Virtue's Reward

by Jean R. Ewing

  “But I’m not of noble blood.”

  “Then mine will have to count for both of us, I suppose. You might try to see me as St. George rather than the monster, you know.”

  “Yes, but it’s the being tied to the rock as the tide comes in that’s so unnerving,” Helena replied.

  “There is really nothing to be afraid of,” he said and he came up to her and took her head in his hands. “Trust me, sweet.”

  She gazed back up at him. His eyes were very dark.

  “I don’t know what to do,” she whispered.

  “You’re not supposed to know,” he replied. “Just relax.”

  Gently he touched her lips with his own. She stood as rigid as a poker in his grasp, but his kiss was as light and fleeting as the one he had given her after their wedding. She felt suddenly reassured. Perhaps she could trust him?

  She closed her eyes as his fingertips gently smoothed over her lids.

  “Do you know that you are beautiful?” he said softly in her ear. “Don’t think, just feel.”

  She was afraid to move or to speak, so she merely nodded her head a little. She could feel careful fingers pulling the pins out of her hair. As it fell around her shoulders, he smoothed it away from her face as if he were soothing a frightened horse.

  “Your hair alone would be enticing enough to launch all the thousand ships,” he whispered. “Helen of Troy would have been jealous.”

  His hands ran down the fall of her hair. The feeling was wonderful and she smiled tremulously up at him. She dared not open her eyes, so she had no idea what his expression was. And then his fingers began a strange and delicious stroking on the back of her neck, while one hand slid down her arm, lingering on the sensitive skin inside her elbow and wrist. He lifted her hand and she felt his tongue trail lightly across her palm before gently sucking at each fingertip.

  Something very odd began to happen to her insides. His mouth touched her temple and the lobe of her ear before he moved to kiss the pulse at the base of her throat. She trembled like a reed in the wind at the delicious sensation. When his lips closed once again over hers, she could not keep herself from responding.

  “There, you see,” he whispered when he finally lifted his lips from hers. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

  Her eyes flew open. She felt breathless and dizzy.

  “No,” she said honestly. “It was lovely.”

  “Then would you mind if I did it again?”

  “I think I might even like it.”

  “And I think, truthful Helena, that I am glad that I married you.”

  His eyes were pools of darkness. If she looked into them for another moment, she might be lost forever, so she dropped her head and looked away.

  Richard led her to the bed.

  “When you were a child,” he said casually, pulling her to his lap, “did you ever take off your dress and stockings and lie on the hot summer sand of Trethaerin Cove to let the sun wash over your skin like a wave?”

  She smiled nervously. Richard’s body felt strong and warm. His silk robe caressed her arm. His fingers were slowly moving her hair until it lay in a sheer curtain across her breast.

  “Of course I did, though I risked a beating if I were ever found out.”

  “But it was worth it, wasn’t it?”

  He bent his head and took her lips again. He tasted as sweet as honey.

  She barely noticed that his clever fingers had unbuttoned the row of fasteners at the back of her dress until it slithered to her waist and she was clothed in nothing but the fall of her hair over her thin chemise.

  “Imagine the hot sun,” he whispered softly as his hand moved up the bare skin of her back, “and the sound of the waves. There has never been a more beautiful summer day.”

  Chapter Six

  When Helena awoke in the morning, she was alone. She could not remember his leaving. She must have fallen asleep after . . . She blushed a little, then smiled to herself. How on earth was such an amazing thing kept secret? Was this what men and women did together, that people all through history had risked honor, reputation, or even life itself to find?

  She thought for a moment about what had happened. Richard had asked for her trust and she had given it. Then he had touched her heart in ways she had not known were possible. He had said they would make love. How could you not love the agent of such pleasure? She would never be afraid again. It seemed that marriage was a one-sided bargain, after all, and every facet was a gift from him to her.

  Slipping from the bed, she went to the window and looked out over the grounds of Acton Mead. A scattering of great old trees punctuated a sweep of green lawn and gave shade to a flock of black-and-white sheep.

  In the distance lay the blue ribbon of the river, divided from the park by an iron railing and the waving tufts of cattails. A brightly painted barge went slowly by, as small and neat as a toy. The tow horse seemed to be led by a tiny boy.

  I would bear Richard’s child with gladness, she thought suddenly.

  Quickly Helena splashed cold water over her face and body from the jug on the dresser, and slipped into her green-and-ivory muslin. Her blood singing, she bundled her hair into a knot on the top of her head and went down the stairs to the kitchen.

  Mrs. Hood looked up at her entrance.

  “Well, bless me, your ladyship! Why didn’t you ring for hot water?”

  “Where is Viscount Lenwood, Mrs. Hood?”

  “He took off early for Town, my lady. He said not to disturb you till you woke by yourself, or I’d have brought up some tea for you.”

  “To Town? London, you mean?” She fought hard to keep the despair from her voice.

  “There’s a lot of business to do, my lady, to open up a big house like Acton Mead again. Why, we’ve been under covers these three years, ever since the dowager countess died. It does my old heart good to see your bonny face and think of Master Richard living here with a pretty young wife, and maybe a nursery as well before too long. Bless me! I’m letting my old tongue run away with me. Forgive me if I speak out of turn, your ladyship. And here we are talking in the kitchen!”

  “The kitchen seems to me to be an excellent place, Mrs. Hood. In fact, I should like breakfast. And perhaps afterward, you might show me the house and we’ll begin to see about those dust covers.”

  Helena appeared perfectly composed as she ate her simple meal, but her heart sank within her. She had refined too much on what had transpired last night. He had left without even saying good-bye. Of course, it didn’t mean the same to him as it had to her. Men had their needs and women accommodated them. If he had been skilled enough that she had been so moved by it, that meant only that he was experienced.

  What had she overheard his father say? “Why not set her up in a place in London like your other mistresses?”

  Men did the very same thing with their mistresses, didn’t they? She must not let it disturb her. Yet it did. Very much! In fact, she couldn’t bear to think that he would act that way with any other woman. Good Lord! Was she falling in love with him?

  In something akin to panic, she looked up at Mrs. Hood.

  “I should like to see the house right away,” she heard herself say calmly. “Shall we begin downstairs?”

  They began in the hallway. Helena had hardly noticed the previous night, but the entrance was simple and elegant, even with its ornate Jacobean ceiling. Several doors led off into the formal rooms.

  As they passed through them, Mrs. Hood flung wide the wooden shutters and let the bright sunshine stream in. Yellow beams danced over shrouded chairs and sofas and desks, over the dining table, the sideboards, the leather spines of the books in the library.

  “Everything seems to be in very good order,” Helena commented eventually. “You have surely not kept up all this by yourself?”

  “Oh, no, my lady. We get a gaggle of girls up from the village every week to scrub and polish. Of course, Hood does all the silver himself, and no one else is allowed to touch the books
or paintings but ourselves.”

  “Then let us see if any of those girls are in need of a permanent place. Eventually we shall need a complete staff, but for now I shall put it in your hands to hire on a minimum complement of servants until Viscount Lenwood returns. But I would like this blue drawing room usable right away.”

  The room was lovely. French windows looked out over the back of the house. From what she could see, there was a mass of white roses flowing over a wicker arch that framed the entrance to a stone patio. She must have a room to use until Richard returned, and how could she guess when that might be? And the housekeeper and butler could hardly take care of the house alone now that there was family in residence.

  Or would it be only herself? Would Richard come back at all?

  “This can be my retreat for now,” she said serenely.

  Mrs. Hood nodded and continued to lead her through room after room. No wonder her husband loved this house! It was neither enormously grand nor pretentious, but each chamber had classic proportions that welcomed and lifted the spirit.

  They left the family apartments, and Helena followed the housekeeper through the workrooms: the cool sunken buttery with its marble counters; the laundry with its huge copper cauldron; the pantry, stillroom, and wine cellar. Nothing had been allowed to gather dust.

  Upstairs was the same. Helena inspected bedrooms and withdrawing rooms and dressing rooms. She even took a look at the servants’ quarters in the attics. By the time Mrs. Hood served her a light luncheon in the kitchen, they had inspected every room in the house, except, of course, Richard’s bedroom and his study. No one but Hood himself saw to the master’s rooms.

  The next day the village girls arrived and made their nods and curtsies to the new mistress. Dust covers began to be folded and disappear into the labyrinth of storage rooms. Under Mrs. Hood’s capable direction the house started to reappear like a butterfly from the chrysalis.

  Helena left her at it and, tying on her straw bonnet, went out into the garden. In a few moments she was sitting beneath the bower of roses and castigating herself thoroughly for allowing silent tears to slip down her cheeks.

  How could Richard have gone off to London without her? How long did he intend to leave her here? And why, in heaven’s name, should she suddenly care so much?

  It had been not much more than a week since he had arrived at Trethaerin, with his haunted eyes and his compassion for her loss of Edward. Dear Cousin Edward! She had mourned him as a childhood friend, but they had long been apart. His infrequent letters might have been dutifully written to an aged aunt. Yet had he come back, she would no doubt have married him. Then she might never have met Richard at all.

  She dried her eyes on her handkerchief and laughed at herself. What on earth had she anticipated when she married a perfect stranger? The countess had warned her of what she might expect. She was fortunate if he treated her with kindness and was a tender, passionate lover. Many women were grateful for much less.

  With a new determination Helena walked down through the gardens of Acton Mead. Mrs. Hood had explained that funds arrived regularly from a trust left by Richard’s grandmother to pay for its upkeep. Certainly, nothing had gone neglected. A regular army of gardeners was busy maintaining the grounds, and there was apparently a perfectly competent estate manager who ran the home farm and oversaw the tenants. He had his own house in the village of Mead Farthing.

  Nevertheless, there was plenty for Helena to do.

  * * *

  Three days later she was busy in a stone-flagged outbuilding, her hair wrapped in a scarf, and her oldest dress covered in a long white apron borrowed from the understairs maid.

  There was a great deal of laughing and giggling, for she was overseeing the making of ink, and the village girls had never done it before. All of them seemed to be liberally coated with soot.

  “I declare, my lady,” one of the girls said. “It’s more messy than the making of gooseberry pie.”

  “At least when you make pie, you may lick the spills off your fingers,” Helena replied gaily. “I don’t think our ink would taste as good. Now, this mess is all yours. I leave you to it.”

  She stepped out of the shed and began to pull the rag from her hair, when strong hands grasped her around the waist from behind. She whirled around to find herself gazing into a pair of merry blue eyes. Their owner smiled at her, revealing a set of perfect teeth, and tossed back a lock of black hair that had fallen over his forehead.

  His dress declared him a gentleman, but he did not seem inclined to act like one.

  “What on earth have we here? I came looking for a fellow with hair just your color, but the devil has put a wench in my path instead. I think I would happily make it a permanent trade.”

  And pulling her to his broad chest, he began to kiss her on the mouth. Helena was furious. His lips were accomplished and gentle, yet she knew only a strong desire to slap the insolent smile from his face.

  “If you were looking for me, Harry,” a cool voice said, “you have a very odd way of conducting your search. For that wench you are manhandling is my wife, and I’m damned if I won’t call you out.”

  The owner of the blue eyes instantly spun away from Helena.

  Richard stood watching them, tapping his riding crop against his thigh. He was dressed in tall boots and a plain brown riding coat. The dust of the road still dulled his clothes.

  “God’s teeth, Richard,” Harry said. “How was I to know?”

  “You couldn’t, of course,” Viscount Lenwood replied. “Let me introduce you. Helena, this is my brother, the Honorable Henry Acton, who has apparently seen fit to come down from Oxford for the express purpose of dishonorably accosting you in the garden. Harry, my wife, Lady Lenwood.”

  The line was drawn deep between the black eyes.

  But Harry laughed and gave her a bow. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, sister-in-law. I congratulate brother Dickon on his taste. It seems every good fortune comes his way: you, Acton Mead, and at last, but of course not least, the earldom.”

  “I have heard of you, sir,” Helena said serenely. “But I don’t think I can so easily forgive you.”

  “Damn it all, my lady,” Harry said, giving her a charming smile. “How can you blame me? I’m only human. Richard might have thought to give you a decent gown or two, and hire some servants. I took you for a maid.”

  “Exactly, sir! And I would prefer that the maids are not targets for unwelcome advances in my house.”

  Helena thought suddenly that she had gone too far, for Richard was looking at her in open astonishment. Oh, Lord, she thought. It’s his house. And his brother. How could I? Now I have been rude.

  But Harry gave her another big smile and gallantly bowed again. “I am suitably chastised, my lady. I shall be as grave and sober as a monk, if you will only forgive me and say I may stay at Acton Mead to visit solemnly with you and brother Dickon.”

  “It isn’t for me to say, sir,” she said. “Unless Viscount Lenwood agrees.”

  “For God’s sake, come up to the house, Harry,” Richard said. “And tell me how much money you need. I can’t offer you much in the way of creature comfort, I’m afraid. The house has been shut up for years.”

  He turned on his heel and strode away up the path. Helena and Harry followed behind. Richard was home. She felt her heart lift within her.

  “It looks pretty sumptuous to me, old fellow,” Harry said as they walked in, and a new maid curtsied and took their gloves. “Can your table live up to the standard of your accommodations? I hope so, because I’m starving.”

  Helena saw the black eyes widen as Richard glanced through the open doorway at the bright room beyond. What had happened to the dustsheets? And had the furniture been rearranged? There was a sparkle to everything as if it had all just been buffed and polished. Whatever the cause, it looked extremely welcoming.

  “I have no idea,” he said quietly. “You had better ask my wife.”

  * * *

>   Nigel Garthwood ground his teeth as he rode along the turnpike. Information about the brandy flask had not been in the least difficult to obtain, for the chambermaid at the Anchor Inn in Blacksands had seen it in Captain Acton’s room.

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Garthwood!” She dimpled as she pocketed his coin. “I couldn’t be mistaken. For I wondered at the time why he had ordered so many bottles to drink, when he already had his own flask. But, of course, his was empty.”

  “You checked to see?”

  The girl blushed. “I meant no harm, sir. I was just curious. He seemed such a sad gentleman.”

  “And you’re a smart and pretty miss. You could be a lady’s maid.”

  “Oh, sir, I never could.”

  “In Paris, a clever girl with your looks would be paid in gold coin. There’s a shortage of good girls like you.”

  He chucked her under the chin and she curtsied, flattered.

  So Acton had Edward Blake’s flask in his possession and he undoubtedly knew what it contained. Why else would he have come all the way down to Cornwall and married Helena Trethaerin? Devil take it! If the letter had only come into his hands a few days earlier!

  Well, that was water under the bridge. Captain Acton obviously did not intend to tell his new bride immediately, but eventually the contents of the brandy flask would be conveniently discovered, and then he would come back to Cornwall to make his claim.

  Garthwood grimaced to himself. He should have acted long since and forced marriage with her himself. Never had he imagined that it would prove so important. To think that he had actually been glad for a moment that she had been taken off his hands! Damnation! Acton had stolen the prize from right under his nose.

  He kicked his horse into a canter. Captain Acton might be laughing up his sleeve at this moment, but his mirth wouldn’t last long.