to secure it. Then Helene had deftly tied the strip of notched wood at the bottom to brace their feet on. After testing the rope’s soundness by repeatedly swinging high out over the water, they had accounted the swing a grand success.

  By then, however, they were hot and weary from their efforts. When Helene slipped into the bushes for a moment of privacy, Cam had thought nothing of it . . . until she darted back out again moments later, stripped to her chemise.

  At the staid old age of sixteen, Cam had been aghast at—and entranced by—the sight of her. In defiance of all propriety, Helene had seized the rope and sailed over the water again. But this time, she’d simply dropped from the height of its arc, and into the middle of the Coln.

  Cam could still hear her shriek of glee, and see her trim ankles flailing beneath her chemise as she broke through the glistening surface, then disappeared into the depths. At that point in the river, the remnants of an old dam farther downstream slowed the current so that the water ran languid and cool. After a quarter-hour of wheedling, Helene finally goaded Cam into joining her. And it had been beyond wonderful.

  Helene had been a rough-and-tumble sort of girl, and together they had cavorted like fish, only to emerge with the inevitably immodest consequences. The water had rendered Helene’s shift all but transparent. The thin cotton clung to her every turn, revealing her rosy, puckered nipples, and the dainty curves of her incipient breasts and hips. Cam, who at the sight of her was suddenly beset by his own physical problems, had faired a little better with his long shirttails and drawers.

  Helene had simply laughed, and made a sport of their appearance. But to Cam, it had been a serious matter indeed. In his awkward, adolescent way, he had suddenly longed to seize Helene. To push her down into the fragrant grass of the riverbank, to kiss her laughing mouth, and to do much, much more.

  Cam had suffered from no lack of enlightenment with regard to the specifics of the sex act. His experience on the farm—never mind his exposure to his father’s ribald habits—had ensured a rather comprehensive education. And so despite his youth, Cam had known exactly what it was that he had wished to do to Helene. And the iniquity of his desire had shamed him to the very depths of his soul. It had not seemed decent, somehow, to want to do such things to your best friend.

  He and Helene were no longer best friends, but it seemed that little else had changed. Even now—watching her stretch high above her head to yank free the rope, gazing at the swell of her breasts, reveling in the sound of her laughter—Cam could feel that old hunger surge forth.

  He watched the graceful turn of her face as she smiled down at his daughter, and his pulse began to race. The blood in his veins seemed to thicken and slow to a heavy throb. The fading afternoon light caught their hair,
warming Helene’s dark tresses and shimmering over Ariane’s blonde braids, like the lovely contrast of sunlight and moonlight. Together, they reminded him of an artist’s rendition of—

  Damnation!

  As he watched Helene draw back the rope, he realized just what she was about. “No!” he shouted aloud. “No, Helene! Don’t even think about it—!” Paternalistic arrogance exploded, obliterating his lust. And then, Cam was hurtling down the hill before his brain could assimilate what his feet were doing.

  Damn and blast! Helene was not going to swing out over the river on that bloody rope! Had he not always known she was mad? Good God, she would kill herself. Or Ariane. Possibly even himself before it was over with, if he knew Helene.

  In a matter of seconds, he reached them. Shock registered on Helene’s face as he jerked the rope from her grasp. Her foot slipped abruptly off the wooden slat as her mouth went slack with amazement.

  “Good Lord, Helene!” he fairly shouted. “Have you no sense? That rope has surely rotted by now.”

  An indulgent smile played at one corner of Helene’s mouth. She stepped back, delicately pointing one finger at the wood. “If you’ll but look more closely, my lord, you’ll see that both the wood and the rope are somewhat newer than you or I might imagine.”

  Shaking with a fear-born rage, he ignored her. “But it is not safe, Helene! Must you always be so reckless? Next, you will have Ariane swinging on the bloody thing! I’ll not have either of you on it, do you hear?”

  “Indeed, my lord.” She humbly lowered her gaze. “We’ll do as you say.”

  “Because I said so, that’s why n—” Abruptly, he halted in mid-tirade.

  Suddenly, Cam realized that he had expected Helene to argue, or to cajole him into some sort of mischief. But the woman who stood before him acted every inch the obedient governess. Perversely, her subservience made Cam suspicious. He let the rope drop from his hands to spin freely through the air. “I apologize for shouting, Miss de Severs. I’m relieved it was not necessary.”