The Sleeping Beauty

by Jacqueline Navin

  And she would be a fool if she forgot for one moment, one fragile, lost moment spent in the arms of an amorous handsome man, that he was only seducing her to seal the devil’s bargain he had made. It didn’t take too much imagination to realize the reason he wanted to bed her.

  The lump in her throat swelled to painful proportions. He wanted to bed her only to ensure the marriage could not be annulled in the future, causing him to lose his wondrous boon.

  But…but Adam, for all his numerous faults, had never been anything less than honest. Painfully so, at times. He had called her scrawny. He had admitted his loathsome motivations.

  Would he lie with his mouth, with his kiss, to lure her to him and peel away her defenses? Had he meant that kiss? Did he truly want her?

  The tears that had filled her eyes splashed, fat and heavy, onto her lap. Self-consciously, she swiped them away and angled a look at Kimberly, hoping she hadn’t seen. The servant’s eyes were closed, her head slightly tilted back. Her mouth was slack, her body utterly still.

  Helena knew that stance very well. She froze, and all thought drained out of her.

  When Kimberly opened her eyes, she leveled an intense and direct gaze at Helena. “Yer mother is pleased.”

  The shoes Helena had been holding dropped to the floor with a thud.

  “She won’t allow me into her bedroom,” Adam stated.

  “That is your problem, my boy.” George Rathford glared at his son-in-law. “The deal is done. You don’t expect me to alter it now.”

  “I expect you to be reasonable. I have to return to London, sir. Short of forcing your daughter to comply, I cannot get her to allow me to…to fulfill my end of our bargain.”

  Rathford cocked a bushy eyebrow at Adam. “Then you’d best find a way, because you are not going anywhere unless she’s properly made your wife, and if I hear tell you’ve hurt one hair on her head I’ll skin you and gut you like a jackrabbit.”

  The ferocious snarl on the man’s bearlike face left no doubt that he meant what he said.

  Adam blew out a disgusted breath and turned away.

  Howard stuck his head in the room. “I’m nearly ready, Uncle.”

  “Everything in order?”

  “I seem to have managed. My horse is being brought round. Did you have those accounts I asked you to look over?”

  “Damn. I took them to my room last night. I’d better go get them.”

  “La! Call the servants to fetch them.”

  “Don’t trust the blasted servants. They’ve got looser tongues than a gaggle of matrons. Be right back.”

  As soon as Lord Rathford was out of earshot, Howard rolled his eyes. “Lot of good his advice is going to be.” To Adam, he said, “The man used to be brilliant. Made a fortune when he saw the future of trade with India. Spices are worth more than gold, man. But he’s no good now. Drink’s ruined him. Depends on me for everything.”

  Circling the room, he strutted importantly while Adam followed him with his eyes. “Yes, indeed. All of this rests on me, while he drinks himself stupid.”

  Adam tried to resist but was unable. He crossed his arms over his chest. “How so?”

  “You don’t think Helena’s going to take care of any of it. Not that she isn’t bright enough, and I’m not one of those that thinks a woman can’t be as good as a man. My own mother—God rest her—kept my father’s books and doubled the family’s worth in the ten years since he was gone. But Helena? My good fellow, that woman is positively ghoulish. I swear, Aunt Althea may have been a bitch, but at least she had them all marching to her tune when she was here. This place was something then. Now look at it. It’s a disgrace, that’s what it is.”

  Adam felt an unreasonable irritation at his observations about Helena. They were, after all, quite accurate. Still he felt the need to defend her. “Helena is a private person. Who are you to judge? She’s had terrible times.”

  “She’s no more traumatized than me. Guilt-ridden more likely.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The murder.” He looked again at Adam’s frown of incomprehension. “The murder, man!”

  Adam felt his hands involuntarily curl into fists. “What murder?”

  “Oh, blast! I can’t believe this! They didn’t tell you—no one told you? How the devil did they manage that?” Howard stuck out his chest and crowed. “Oh, Mr. Mannion, I think they’ve been keeping a terrible secret from you. You see, my good man, Helena is a murderess.”

  “No.” He was lying. Adam knew his type; they loved to spread their bile. They got joy from other people’s miseries. He had thought Howard the harmless sort of dandy, but now he saw his mistake in not taking the poncey fool seriously.

  “Oh, yes. Ask your father-in-law. Why, ask Helena herself. She won’t lie to you outright, although they’ve both deceived you plenty. A direct falsehood is much different from a lie of omission.”

  He was too smug, too righteous, to be lying. Adam’s heart twisted. “Who? Who was it she…she murdered?”

  Gleefully, Howard rubbed his hands together. “Can’t you guess? Dear Aunt Althea.”

  The roar of blood in Adam’s ears nearly overrode the snide words Howard crooned with delicious precision. “Her mother.”

  Helena kept thinking of children.

  She wanted very badly to have a child; she had for a long time. Being far beyond the years where most women marry, and having no likely husband in sight, she had thought that dream lost to her. When Adam had come into her life, it hadn’t occurred to her that their “marriage” would in any way include a life beyond his pockets being filled. She had never thought he would want her to have his children.

  But now…now there was a possibility that she could be a mother. Just thinking of it uncoiled a longing in her chest. And, unable to help herself, she began to plan.

  She liked the name Isabella for a girl. For a boy, she had always admired Stephen.

  Thinking of a child to brighten this gloomy house brought on smiles, and visions of sunlight dappling through the huge leaded windows. Laughter would ring in these hollow halls, and music….

  She would play for her child. And sing. To Isabella. Or Stephen.

  Drawing in a ragged breath, she made a decision. Tonight, she would invite Adam to her bed.

  “She is not a murderess.” Lord Rathford fumbled clumsily for the decanter. Adam thought he would shatter it as he clanked it against his glass, pouring himself his third drink in less than a half hour. “The inquest cleared her of all wrongdoing. Of course, the devils around here like to speculate. I am surprised at Howard for being so foolish, but he was always a slave to gossip. It is unfounded rumor, nothing more.”

  “Her mother was shot. I found that out, at least, and Helena told them she had done it.”

  “No. That was a misunderstanding. The duke and duchess were there—they saw everything. The duke confessed to shooting Althea in self-defense. After all, she’d shot him. The duchess backed him, and Helena admitted she had…eh, been confused. The shock of it all, you see. They all agreed. Helena was completely cleared.” Rathford drew in a long breath and continued in a softer tone, “She was just upset, that was all. It was always like her to take responsibility for things she wasn’t guilty of. She’d apologize for a storm that wrecked my hunting, or ‘make it up to me’ when Althea grew cross.”

  Adam rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Then why does she hate people, hide away as she does? It makes no sense that there would be something like this to drive her into hiding.”

  “It’s the gossip, that’s all, the same as what’s got you all up in arms. Look, Mannion, her past isn’t your concern.” The old man shifted in his chair, an expression of pain crossing his fleshy face for a moment. “It’s her future I want you to do something about.”

  Adam noticed Rathford’s hand was shaking. To cover it, the man put his glass down quickly. Adam felt a twinge of concern, then dismissed it. Sitting forward, he demanded, “I want the truth, Rathford.
You owe me the truth. The whole story now. Why the devil did your wife shoot the duke?”

  “Althea had gone after the duke because he’d broken the engagement to Helena so he could marry Chloe.”

  This news hit Adam hard. Helena had been engaged to Jareth Hunt, the Duke of Strathmere, before he had wed Chloe. “Did Helena want Jareth?”

  “Helena was happy to let Jareth go to Chloe, but Althea…she wanted that title for Helena. All that wretched bitch ever wanted was for Helena to be the duchess. Althea went there that day to murder the two of them. She had it all figured out, you see. Gerald, the cousin, the one I hunt with—he would inherit. He liked Helena well enough and…well, my wife…she was evil. I didn’t know it, though. Should have. Yes. I should have.”

  His brow creased and his face crumpled.

  “But Althea didn’t murder Jareth.”

  “Oh, she tried. Althea shot him, wounding him. She had brought two firearms, however—one for Chloe and one for Jareth. The duke managed to wrestle the other flintlock from her after he was shot, and it went off. It was an accident. That was the ruling.”

  It was an incredible story. Adam took a moment to find his voice. “Then why, if it is all so simple, is there still rumor?”

  “Helena was beautiful, accomplished, impeccable. She was perfect. Perfect. When her mother died, she crumbled. You know what happened to her, how she stopped caring about herself. Stopped living. People said it was guilt. They said Jareth took the blame because he felt he owed her something.” Rathford pondered some spot in the middle distance. “The rumor you heard I have heard, too. They say she killed her mother out of a fit of pique at what she saw as her mother’s failure to secure her the title of duchess. Now, you know Helena well enough to know she never cared a whit about that. She wasn’t sorry to lose Jareth. She didn’t kill her mother.”

  Adam thought this over. There was truth enough in some of what Rathford was saying. Having witnessed for himself that Helena certainly bore the noble couple no ill will, he was inclined to believe the story. In fact, he had noticed a sort of steady fondness among the three, as if there were in truth some bond they had shared that forever forged them together. But it didn’t explain everything. For example, if Helena never wanted the marriage to Jareth, why she was so traumatized by the event? Was seeing her mother killed enough to explain her utter collapse into the dismal existence in which Adam had found her?

  And then there was Lord Rathford’s behavior. Although Adam wasn’t inclined to believe Howard, his father-in-law seemed to be uncommonly nervous. There was sweat trickling down his brow now and he’d already untied his cravat.

  He went for another drink.

  Adam said, “If you’re lying to me, Rathford, I’ll make you pay. Our bargain will be off and I’ll still have Helena’s money.”

  “What does it matter? The past is done. Bed the girl and you’ll get a bonus.” Rathford’s look was bitter. “Three thousand pounds. And you can go back to London the very next day.”

  Adam stared at the man, dumfounded. What was he to make of this? Would a man with nothing to hide offer so much? Yet, Adam had to wonder why a man as clever as Lord Rathford had to give so obvious a diversion.

  But he was a desperate man, George Rathford was. Adam saw it in his bleary eyes. And, to his embarrassment, the multiple chins quivered as Rathford said in a watery voice, “Give her a life, man. Give her something to live for. Whatever her reason for this hell she’s locked in, it doesn’t matter. You can break her out of it.”

  Adam exhaled loudly and went to pour a glass of whiskey for himself. “Like damned, bloody Sleeping Beauty, right?”

  What the hell? He’d never figure out these insane secrets. Besides, it all came down to the fact that he wanted to do it. He wanted to make love to Helena. Yes. He burned for her, and it was easy to dismiss all the rest when the chance to have her was all he really cared about.

  Last night. And that kiss…

  Just the memory of her bare hands on his skin set his groin aching. And that diaphanous gown, rendered so by the strategic lighting behind her, so that her womanly form was completely silhouetted…He had seen for himself that her severe slenderness did nothing to take away from her very unique, very attractive gamine femininity.

  All through the afternoon and on into the evening he pondered on exactly how to seduce his wife. They all endured an excruciating dinner fraught with enough tension to cause a person to choke on the coq au vin.

  Helena was particularly skittish. She refused to look at Adam, and spoke less than a half-dozen times, and then only when queried directly.

  It didn’t take a genius to understand why she was so withdrawn. She was thinking about the kiss, too, but apparently she had a much different response. No doubt she despised him even more than she ever had. And that was saying something.

  Fabulous. He had really loused up his chance by barging into her private moment nearly naked and pawing at her like some randy schoolboy.

  He saw no way to break through her ironclad resistance to him and was prepared to give up any hope of returning to London when she came up to him timidly after they had dined and uttered five words in a small voice.

  He nearly keeled backward onto the Aubusson carpet.

  She said, “You may visit me tonight.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  How did one make love to a wife?

  That was the question that tortured Adam’s poor brain as he divested himself of his clothing and donned a dressing gown. He’d made love to many women, and although some of them had been wives, none had ever been his wife.

  Wives were different. One couldn’t toss them on their backs and smother their bodies with hot, sultry kisses until the need was intense and urgent. One couldn’t drive deep within them and lose one’s self to ecstasy.

  That was what he wanted to do. She’d been driving him mad from the moment she had slammed the door on his foot.

  No, he cautioned himself. There could not be passion. Women of breeding didn’t expect or want that sordid sort of thing from their husbands. The lusty ones took lovers after their childbearing duties were done, and the cold ones shriveled into disapproving old hens.

  Certainly Helena would not delight in knowing the wild, erotic things he wanted to do to her.

  Pulling himself up straight, he cinched the dressing gown around his waist. He always hated these things. They were for fops, as far as he was concerned, but he couldn’t risk offending her by bursting in in his loose, drawstring drawers. Again. He had to strictly observe decency. It would be difficult enough for Helena to succumb to the proceedings she would no doubt find disgusting.

  Besides, it reminded him that he wasn’t visiting a lover. He was visiting a wife.

  A soft knock and Adam entered.

  The moment Helena saw him, her mouth went utterly dry. He looked completely ridiculous in that dressing gown. It was far too elegant for the primitive masculinity he wore so easily. She much preferred the bare-chested, barefooted apparition that had visited her last night.

  The thought shocked her, but she didn’t bother to feel guilty. The memory was too tantalizing to resist mulling over for a moment or two.

  For herself, she was wrapped up tight in a silk robe with her thickest cotton night rail underneath, buttoned all the way up to her ears.

  “Good evening,” Adam said. He wore a pleasant smile.

  Gone was that diamond-hard glint in his eye that had kept her helpless last night.

  “Good evening, Adam.”

  He crossed the room. Nervously, without anything to do, her hands fluttered. Finally, they found each other and clasped in a white-knuckled grip under her breasts.

  “Thank you for coming.”

  He smirked, as if she’d said something funny. She frowned. They stared at each other awkwardly for a moment.

  “Maybe you’d be more comfortable over here,” he suggested. To her horror, he indicated the bed.

  “Oh.” Of course. They shoul
dn’t waste time. Get this horrible embarrassment over as quickly as possible.

  On wooden legs, she moved in obeyance of the hand at the small of her back. Toward the bed.

  She gulped back an eruption of panic.

  He undid the sash of her wrapper. “I think you’ll be more comfortable without this.”

  “The lights!”

  “I’ll douse them.” His tone was reassuring. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he pushed her gently onto the bed. She sat first, then, stiff as a corpse, lay on her back, feet still on the floor.

  “Relax,” he said, and went to extinguish the lamp.

  Helena didn’t move.

  He left one single candle burning, which he brought to the bedside table.

  Helena didn’t move.

  He climbed into the bed. She kept her eyes pinned to the ceiling, feeling the bed sag under his weight. The heat coming off his body registered all along her left side.

  Helena didn’t move.

  Long fingers touched her chin, turning her face toward his. “You are a virgin?”

  “Of course I am!” she snapped. “How can you ask that!” She sat bolt upright in one jerky movement. “That’s it! I knew this was a mistake.”

  His big hand caught her squarely in the middle of her chest and sent her sprawling onto her back.

  “Helena,” he said patiently, “I didn’t mean to insult you. Think about it from my perspective. There are all these unanswered questions about your past. Many things in this house are not what they seem. It was no comment on your character, but a simple question so that I know what to do. It makes no difference what the answer is, except now I realize you do not know what to expect.”

  “I know what to expect. My mother told me. I…I am prepared to submit. You know what to do, right?”

  He bit the inside of his cheeks. The lighting was poor, but God spare his hide if that smile blossomed to the full. “I have a general idea.”

  She let out a long breath. “Then go ahead.”