The Madcap Marriage

by Allison Lane

  Rafe scrubbed his hands over his eyes, furious that he’d conceded the argument. It made him look weak. But what else could he have done? She was right, damn her. “We need to tell Lady Alquist about our suspicions. Do you know where she is?”

  “She was headed for the morning room when I left her.”

  “I’m not looking forward to this.”

  “Nor I, but she’s strong. We’ll face her together.”

  * * * *

  Helen’s back burned where Rafe’s hand steered her into the sunny morning room, reminding her of his incendiary kisses. But this was no time for lust.

  “You look rested,” Rafe said when Lady Alquist looked up from her needlework.

  “You don’t,” Lady Alquist replied teasingly.

  Helen’s face again heated. She wished they were holding this meeting in the drawing room rather than this cheerful space. Formality would feel more appropriate.

  But the subject could not be postponed. Joining Lady Alquist on the couch, she watched Rafe straighten a pair of vases, a clock, and two candlesticks on the mantel while searching for the least painful opening. “I’ve been sorting Alquist’s papers.”

  Lady Alquist bit her lip. “Are they so disturbing?”

  “In a way. He was more concerned about Helen than you implied.”

  Lady Alquist relaxed. “True. We meant to visit Audley, as I mentioned last evening. Steven was always incorrigible, even as a child. The tales Alquist told of those days—” She shook herself thoroughly. “It is best to let past cruelties die. Suffice it to say that we feared Steven’s hatred of Arthur would extend to Arthur’s family.”

  “It does,” confirmed Helen. “Steven is determined to own everything Father had, regardless of value. He will let nothing stand in his way.”

  Rafe gestured her to silence. “Alquist demanded an audit, then hired a runner to investigate Steven and Dudley.”

  “I didn’t know about the runner.” Lady Alquist frowned. “But he was very uneasy that last week. He even complained about eyes boring into his back, as if some malevolent force was watching him. If Steven had been in town – but he wasn’t, and Alquist never saw anyone.”

  “Perhaps he was right,” said Helen, squeezing Lady Alquist’s hand. Eyes boring into his back. Rafe’s theories seemed less absurd than before. “Rafe believes the accident was odd. He makes a strong case that it was staged to cover a blow to the head.”

  “You mean murder?” Lady Alquist’s voice squeaked as the color drained from her face.

  “Perhaps,” said Rafe.

  “B-but who? Steven?”

  “We don’t yet know.”

  A tear slid down Lady Alquist’s cheek. “I couldn’t believe he had been careless. It wasn’t like him.” She swiped her handkerchief across her eyes. “Find the truth, Rafe. I must know.”

  “I’ll do everything possible, though we may never—”

  “I have to know.” Her voice cracked. Excusing herself, she fled.

  “It may take more than one runner,” murmured Helen, shaken.

  “We’ll hire them all if we have to,” Rafe choked. “She shouldn’t have to go through this. An accident is hard enough to accept….”

  He was speaking of himself as much as of Lady Alquist. Rising, Helen gathered him into her arms. “We’ll find out what happened, Rafe. Grieve for him, but don’t let anger blind you.”

  “I thought I’d accepted it.” He pulled her closer, for comfort rather than passion. “But the pain on her face…”

  And his, though she didn’t say it. Instead, she held him, absorbing his tremors as he fought to hide the desolation wracking his soul. It would have been less disturbing had he broken down and cried. The control that could stave off such deep-seated grief confirmed how wretched his childhood must have been.

  * * * *

  Helen was gratified when Rafe carried his port to the drawing room after dinner. Lady Alquist had not eaten with them, and Helen hadn’t wanted to spend the evening alone. Passing much of the afternoon in a dark room to rest her head had given her too much time to brood – about Steven, about Rafe, even about Alex, who had again invaded her dreams. She must find a way to eradicate him. Surely Rafe’s passion should have done so by now, for he’d taken her far beyond anything Alex had done. Or did shielding her heart keep Alex close?

  She frowned.

  “Lady Alquist will be fine,” Rafe assured her, sipping as he stared into the fire. “But she’s been through a lot these past weeks.”

  “I know. Adjusting to sudden change is always difficult. I castigated Fate for months after Mother’s apoplexy. If I’d learned that someone had deliberately struck her down, I’m not sure I could have managed.”

  “You would have.”

  She raised her brows.

  “You’re strong. How else did you escape Steven?”

  “I had no choice.”

  “Of course you did – to go or to stay. Many ladies would have stayed and made the best of things.”

  “Why?” His assertion startled her, for she had never considered any alternative but escape.

  “Because they have been taught since birth that men are the only gender capable of rational thought. Because they prize conformity and reject contention. Because fleeing into a rough part of town would expose them to terrifying dangers. But Lady Alquist is much like you. Murder is a shock, but she will rally by morning.” His voice cracked.

  “Don’t think about it, Rafe. Alquist would not welcome your pain. He would likely suggest that you concentrate on other things for a time. It will clear your mind. So tell me more about your mother. You mentioned that you were close.”

  He stiffened, but finally inhaled deeply and spoke. “She protected me from Hillcrest’s temper, though doing so deflected his ire to her.”

  “Was he violent?” She needed to know what to expect.

  “No. He can be fearsome when angry, but he never struck anyone, even Mother.” Rafe joined her on the couch, stretching his legs out before him. “His tongue can blister ice, though. I did what I could to protect her, but it was never enough.”

  “Hardly a surprise,” she murmured, stroking his hand. It turned, clasping hers in his powerful grip. “No child can successfully counter a determined adult.”

  He raised his brows. “I never thought of it in those terms.”

  “Of course not. She probably considered you her savior, welcoming your efforts. But such support cannot confer invincibility. How old were you when you first stood up for her?”

  “I don’t recall. Young, though. I’d found her in tears in the folly – she often spent afternoons there to escape Hillcrest.”

  “What happened?”

  “He’d again denied her to a caller – Lady Pauling that day.” He frowned. “Lady Pauling died when I was eight, so I suppose I was five or six at the time. But such petty cruelty infuriated me even then. It was Mother’s right to make and receive calls. And how could he object to Lady Pauling when Lord Pauling was his closest friend? It was absurd!”

  “So you confronted him.”

  “For all the good it did.” He snorted. “He berated me for interfering, then confined me to the schoolroom for a week and forbade Mother from visiting. She was appalled, though knowing I supported her made enduring her isolation easier.”

  Helen squeezed his hand.

  “I could never keep Hillcrest from hurting her,” he concluded. “But at least I proved him wrong – he claimed that she was an unlovable ogress and a cruel mother.” His voice softened as he related other times he’d protested his mother’s isolation, her persecution, her humiliation at being denied activities that were her right as a viscountess. Once he started, the words flowed so fast they tripped over one another. Agitation drove him to pace, scuffing the carpet and slapping the mantel every time he passed, his tone wavering between fury and pain, his demeanor that of the child he’d been.

  Helen fought down her growing anger. Lady Alquist was right. Rafe had been
trapped in his parents’ war. His mother had deliberately encouraged his confrontations with Hillcrest by holding him up as her champion and applauding every effort. Loyalty was a desirable trait, but when it came to his parents, Rafe’s logic faltered. He had been schooled since birth to see his mother as a saint and his father as the devil incarnate. Such engrained blindness overlooked Lady Hillcrest’s manipulation and ignored that she had provoked as many battles as her husband. Had the woman showered Rafe with love only if he stood up for her?

  She couldn’t ask. Couldn’t even hint. They might be wed, but her bond with Rafe was fragile at best. If faced with a choice between his wife and mother, he would choose his mother without a second thought. His fists were white as they fought to contain his fury at how Lady Hillcrest had suffered.

  “At least she is finally at rest,” she said when his recollections faded into silence. “Nothing Hillcrest does can hurt her now.”

  “He is twisting her memory.”

  “But that cannot hurt her. You know the truth, which is all that matters. And Hillcrest’s persistence makes him look unbalanced. No rational man wastes time fighting a ghost.”

  “You have an odd view of life.” He returned to the couch, sliding his arm around her shoulders to draw her against his side.

  “Did Hillcrest always punish you for supporting her?” she asked, resting her head on his shoulder. She would rather watch his face but suspected he would not talk if she was looking.

  “Always. He hated anyone who stood up for her.”

  “What about your other meetings with him. Surely you didn’t discuss your mother every time.”

  “I can’t remember a meeting that didn’t include her. He summoned me only when he was furious. Since her blood flowed in my veins, every misdeed was her fault. Thomases never cause scandal. They are prudent, logical, and don’t display emotion.”

  “I presume he delivered such tripe without anger?”

  He chuckled. “Interesting point. I’ve never seen him any way but choleric. But I was too busy protecting myself to call him on it.” He sobered. “All my most vulgar behavior was her fault. He tried every possible way to defeat that breeding, but I was perverse enough to cling to those parts of me that came from Mother.”

  “Hardly a surprise. You inherited stubbornness from both parents.”

  His hand gripped her shoulder painfully. “Mother wasn’t stubborn. She was brave in the face of unspeakable cruelty!”

  Silence stretched as Helen considered his words. Hillcrest’s tongue had inflicted deep wounds, eroding Rafe’s confidence by denigrating his worth. Even his mother’s praise for his support could not counter his sense of failure. The damage would be worse if Rafe suspected deep inside that his mother had engineered those confrontations. Lady Alquist was right that he needed help. Even his London reputation had to hurt, despite his dismissal of the gossip. Anyone with his background would be sensitive to criticism.

  She snuggled closer. “Was there anything else Hillcrest criticized besides your support of your mother?”

  “I don’t want to discuss Hillcrest tonight.”

  The heat in his eye told her what he would rather address. Already it was too late to continue her probing. He was very good at deflecting conversation from topics he wished to avoid – a skill undoubtedly learned from years of battles.

  She fought that melting sensation, trying to concentrate on how he reacted to her touch. But he was too adept. His kisses burned logic to a crisp. His hands untied her intentions along with her gown and stays, baring her to the waist. When his fingers rolled a nipple between them, she sank into a sensual haze and was lost.

  Rafe could no longer remember why he’d decided to wait another day. Helen insisted that she was recovered. She melted the moment he touched her. Her wariness had dissipated, leaving her as eager as he.

  Her fingers removed his cravat and unbuttoned his waistcoat, trailing fire in their wake. The eagerness with which she stripped off his shirt turned his bones to jelly.

  As she brushed his chest, he moaned, “Touch me. More.”

  Fingernails rasped across his nipples, sending shivers to his toes.

  He pulled her up to straddle his lap so he could kiss her breasts, nipping and sucking until she cried for more. His lips smothered the sound, then surrendered to the ecstasy of her mouth. She’d learned much about kissing in the last three days. By the time she pulled back to nibble his ear, he was shaking with need.

  But he had to retain control, and not only to protect his heart. This was her first time. Unless he made it good for her, she might lose her enthusiasm.

  “Rafe?” she gasped when he paused.

  “Relax, sweetheart. Enjoy.” Her nipples stood up, wet and hard from his earlier ministrations. Laying her down, he sucked a breast deep into his mouth while his fingers skimmed up her leg, drawing her skirt to her knee, her thigh, her hip…

  She moaned, eagerly parting her legs so he could touch her core. Trembling, she arched into his hand.

  He nearly exploded.

  “Rafe!” she screamed as he slipped a finger inside her tight, tight passage.

  His control trembled, but he forced his need down. He had to bind her with passion before he could relax his guard. It was the only way to protect himself.

  His finger withdrew, then thrust again, drawing new moans. Circling his thumb to increase her pleasure, he kissed her long and deep.

  Her gasp stole his breath.

  “Don’t fight it. Let it come,” he murmured huskily, increasing his speed as he slid a second finger into her heat.

  His shaft pressed painfully against his pantaloons, begging for release. But he had to prepare her so he could enter without pain. His own pleasure could wait a few minutes longer.

  Maybe.

  His tongue delved deep into her mouth, mimicking his hand as she bucked against him. “Come on, sweetheart. Let it out.”

  She shattered, clamping so hard on his fingers that he nearly followed her into oblivion. He swallowed her screams, reveling in their sweetness, for they were genuine, untutored, gloriously free.

  Now! demanded his libido as her climax subsided. Need her now!

  He flexed against her thigh even as his fingers fought the buttons that would free him.

  Go upstairs, ordered his conscience. The drawing room is no place for lovemaking. Not when you are a guest. You didn’t even lock the door.

  But he would never make it that far. A moment’s delay would drive him mad. He needed—

  Helen’s fingers pushed past his fumbling hand to stroke his straining shaft. Fire swept over him, shattering the last vestiges of his control. Buttons scattered—

  A door slammed.

  Helen froze. “Let’s go upstairs, Rafe. The butler will be here any moment to bank the fire.” She pushed against his chest.

  He stared, fighting free of the fog encasing his brain. How could she remain so calm when he was out of control?

  Out of control. He stiffened. He had vowed to remain aloof until he was sure she could not rule him. Yet only minutes after she’d insulted his mother – she wasn’t stubborn; Hillcrest had forced her to defend herself – he was rutting on her like a lust-crazed animal.

  He was losing his mind. His only hope was to stay away from her until he had himself firmly in hand.

  “I shouldn’t have pressed you so soon. You are still too pale,” he announced. “Get some sleep, Helen. I want you to enjoy lovemaking, which will be impossible if we must constantly fret about your head.” Tomorrow he would be back in control, for the inevitable confrontation with Hillcrest was sure to deaden all desire.

  “What’s wrong, Rafe?”

  “Nothing,” he managed, lacing her up. “Go to bed. Tomorrow will be another long day. The roads between here and Hillcrest are not the best.”

  Biting off another protest, she left.

  He donned his clothes and headed for the study, clasping his hands at hip level to hide the missing buttons.
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br />   What the devil was wrong with him? Tonight’s loss of control exposed a problem he should have recognized sooner. Gentlemen showed a stoic face to the world, never revealing surprise or pain or fear or any other emotion. Yet for three days, his sensibilities had run rampant – furious temper, unbridled lust, anger, grief, guilt, shock… He’d broken down and cried. Then nearly done it again – with an audience. Since meeting Helen, he’d been so off balance that he barely recognized himself.

  Something about her scrambled his wits. And not just sensually. Only three days after vowing never to return to Hillcrest, he had agreed to introduce his wife to his father.

  But what else could he have done?

  A long gulp drained a glass of brandy.

  Helen was magnificent. Touching her incited enough heat to burn him to a crisp. What passion she would bring to his bed!

  Even better, she argued like a man, her reasoning cogent and logical. There were no threats, no tears, no hysterics. She stated her case firmly and remained in control despite his reluctance. Her defense of a girl she clearly distrusted had put him to shame. She could not have been more eloquent if she’d been defending herself.

  Much like his mother.

  Or was she?

  He frowned, appalled at the disloyalty implied by even asking the question.

  He had always admired his mother for standing up to Hillcrest, but her arguments had often been barbed – not that he could blame her. Hillcrest could drive a saint to sin. Only insults had any chance of penetrating the man’s thick skull.

  Yet Helen didn’t employ such tactics. Not even against Steven. Nor did she gloat when an opponent conceded defeat. She’d actually said I may be wrong – and meant it. Neither of his parents had ever uttered those words. She almost made his mother seem cruel.

  He shoved the thought violently aside. Helen was destroying more than his control. Her innuendoes were warping his mind. He could not allow it to happen again. His past might not be comfortable, but his mother’s innate goodness had allowed him to accept it and put it behind him. If that turned out to be a lie, he would fall apart.