by Anne Barbour
What were Edward's feelings for Elspeth? she wondered. Oh, for heaven's sake, she castigated herself the next moment. With all the other things she had to worry about, why was she wasting her time with the problem of Edward and Elspeth? Not that that was a problem at all. At least, not her problem. She bent her attention to her future. Assuming that William would shortly be ensconced as the Earl of Camberwell, what would be her position? As the aunt of the Earl, she would no doubt be accorded an occasional, tepid welcome at Whitehouse Abbey. Mmm, perhaps “welcome” was not the mot juste. If Edward left the Abbey, William's family would, at best, tolerate her. Not a comfortable picture.
Perhaps she would return to Portugal, to help her father knit together the tangled remains of his gallery. If he would accept her assistance, that is. He had not offered her a kind word since the fiasco with Woman at the Door. So sunk had he been in his distraction, he had hardly bid her goodbye when she had set off with Barney and William. She had fought the urge to stay and repair the gallery's reputation, upon which her own rested so precariously. But William's future had come first. The morning of their arrival at the Abbey, Helen had spoken to Barney of remaining in England. Perhaps that would be her best course. If she could establish herself in London, she could visit William periodically—and perhaps see Edward now and then. Would he want to see her—now and then?
She shivered again and abruptly realized that it was not just her emotions at work. She had left the house without a cloak, and it was cold out here. Hastily, she made her way to the front door, but when she twisted the handle, she was dismayed to find it unresponsive. Good heavens she had been locked out!
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Chapter Thirteen
Rubbing her bare arms, Helen hastened to the side of the house. She encountered only dark windows fronting shadowed rooms. Besides her chill, she felt like a fool and was reluctant to rouse the house. Making her way farther to the rear of the building, she was rewarded at last by the sight of a golden pane gleaming amid the glassy blackness. Peering closer, she discovered she had happened on Edward's study, and the master himself sat at his desk. Addressing a stack of papers, he had removed his coat and sat in his shirtsleeves, rolled up to expose surprisingly muscular arms. The Same of a nearby candle created russet highlights in the dark hair that tumbled over his forehead.
Hesitantly, she knocked on the French windows that opened into the room. Edward's head jerked to attention and he threw down his pen. The next moment, Helen had been admitted to the sanctum and Edward's coat was wrapped around her shivering shoulders. He drew her to the fire that still blazed in the hearth.
“Yes,” he said, with a laugh at her explanation. “Stebbings always buckles the place up as soon as everyone's present and accounted for. He's probably already tucked in his bed.”
Helen was intensely aware of the awkwardness of her situation. It was very late, the house very quiet, and Edward very near. His arm around her, she fancied she could feel the heat of him through the thickness of the coat he still held in place over her shoulders. She stepped away and, slipping off the coat, handed it to him.
“Thank you, I am fine now. I was only out there a few minutes—and I must say I feel remarkably silly.”
“For taking a few moments to enjoy a fine evening?” His smile warmed her as the fire in the hearth never could have. “I think not.” He dropped the coat over a nearby chair and turned back to her, still, to her mind, uncomfortably close.
Unaccountably flustered, she stepped toward the desk. “I see you are still toiling at your estate duties.”
Edward gestured her to a chair and took for himself the one behind the desk. Although Helen appreciated his withdrawal to a more neutral distance, she experienced a certain disappointment that she preferred not to investigate.
“Yes, I've been going over Turner's specifications for the new tenant cottages.”
“New cottages?”
He chuckled. “Fear not, I am not wasting William's sustenance on wanton expenditures. The tenants have been due better living quarters for some time now, and it's been my experience that comfortably housed tenants make better workers. And, while the estate is still struggling, I think we can afford the expense.”
Helen's brows lifted. “Struggling?” She looked about her. “Whitehouse Abbey does not look to be in difficulty.”
“No, I suppose not. My uncle and his father before him were careful to maintain the manor house in prime condition, but they gave little thought to the land that supported them.”
Helen leaned forward in her chair. “But such a large estate—it is large, is it not?” At Edward's nod, she continued. “Surely it must produce enough income to maintain a house twice this size.”
Edward opened his mouth but closed it again almost immediately. After a moment's silence, he sighed.
“I'm not sure this is any of your concern—at least until William's claim is proven"—Helen caught the phrase and smiled inwardly. Until—not if . . .—"but I suppose you should know the state of his inheritance.” He sat back and steepled his fingers, elbows on the arms of his chair.
“It's an old story, I'm afraid. Up until the time of my great-grandfather—the eighth earl—Whitehouse Abbey was in excellent hands. The title itself is close to three hundred years old, and its holders took care to nurture and expand the Camberwell holdings.” He sighed once more. “And then came Great-grandfather. He possessed a distressing penchant for gambling. I fancy it would not be overstating the case to say he was addicted to the vice. Of course, he enjoyed all the corollary sins—wine, women and song. Though not necessarily in that order, I've heard. His son inherited the ‘fatal tendency,’ in addition to his fondness for collecting works of art. The tenth earl—my uncle and Chris's father—was also an avid gambler. Among the three of them, the Camberwell holdings dwindled alarmingly, and as so often happens in these cases, it was the land that suffered. In the last ten or fifteen years, there has been almost nothing spent on essentials such as fertilizer, equipment, worker needs and so forth. In addition, much of the unentailed lands were sold.”
“Oh, my.” Helen digested this unpleasant information, her visions of unlimited wealth and status for William fading like the embers in the hearth. “And yet, you now feel there is money for new tenants’ cottages?”
“Luckily, Chris appeared to be spared the gambling taint. However, he was pretty lavish in his habits, and by this time, the estate coffers had dwindled considerably. I do not mean to imply that the estate is teetering on the brink of insolvency. Merely that we are going through a rough patch—one I intend to make smooth. Turner is a good estate agent. He is conscientious and skilled in his profession. After Chris inherited the title, he paid no attention to the estate at all and let his agent have a free rein, as long as he himself was kept in money for his personal, er, pleasures.” He hesitated. “I'm sorry—I suppose I should not speak so of your sister's husband.”
Helen permitted herself a small, dry chuckle. “You forget, I became well acquainted with my sister's husband. I observed firsthand his profligacy.”
A silence fell, broken only when Edward straightened in his chair and ran long fingers through his hair. Helen had come to know this gesture as a sign of discomfort on Edward's part, and she gazed at him expectantly. After another hesitation, he spoke.
“I'm afraid this was an unpleasant evening for you.” He gazed at her in questioning concern.
“Yes, it was,” Helen replied frankly. “But I expect I shall survive. It—it seems Miss Morwent did not take to me.”
Edward grinned ruefully. “And I suppose you have discerned why.”
“Mm. It came to me in a flash of inspiration. Artemis told me that Miss Morwent and Chris had been on the verge of betrothal when he went off to war. His death must have been devastating for her. And now to discover that he thought so little of their relationship that he would go off and marry someone else without even telling her. She must have be
en crushed.”
“I was not around at the time, but I daresay you're right,” Edward answered dryly.
“It was fortunate for her,” continued Helen, feeling her way, “that she found someone else she could—become fond of.”
Edward laughed shortly. “Yes, I suppose she is fond of me, but she is a great deal more fond of my tide.” He lifted his head to gaze at her straightly, his eyes alight. “If, as it now appears, I am about to suffer a reversal of fortune, I can at least be grateful to be removed from the Gilford candidate list for a husband for Elspeth.”
“Yes, I was thinking of that.” Helen's pulse was pumping uncomfortably. “But is that how you view it? A release? You and Miss Morwent . . .”
“—were never more than hostages to family expectations. Poor Elspeth very much wishes to marry a peer, and after Chris defected, I was the handiest.”
“And now . . .”
“And now, it looks as though I am no longer of any use to her—and I am unchivalrous enough to admit that I am greatly relieved by—her defection.”
Helen stilled for a moment, digesting this absurdly welcome information. She stood abruptly, smoothing her skirt.
“Well,” she declared briskly. “I am pleased that at least one aspect of William's arrival here is cause for approval on someone's part. And now, I shall leave you to your chores. It's getting late.”
Edward rose from his desk and came round to escort her from the room. She wished he hadn't. As she placed her hand on the door handle, he reached to open it for her, enclosing them briefly in the firelit silence. His fingers were warm on hers. The dark eyes that gazed down into hers were warm as well, with a light in their depths she felt was in no way attributable to the fire.
“That is not the only reason I am glad you came here,” he said, his voice low and husky.
She wished she could look away, but she seemed mesmerized by the fire in his eyes, the warmth of his touch and the very scent of him.
“Helen—” he began, “you have—you are—” He laughed softly. “For the first time I regret that I have no skill with words.” He lifted a hand to brush a wisp of hair away from her cheek. “I can only say that you have brought a joy—a light into my life that I never thought to experience.”
Vainly, Helen attempted to marshal her thoughts, her principles, the caution she had been trying to maintain since her arrival here. All for naught. She was aware only of the breathless delight of his fingers on her skin. When he bent his head, she lifted hers without reservation, and when his lips brushed hers, she welcomed the kiss as she might a draft of cool water on a hot day.
Not that there was anything cool about his mouth on hers. His touch brought an instant response from every part of her body. Her blood fairly sizzled in her veins and without thought, she pressed against him. She had never felt anything in her life so good as the feel of his body, filling all her curves and spaces.
His mouth lifted from hers, leaving her momentarily bereft, but his lips continued a trail of electric sensation along her cheek and jaw and down her throat. It was only when his fingers moved to the lace at her throat that she regained at least part of her reason. With the last of her conscious will, she drew away from him.
He was breathing as though he had just run a race, and be pulled away as well.
“Oh, God, Helen, I'm sorry. That is—no I'm not. How could I be? But"—he gulped—"I do apologize. I understand it is considered ungentlemanly to attempt to compromise a young woman in the shelter of one's own home.”
“Is that what you were doing?” she asked breathlessly. “Trying to compromise me?”
Edward laughed shakily, a sound that helped in good measure to restore Helen's composure. “Not consciously, I suppose, but I would be less than honest if I were not to concede that was probably my ultimate goal.”
Helen grew very still. “And are you always honest, Edward?”
He looked at her oddly. “Yes. I am among the ‘best policy’ school of thought. Particularly with those whom I esteem.”
She felt a chill creep over her that had nothing to do with the coolness of the silent house. Her laugh sounded loud to her in the room's stillness.
“My goodness, it is almost midnight. I have just been masterfully kissed, and here I stand discussing ethics with my admitted compromiser.”
“Attempted compromiser,” he corrected, still looking at her strangely. “But, you are right, it is very late. And I must say, if you continue to stand here, with the firelight gathered in your hair and your eyes the color of a witch's crystal, I cannot promise I won't make yet another attempt.”
In an attempt at lightness, she tried out another laugh. It emerged as a choked gasp. “And you say you have no skill with words?” she managed. “I shall bid you good night.” Unable to say more, she merely lifted a hand and spun away from him and down the corridor toward the staircase.
Back in the haven of her bedchamber, she flung herself into a little chair beneath a window. She was trembling like a frightened child.
How absurd.
It was not as though she had never been kissed before. She was reasonably attractive and had been the target of masculine attention since she'd put her hair up. She was by no means free with her charms, but she had allowed, on occasion, a chaste salute or two. None had stirred her as had the encounter moments ago. Good heavens, she had categorized him as plain—as ordinary! Truth to tell, she had not thought of him as plain for some time now. When had she begun to think a black thatch of hair so—beautiful? Particularly when it caught the sunlight in such a fascinating manner. When had she realized that deep-set dark eyes were so necessary in order to consider a man handsome?
And ordinary? That kiss had certainly not been ordinary. Her heart had pounded like a hammer on an anvil when he had cupped her head in his band. She had all but melted into a mindless puddle of acquiescence when his mouth claimed hers. She was not sure, indeed, that she had not moaned at the feathery fireworks he had ignited along her cheek and throat.
She frowned. It was all well and good to admit that she had been stirred. To be sure, her passions bad been roused by other men, other kisses. However, this was different. In addition to the heat that had twisted inside her at his touch, she had known an urge to curl into him, like a storm-tossed ship seeking haven in a Secure harbor. Surely, she had no need of harbor. She had taken care of herself for a number of years now, thank you very much, and did not require the protection of a man.
But that wasn't it, either. In Edward's arms, she had experienced a feeling of coming home. It was as though she had been searching all her life for the warmth, the sense of communion—the sense of belonging—she had found in his embrace.
This was not a good thing. For one thing, she still did not really know Edward, and she might be ruinously incautious in allowing such feelings for him to grow in her. She felt in her heart that he was an honorable, good man. Yet, his own cousins found serious fault with him. Chris had disliked him intensely. Well, she had clashed often enough with Chris's opinion. Edward bad been exonerated from Artemis's tales of petty cruelty when Chris and he were children. Helen sighed.
No, she was sure she was not mistaken in her conviction of Edward's decency. She liked Edward—because he was a likable man.
More important at the moment was the fact that Edward liked her. She warmed herself over the thought as one might over a glowing ember on a cold day. Indeed, she suspected his sentiments were warmer than liking. However, she had no future with the likes of Edward Beresford. He might not be an earl, but he was of a class far above hers. He would be more likely to offer her carte blanche, which she thought might just break her heart. On the other hand, when he discovered, as he inevitably would, the cloud that hung over her past, he would most likely evict her— and William—from Whitehouse Abbey with a fiery sword. The investigation into William's claim would come to an abrupt halt, and she would likely be turned over to the harsh mercies of the Crown.
Which br
ought her to another point. She had been telling herself for days that it was time to present Edward with a round tale concerning the forgery of Woman at the Window. She must not delay any longer. It was still too soon to worry about Uncle Stanford's investigation. He would no doubt turn up something eventually, but the English Channel provided a comfortable cushion of time. But that wasn't the point. She owed Edward the truth. She would just have to steel herself to the prospect of watching those warm, brown eyes chill to the color of storm-washed pebbles. She could whisper defensive phrases—that she had done no wrong, had, in fact, tried to avert disaster—but how could she expect him to believe her? The evidence was damning, and, after all, Edward hardly knew her.
Wearily, she drew herself up from the little chair and began her preparations for bed. She declined to call Bing-ham, who would no doubt scold her in the morning, but she might as well get used to a return to her former state— sans abigail.
Once beneath the covers, she tried to compose herself for sleep, but it was many hours before her eyelids closed and her breathing deepened. Even then, her rest was disturbed by unpleasant dreams featuring a wrathful Edward Beresford. His eyes spat an icy fire and his voice howled through the corridors of Whitehouse Abbey with ringing condemnation. In the end, she stood before a locked and shuttered Abbey, alone and desolate. She woke in the darkness before dawn, a sob in her throat and her eyes wet with tears.
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Chapter Fourteen
Edward rode mindlessly, allowing Lion to take his own path through the home farm and on to the bordering forests. The day had dawned to a fine spring morning, with winter obviously on the wane. Nature's beneficence, however, was wasted on Edward. His mind, indeed his whole being, was concentrated on the events of last evening.
Frankly, he had always thought of himself as rather a cold fish. He liked women—he had been intimately involved with more than one member of that sex, but his appreciation lay more in the generic than in the individual. In short, he was not a man to be overwhelmed by the proximity of a beautiful woman. Yet, his embrace with Helen Prestwick, the kisses they had shared, had shaken him to the foundations of his soul. The feel of her mouth against his, her silken skin, heated by his touch, her body warm and pliant in his arms, had conspired to drive him to the point of madness.