by Jackie Ivie
Simone separated Helene from Gillian as if she were invisible. And then she took him out into the dancing couples. It would be hard to find a more striking couple. Gillian looked born to the art of dancing, but that Simone looked like she was making love to him. And not the way Sherry’s men had, either. She moved in such a sinewy, pulse-stirring way that Helene couldn’t seem to move her eyes.
“I’ve a sudden need of the punch bowl, Lady Helene,” Reg said. “Will you permit me to bring you a glass while I hunt one for myself?”
Reginald was at her side. Stopping her thoughts. And the horrible chill that might actually be jealousy.
“Some…fresh air would be appreciated,” she answered woodenly.
“We’d better not, Helene. Gill has spectacularly good aim.”
“What?”
“And a jealous streak.”
She snorted in an unladylike fashion. “Gillian? Please. He won’t miss me. But he’s a terrible scene director. He’ll have a devil of a time acting enamored of me with her around.”
She tried to speak lightly, but her body wasn’t listening. And if the Marquis of Dunsberry didn’t want to see her burst into tears, he’d better find her some fresh air. And quickly.
“Simone? Hardly. As far as I know, Gil’s been avoiding her for some time. I believe he lost interest.”
‘Lost interest?” Why did she have to start repeating things now? She didn’t want to know.
“Simone’s had her eye on him for ages, and a hook at the ready if her situation changes, but Gil was a difficult fish. He was rather a catch, Helene. Has been since…he came of age, I think. I should know. I’ve been playing second fiddle. The marriage mart doesn’t have many men with his...attributes is a good enough word, isn’t it?”
“You mean he has some?”
“You hadn’t noticed?”
“Oh, I have, Reg. He’s got a love of foul language; he’s a broad-shouldered type who uses his strength to bully; he’s rude, inconsiderate, and a drunkard. He thinks the world revolves around him and that any woman he chooses to look at should thank God for the privilege.”
“You love him that much?”
Her mouth opened, but it wasn’t to speak. Reg’s image glittered as her eyes narrowed. He was still too clear. And he was wrong. She did not love Gillian Tremayne. She didn’t love anyone. She couldn’t. She didn’t. She wouldn’t. Love was not in her future.
Ever.
“I’ll just go and fetch you a glass of punch now, My Lady. Your servant.”
Reg bowed, and she watched him thread his way back through the crowd. She refused to turn around. Anything was better than watching the golden couple on the dance floor.
***
She had more to add to her list later.
Gil snored at times, especially when he came late to her room reeking of another woman’s perfume. He took up too much of the bed with the way he sprawled. And he looked silly in a pin-tucked nightshirt.
That last was a lie. Helene debated striking it from her mental list as she waited for his grand lordship to wake so she could get him from her room. And maybe find some escape from her thoughts. That small mercy would be the most appreciated. The memory of what Reg said kept repeating in her mind. She only wished she’d said something to rebut the idea.
She didn’t love him! Perish the thought! Any woman who’d fall for Lord Tremayne’s dubious attractions was the most cotton-headed lummox born. Helene wasn’t that insane. Still…he was rather fascinating to watch, and since she couldn’t sleep, it didn’t seem to matter. Who was to know?
Just look at him.
He’d opened the connecting door at half-past two, and she’d done her best to pretend to be asleep as he joined her. She wondered why he bothered. The servants wouldn’t wake them until mid-morn, and he’d obviously slaked his lust with Simone by the way he smelled. Helene would just as soon hit him as sleep beside him. He really needed to find another occupation besides acting like he was in love with her. Signora del Casta’s servants had tongues, too, didn’t they?
Maybe she could yank the bell-pull and call a maid. Who said she had to wait? It was already morning. The sun was up. That made it next to impossible to miss how sections of his light brown hair curled. About his ears. Along his neck. It matched the hair on other portions of his frame, but that was one memory she could do without.
He snored louder and she kicked his thigh, gently at first, but with the next, his leg reached the edge of the mattress. He grunted. And then he spoke. And he didn’t sound like he’d just awakened from a sound sleep at all.
“Careful, darling. You might damage something.”
She glared. “Oh. I am being careful, My Lord, but I doubt very much you have anything worth noting, anyway. Get out of my bed.”
“My head hurts. And your whining is making it worse.”
Helene watched him roll onto his side, facing her. Or he would be, if he opened his eyes. It was still affecting her, making her heart beat quicker, and her breath stall more than once.
“I don’t…whine, My Lord. I’ve an aversion to it. I’m simply stating my desires. You, as usual, are ignoring them.”
He opened his eyes. Oh dear. That was much worse.
“Do you really want my full attention on your desires, Helene?”
“You have a filthy tongue.”
“Really? Well, you have an entire briar patch for one. Therefore, I request a draw. At least until the servants call us.”
“It’s almost ten. I’ll ring them up if that’s what’s keeping you.”
“The only thing keeping me, darling…is how much leg you’re determined to show and pretend it’s not a practiced motion.”
She glanced down and gasped. Her nightclothes weren’t just showing leg. They were almost to her derriere! Oh. Bother. She should’ve known better than to engage him in battle without checking her defenses first.
“A practiced motion?” she asked. “Why? Pray tell. Would I use my efforts on you?” She wriggled the nightgown to cover some of her.
“That is a very good question. The only thing I can think of is you’re trying to seduce me. Now that we’re talking about it, you seem to do that quite a bit.”
“Of all the egotistical nonsense! I haven’t!”
“What do you call disobeying everything I ask? You know the penalty, yet you continue to earn it. What would you like me to think, Helene?”
“I’m of the opinion you don’t think at all. You only pretend to it, and then lie your way out of the muddle that’s created.”
“That’s a bit like calling the kettle black, isn’t it?”
He leaned his head on one arm and lifted his eyebrows. She found the wallpaper behind him more interesting.
“I believe I’ve had my fill of your company, Gillian. You may leave.”
‘When I’m good and ready. And I want an explanation. What was the nonsense of stranding me to the dance floor last night? You’re supposed to be acting madly in love with me, remember? Would you like a refresher in just how you’re supposed to do that?”
He pursed his lips into a kissable shape, and that had her speaking words her mind hadn’t cleared. Without thought. Or consequences.
“I failed miserably. Moi? I wasn’t the one sneaking into your bed drenched in scent, and I certainly didn’t sashay about a dance floor inviting comment by my openly aggressive stance.”
“Aggressive? You, my dear lady, haven’t even a layman’s idea of what that means.”
“I’ve more than a working knowledge, Lord Tremayne! I’ve seen more aggression and physical mating than I ever wanted!”
“Then why do you act like a bloody virgin every time I so much as look at you? We both know that, for the right amount of gold, any man could have you — and probably did.”
“You, Sir…are an animal! Didn’t it ever occur to you that I act the virgin because I—I…why…I can’t abide the sight of you? Laws, but you think every woman awaits the command to fall into yo
ur arms? I truly hate to disappoint your lordship, but I haven’t developed a penchant for that. Nor will I ever. Now please leave. I’m finished with your company.”
“Isn’t it a shame that I haven’t finished with yours?”
He used that iron-hard whisper again. She didn’t have to ask what it meant. And no amount of covers would stop him.
“What...is that supposed to mean?”
‘What do you think it means?” He yanked the bedding from her hands.
“Please don’t do this.” She clutched the ribbon tie at her neck.
“Do what? You obviously aren’t interested in whatever I have to offer, and I find you don’t appeal to me at all. That means whatever I do would be punishment. Do you understand?”
There wasn’t a hint of gentleness in him as he loomed over her, and Helene noticed one thing — he was lying about his arousal. And his nightshirt wasn’t hiding it.
“Good morn, My Lady!”
A maid came into the room, stopping everything. Even time.
“I did knock, but as it’s past ten o’clock, and you left strict instruction, I need to—oh! Begging your pardon, My Lord!”
The words ended and a rush of air portended the maid’s rushed exit. As did the sound of the door slamming. Gil hadn’t moved his gaze from hers. And Helene hadn’t even blinked.
“You do understand what will happen if we have this conversation again?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Good.”
He dropped a kiss onto her nose and rolled from her. She heard him greet his valet. She heard the sound of their connecting door closing. She still didn’t move. Everything felt like it was alert. Prepared. Excited. Angered.
Oh no! She couldn’t possibly love him!
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Remind me not to take your advice, Bridget.”
Gil leaned against a post and watched his bride. It had been his mother’s idea to have Helene outfitted for another ball gown, and while Helene hadn’t exactly agreed, she hadn’t tried to lacerate him with her eyes, either. Unfortunately, she also decided she wouldn’t go unless every lady of her acquaintance accompanied her to choose new gowns, too.
Gil shifted against the pole, avoiding the chair he was supposed to be sitting in. Half the town appeared to be in the shop, and he’d already fulfilled his obligation twelve times over.
“About the looking glass or the Hun?” Bridget replied. “I have it from an excellent source that you exceeded my expectations on that score. For all intents and purposes, she’s modeling clay in your fingers.”
“I suppose you’re speaking the king’s English, Bridget, although I have a few doubts. I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”
He shook his head at the three women hovering about Helene. One giggled, and Gil smiled at her. She immediately stuck herself in the finger.
“You’re doing that on purpose, Gil.”
“It’s a matter of male pride, Auntie. Trust me.”
“Male pride?” She snorted. On Bridget, the sound was loud enough to make another patron frown. “You needn’t bother. You’ll just make her jealous, Gil. And with your nocturnal antics, I wouldn’t think it necessary.”
“You probably shouldn’t stand so near the door in that ensemble, Bridget, my love. You’re frightening the other customers away. What would you know of my antics, nocturnal or otherwise?”
They’d finally brought out a bolt of teal-colored taffeta, and the look Helene sent him made his jacket suddenly feel altogether too warm. Of course, she’d look fabulous in that color. It was his choice, too, but he made her wait for his nod.
“Oh, Gillian!”
Bridget smacked his hand with her fan. He almost snatched it.
“My household talks of nothing else.”
“You gossip with the help? For shame.”
Helene had the material draped about her, and the color stood out so from the mauve gown she wore that several of the other ladies clapped in approval, making any response from him an afterthought.
“A good lady’s maid is the best source, Gillian,” Bridget said. “And I’ve heard tales.”
“I wasn’t with Simone last night, Bridget, if that’s what you’re alluding to. I have more sense than to spoil my own production, don’t I?”
She used her fan with the precision of a chef. His hair ruffled with each whipping motion. “I was speaking of you and Helene, Gillian, and well you know it.”
“Helene? Your sources lie. She detests the sight of me and tells me so at every opportunity.”
“No wonder you’re no longer taking my advice. Here I was under the rosy impression that you two had settled your differences.”
“Some differences are too vast, my dear. Surely your marriage to Dexter proved that.”
A shop girl handed him a sketch. He smiled warmly, and it soothed his pride that she blushed.
“You’re disgusting, Gillian, love.”
Bridget whispered it as the young woman walked back to where Helene was perched.
“So I’ve been told.” He grinned down at his aunt. ‘What say you give your legs a rest, dear Aunt? The chair is yours. I don’t want to wear you out with standing beside me.”
“You know, she acts rather oddly around that mirror, wouldn’t you say?”
Bridget was right. Helene was doing her best not to look at the image behind her. He should’ve noticed sooner. A lot sooner.
“I haven’t found the proper time to apprise her. I’ve decided subtlety is more beneficial.”
She snorted again, but at least she folded her fan and he could blink again. “You? Subtle? With the way you two tear up a bed? Honestly, Gillian, you’d think you were talking to your mother, asking me to believe such things.”
The shop went measurably hotter, and Gil stretched slightly.
“Yes, that one, too.” Gil nodded to the shop owner’s newest choice and then sighed. “This is taking bloody forever!”
“The fitting or my inquisition? Because you’ll need to be specific if you wish my sympathy.”
“I can’t believe you’ve discussed my bedroom habits with the servants, Bridget. You’ve found a new low.”
She laughed and caught his arm. “Gillian, forgive me if you must, but I haven’t done any such thing. I merely guessed, and you just filled in the blanks.”
“Very devious, Bridget. Perhaps you could find a better occupation than baiting me today? I wouldn’t take the loss of your company personally, I assure you.”
“My. Aren’t we prickly? Helene has my sympathy. Take my advice, Gillian. You know how rarely I give it.”
“I believe we’re about finished, Bridget. I’d really enjoy staying to assist you in the selection of your gown, but my fair charmer calls.”
“Trust me, Gillian — the Hun.”
She tapped him with the fan again, but this time he snatched it. He wasn’t going to act the Hun or anything else. Helene had given him a clear dose of her distaste, and he sure as hell didn’t need a repeat.
It was bad enough suffering enforced celibacy for almost three months without having the wife he hadn’t asked for – and didn’t even like – telling him she found his presence in her bedchamber odious.
Damn it!
There wasn’t any reason for it to rankle so much. Reginald was no help. Gil thought the man had been funning earlier about an attraction to Helene. It made sense. If Gil thought Helene was attractive to others, he might put aside his dislike of the entire thing and try to make the marriage work. He thought Reg was his best friend for attempting it, but now Gil wasn’t so certain.
He didn’t even like brunettes, although his last affair had been with a decided brunette. He preferred blondes, the kind who knew how to please a man and what to expect afterward, especially since they already had a husband.
Helen had been the first without one of those, and just look where that got him! Wed to a little, dark-haired madwoman who could freeze any Lothario. It was rather d
ifficult to believe she’d been Brandy.
***
Chateau Montriart loomed through the clouds; not as she’d last seen it – a shell of walls darkened by soot – but it was beautiful. Light glowed in each window, welcoming her back from the walk Mama forced her to take.
Then her heart leaped, and she screamed.
“Hush, Mademoiselle. Hush!”
“The chateau’s on fire, Sherry! Every room! Grandpapa’s pictures, Mama’s tapestries, everything!”
She ran, screaming at them to stop. Clawing the first one she came to. She ignored how much he resembled one of the villagers she’d known all her life to rake her fingernails down his face,
“Stop! You must stop!”
Her child’s voice broke, and then there was just tears.
***
Helene’s eyes opened to the vacant side of the bed. She lifted her head from a sodden pillow to shove the heels of her hands to her eyes. She had the nightmare again. Oh no. It hadn’t been so real in years!
It had been stupid to call attention to herself like that. Only by the great luck of turning her fury on Jacques, a dim-wit, had she managed to survive. He’d turned on her, and hit her with his shovel handle. And there, he’d left her.
When she woke, tall grass on the road hid her, the earth beneath her was hard, and the smoke of Chateau Montriart concealed her. And her nursemaid, Sherry, was still at her side.
It had happened so long ago, but each time the nightmare came, it was real again. So real…
She remembered the stretch of road they had to walk, Helene’s slippers turning to rags on Sherry’s feet, because the aristocratic granddaughter of the Comte de Montriart complained so loudly and often that Sherry had already exchanged her leather shoes with Helene’s in order to shut her up.
There had been such jubilation in the city when they arrived, such triumph, and Helene hadn’t done anything except complain more about her empty stomach.
Helene Montriart Bingham couldn’t stay in the horrid room Sherry procured, either.