by Ava Stone
Elizabeth set about instructing the servants on how the greenery should be placed, and the bows tied, and at which doors mistletoe should be hung. While the festive décor should lighten her mood, it only made her sadder. This would be her last Christmas with her family and the first without her mother. Hélène swiped a tear from her cheek. Why was she so emotional? What was wrong with her?
Stanwick wandered about Dagger’s Haven, stopping at each table to watch the play before moving onto the next. This was how he had spent his nights for years. It was fulfilling because he was living the life he wished and becoming ridiculously rich.
Less than half his tables held players, but that was to be expected. It was getting close to Christmas thought Stanwick found no reason to decorate for the holiday. The gentlemen didn’t come here for festivities but for a good game of cards and expensive liquor.
If matters continued as they had in the past, Stanwick would be closing his doors within a few days only to reopen them after Twelfth Night. Most of his regular members would be off to the country with their families, as many already were, and would not return until next year. Those who remained through the Christmas Season did not cross the threshold often, and it cost Stanwick more to remain open than he earned.
As there was nothing of any real interest happening in the gaming room, Stanwick wandered back to his office and closed the door before sinking into the chair behind his desk. The purse that held Hélène’s winnings still sat to the side. He should return it to her but if she had the funds, she would leave. He wasn’t ready for her to be gone from London just yet, though he could see no reason why she should stay.
He grasped the bottle of brandy and poured until his glass was half full.
Her rejection of his offer still stung. He couldn’t understand why he hadn’t been relieved to not be forced into marriage, but relief was the last thing he felt.
He did, however, feel confused, hurt, angry, unsettled, and a number of other unpleasant emotions. Happiness and liberation were not among them.
Stanwick tipped back the glass and drained the contents. The brandy burned a path to his stomach, warming yet not calming him.
Why didn’t she want to marry him?
Perhaps she was holding out for love, but he couldn’t claim to love her. He admired her, yes. She fascinated him like no other woman of his acquaintance. She was a card sharper. Under different circumstances, it would be enjoyable to play against her, perhaps for higher stakes. The kind of stakes that would only take place behind closed doors, in private.
She certainly wasn’t boring. He would never need worry about insipid conversations. She was an actress. If they married, she could play a different role each night—in their bedchamber, of course.
He wanted her. There was no doubt as to his desire to bed her and discover all the many layers of Hélène Mirabelle, but that was no reason to marry. He should be thankful he had escaped.
Hélène pulled the shawl around her shoulders and returned to sewing a new set of breeches to replace the ones Stanwick had destroyed with his rapier. Her waistcoat would need to be repaired as well. She may need to sew a new coat, as it had been left at Dagger’s that fateful night.
The fire was built high but it hadn’t taken the chill from the room. Since coming to England, Hélène had rarely been warm. She missed the mild and even hot temperatures of Milan. The footman had even moved the settee and table as close to the fireplace as he dared, and Hélène was still chilled. Perhaps she should sew warmer clothing. The only gowns she had in the house were suited for warmer temperatures.
The house was quiet as Juliette, Acker and Genviève were across Town at dinner with his mother, and the servants were below stairs doing whatever it was they did at night. Hélène was alone, and for the first time the silence was almost deafening. She wished for someone to talk to only because she didn’t wish to be alone with her thoughts and she missed Stanwick.
How could she possibly miss Stanwick? She barely knew the man, but he intrigued her beyond anything she could imagine. There was no more handsome man in Italy, France, or England, and his kisses could only be described as wicked. If he were here now, kissing her, she wouldn’t be freezing. Simply being in his presence warmed her, but Hélène doubted she would see him again.
“Miss Hélène,” a footman announced from the doorway, startling her so that she pricked her finger with the needle. She turned as she stuck her injured finger in her mouth.
“Mr. Sebastian Stanwick has come to call. Shall I show him up?”
Excitement bloomed in her breast. “Yes, please, and bring a tea service, as well as brandy for Mr. Stanwick.”
Hélène hurriedly tidied the stack of plays she’d read earlier, which were now scattered across the table. She had just smoothed her skirts into place when he walked in the room, nearly stealing her breath. He appeared as he had that first night she had seen him, dressed in dark evening clothes, hair neatly combed back, crisp white cravat tied into an intricate knot. Self-consciously, Hélène’s hand went to her own hair and smoothed it away from her face. He smiled, and her heart melted. Damn and blast, why hadn’t she taken greater care with her appearance? She was still wearing the batiste gown she had donned earlier in the day.
“Please, come in.” She gestured to the small seating area arranged before the fire.
Stanwick didn’t take the chair across from her but settled at the opposite end of the settee. Her pulse increased at him being so near. She grasped the material she’d been sewing to keep her hands from shaking. Why did this gentleman affect her so? Was it because of that kiss or because he was handsome, pure male, and she wished to discover more about him?
The footman entered with a tray and set the service at the center of the table. Stanwick looked at the bottle of brandy and lifted an eyebrow in question.
“I thought since its evening you would prefer something stronger,” she hastily explained.
“I think it is safer if I stick with tea.” He chuckled.
Did he fear getting inebriated? Her brothers drank brandy, lots of it, and whiskey, but she had yet to see them drunk.
Hélène leaned to pour two cups of tea. Such movement still pulled at her stitches but it was no longer painful. Stanwick didn’t attempt to assist as he had in the past.
“If I recall, you prefer a dab of milk.”
“Yes, thank you.”
She prepared his cup and handed it to him before fixing her own.
Stanwick picked up the stack of plays and thumbed through them. “How long have you been an actress?”
“Since I was sixteen.”
“Is it something you have always wanted to do?”
“No. It was quite by accident.”
He lifted a brow in question as he sipped.
“I had been at the theatre to pick up Juliette’s costume. A play was in rehearsal, but one of the actresses was ill. They asked that I stand in for blocking and to read lines. As the actress didn’t return for two weeks, she could not catch up and I was cast in the role.”
“And you’ve been acting ever since?”
“Yes.” She smiled. “There are fewer, if any, places I would rather be than on the stage.”
Stanwick turned toward her and cocked his head. “Where did you learn to fence?”
Hélène laughed. How long had this question puzzled him? “I’ve often played a male on stage because of my height. Once, a director brought in a fencing master to train us for a fight scene.”
His jaw dropped at her revelation. “You gained that skill from a simple play.”
She bristled that he thought acting was so simple but pushed the emotion away. “I continued to train with him. I found it was something I enjoyed, and he was not averse to teaching women.”
Domesticity had been Stanwick’s first thought when he stepped into the library and saw Hélène settled before the fire. She wore a simple, grey day dress. Her hair was pulled behind her head and knotted at the back of her neck, th
ough it was a bit mussed, and several curls had sprung free of the confines, yet she was more beautiful than before. Her creamy skin had a healthy glow, and he was no longer concerned that she would suffer any further consequences from the slash in her thigh. A red, gold, and blue shawl was pulled about her shoulders, and those blue eyes sparkled. It could be because of so many candles and the firelight.
Could this room be any warmer? He glanced around. There was more greenery, ribbons, and candles in this room than probably in most houses in London. Why had she decorated so early and so elaborately? Hélène hadn’t struck him as someone who would go to such excess. How well did he really know her? Perhaps Christmas was more special to her than anyone else.
The heat of the room and desire for Hélène that shot through him when he saw her had convinced Stanwick to forego brandy this evening. He needed nothing else heating his veins. It was all he could do not to pull her in his arms instantly and pick up where they had left off when they had been interrupted by her family. Thankfully, he could control himself well enough to stay away from her, though the chair on the other side of the table might have been a safer choice.
She lifted the teacup to those luscious lips, and Stanwick realized he would like to come home to a scene similar to this every night with Hélène waiting for him by the fire, reading and sewing. It was not to be, and he knew he didn’t have the words to change her mind.
“Then you have not reconsidered remaining in London.”
Hélène frowned. She placed her teacup back in the saucer and set them on the table. “I would consider it if I were able to continue acting and live out from under my brother’s control.”
“You could still marry me,” he blurted out.
She started and drew back. “You don’t wish to marry me,” she reminded him.
“I’ve given it much thought and I believe I do.” He leaned forward and grasped her hand.
Hélène studied him, those blue eyes darkening. What was she thinking?
“Dagger’s Haven?” she questioned. “How did you come by that name?”
Her question totally startled him. He just proposed marriage and she asked about the name of his club? Yet if she was to consider being his wife, she needed to know his past and what the future probably held.
“My father gambled,” he answered bluntly. “When he lost everything we owned and creditors began knocking on the door, he turned to drink.” Perhaps he should have poured himself a glass of brandy after all. “My brother and I were away at school at the time, and the students who came from more affluent families made life difficult for us.”
Any smile Hélène had earlier was gone, and her face softened with concern. He could not look at her because the sympathy in her eyes was too much. Stanwick shifted and stared into the flames, recalling those days at school as if they were yesterday. “After one too many fights, I began carrying a dagger in my boot. After I pulled it out once, the others backed away. We were never bothered again.” He turned to face her again. “I was given the nickname Dagger by a classmate, and it has stayed with me.”
“Do you still carry it?” Her voice was quiet.
“Yes. It is a part of me.”
“Why a gaming hell? I would think you would want nothing to do with gambling.”
He chuckled. “Like you, I became very good at counting cards and calculating the odds. I left Oxford before my education was complete and opened the hell. It was my intention to take wealth from the very men who had ruined my father.”
“Did you?”
“I’ve become rich off of those very men and my former classmates, but it wasn’t their fault my father was ruined.” Stanwick sighed. “My father did this to himself, and his family, and there is no one else to blame.”
Hélène squeezed the hand he still held. At least she hadn’t pulled away when she learned of the ugliness in his family.
“If I suspect a gentleman is on the brink of ruin, such as my father, he is not allowed to return to Dagger’s. I know other hells are not as concerned, but I refuse to put another family in the same position if found myself in.”
“Tell me about the rest of your family.”
“My father drank himself to death,” Stanwick offered without emotion, not adding that his father had died in his mistress’s bed. It took years before he didn’t feel angry at what his father had done. Now it was simply emptiness when he remembered that time. “My mother could not handle the embarrassment or creditors, and died of heartbreak a few years later.”
Sympathy clouded her eyes, but she said nothing. Instead, Hélène withdrew her hand and reached forward to refill her teacup. He wanted to grasp it back to him, hold on tight, and beg her not to leave.
What had come over him? Of course, now that she knew his unimpressive history, she had all the more reason to reject him.
She took a sip of the tea and turned toward him once again. In one hand she held the cup and in the other a saucer. There was no chance of taking her hand back.
“If you don’t mind me asking, how did you afford to attend Oxford?”
Though this question would have never been asked in polite society, Hélène was different. He liked that about her. Of course, everyone in society already knew the answer. “My uncle, the Earl of Wallcut.”
She straightened. Apparently, she didn’t realize his connections were almost as high as hers.
“I am his heir. As he is five-and-sixty and my aunt is nine-and-fifty, and they were blessed with four daughters and no sons, in all likelihood I will inherit the title.”
Her mouth popped open in surprise.
“Of course, my aunt may pass away and my uncle could marry some young lady to produce the required son, but it is unlikely to happen.”
“So, you must marry,” she said sadly.
Why did it bother her so when she had already rejected him.
“Actually, I intended to never marry,” he informed her. “My uncle did nothing to help my mother after Father’s death. He could have made everything go away, but he refused, and for that reason I refuse to do as he wishes. Until I proposed to you, I had every intention of letting the title go hang. My younger brother may marry and produce an heir, but I was not going to do what was necessary to see that the title continue.”
Hélène choked and smiled. “As we will not marry, you still have the opportunity.”
Her rejection, though he shouldn’t be surprised, still stung.
Stanwick was destined to be an earl? Hélène had no idea, and it was all the more reason she was glad to have rejected his offer. Juliette was married to a viscount and must now be part of Society. Acker at least allowed Juliette to still dance and had given her a school. If Hélène believed Stanwick would be as generous with her, she might have reconsidered marriage. But she suspected he was more traditional in what he would want his wife to be, even if he had not planned on ever having one.
“Before you reject me out of hand, at least hear me out,” Stanwick insisted.
Did he want to marry her so badly? Why didn’t he simply accept her rejection and leave it be? Didn’t he realize that continuing to speak of it made her heart ache? To be married to Stanwick meant she would have someone to keep her warm, as his mere presence was doing now. She wouldn’t be alone, and they could kiss whenever she wished. And she would finally be able to experience what happened between men and women. There were so many reasons she wished to be with him. He may not love her, but he cared. Hélène feared the more she was in his presence, the more likely she was to fall in love.
Who was she fooling? Part of her was in love with him already, and there was no logical reason for feeling this way. She longed to have him near whether they were kissing or simply sitting by a fire sipping tea.
“You would not have a care in the world,” he began. “I would provide a fine home, with servants, and I have wealth enough that you could purchase whatever you wish. I would be gone at night and that is something I cannot change because of Dagger’s.
But when I am home, my time would be spent seeing to you, keeping you happy, and taking care of all your needs.”
Hélène placed her teacup and saucer on the table before turning to face him more fully.
“I would never give you a reason to fall into melancholy or be angered. Your days could be spent visiting with your sisters, or the rest of your family, or doing as you wished.”
Most women may dream of such a life, but not her.
“I know many wives who have become frustrated and unhappy in marriage. I promise that will not happen to you.”
Because he assumed any woman would be happy simply running a house and carrying for a husband and children, while for the most part, being treated as a child herself.
“I would also be faithful. On that, you have my promise.”
Hélène sighed. While it was nice to know she would never have to worry about him taking a mistress, it wasn’t enough to change her mind. “You spoke of wives being unhappy; do you know why they might be?”
He frowned, his dark eyebrows drawing close over his eyes. “I assume it is because their husbands don’t care for them properly or show them enough attention.”
Hélène nearly snorted. “Stanwick, did it ever occur to you that perhaps women become frustrated because they are forced in the roles society and men deem are only worthy for them?”
He opened his mouth.
Hélène suspected he was about to argue with her and she quickly spoke again. “Gentlemen define the roles women are to play, not the female.”
She rose and stepped away from the settee to pace before the fire. She had to make him understand, and if he could not accept what she was saying then there was nothing else for them to discuss. “What harm is there in a lady being an actress or a ballerina, or anything she wishes? We have brains and can think. We have talents we wish to explore. Yet if you ask a gentleman, we are only capable of running a house, shopping, gossiping, and producing children. If I were forced to endure such a life, I might very well go mad.”