Pull yourself together, she ordered herself sternly. This is hardly the time to lose your head, or your heart.
“Would it be so wrong if you were together?” Scooting her stool across the smooth marble floor, Percy plucked a small pillow off the chaise lounge and hugged it against her chest. “Clearly, you both still have feelings for each other. Feelings that have managed to survive more than three years of separation and a horribly unfortunate miscommunication. I’m sure if you told Lord Cambridge the reason why you had to marry his father, he would forgive you. I – I don’t want to seem rude or uncaring, but I cannot understand why you haven’t told him before now.”
“Because…” Because I deserve his hate for what I did to his father. And since I cannot tell him about that, I must allow him to hate me for this. “Because I’ve never had the opportunity.”
“In three-and-a-half years?” Percy asked skeptically.
“I’ve been very busy.” Defensively, Helena stood and walked around to the other side of Percy’s easel. In swirling watercolor was a lovely pond surrounded by cattails. Two swans, their long necks elegantly curved, swam through the water side by side. “This is beautiful.”
Percy blushed. “Do you really think so?”
“You’ve a rare talent.” Absently swirling a paintbrush in a cup of water, Helena crossed the solarium to the long row of windows overlooking the front lawn. It was nearly noon, and the sun had climbed as high as it possibly could into the cloudless blue sky. There was just enough of a breeze in the air to ruffle the leaves, and if she were to step back outside, she could have done so without a shawl. It was a perfect day. Or it would have been perfect, if not for all of the conflicting emotions ramming about inside of her like logs at the top of a dam.
Percy was right. She was overthinking. But how could she not? Stephen’s reappearance had changed everything she thought she knew. About him. About herself. About the past…and the future.
If he didn’t want an affair, then what did he want? And why had she been so quick to settle for a moment of passion when she should have held herself to a far higher regard? She was no one’s mistress, let alone Stephen’s. But she was lonely. So achingly lonely. And when his touch had started to fill that empty void inside of her, she’d been ready to jump through fire to have more of it.
Or into a carriage.
Far more convenient, much less smoke damage.
“Would you care to go for a walk?” she asked Percy. “I need the fresh air to help clear my head.”
“I’d love to,” Percy replied without hesitation.
Arm in arm, the two friends strolled out of the room.
Chapter Ten
Helena barely slept at all that night. No matter which way she tossed or turned, she couldn’t stop herself from having the same dream over and over again.
In it, she was running, although she didn’t know from what or to where. Her hair was loose, and it kept getting in her eyes as she raced along a narrow path in the middle of a busy market square. She burst into a tent filled with ribbons and bonnets. The shopkeeper smiled at her and spread his arms apart.
“Pick whichever one you want,” he said.
Confused, Helena spun in a circle. “I can just…pick one?”
“Yes, but be careful. You’ll have to wear it for the rest of your life.”
“But I don’t want to wear just one hat for the rest of my life.”
A wide shadow fell across the floor of the tent, and Cambridge, his fleshy lips turned up in a sneer, came inside and grabbed her wrist. “Foolish girl. It doesn’t matter what you want. Your only job is to look pretty.”
“No!” Helena cried as she tried to yank free of his grip. “You – you’re dead.”
“And whose fault is that?” Cambridge asked.
“Yes, lamb.” Now Stephen entered the tent, and it seemed to shrink in size until there was barely enough room for the three of them. “Whose fault is that?”
On a loud gasp, Helena shot up in bed as if she’d been thrown from a catapult. Her heart pounded her chest and a thin sheen of dewy perspiration clung to her temple. Dragging an arm across her forehead, she kicked the blankets off her legs and slid shakily off the mattress.
A squinting glance out the window confirmed it was barely dawn, the sun a shimmering ball of orange slowly rising in a sky dashed through with yellow and blue. Even the birds were still sleeping, and for a moment Helena considered trying to do the same. Then she remembered her dream, and with a shudder, she drew a silk wrapper over her nightdress and stole quietly downstairs.
She was greeted by a scullery maid, who dashed away to the kitchen to prepare hot tea and a plate of fresh fruit.
“Thank you,” Helena murmured when the maid returned with a small serving platter. “Would you mind taking this outside? I’d like to have breakfast in the rose garden.”
“Of course, my lady. Right away.” With a bob and a curtsy, the maid carried the breakfast down a hallway filled with portraits of the Winchester family. Helena followed after, pausing now and again to observe a painting. When she got to the very last one, she stopped short, pleased to see two familiar faces smiling down at her.
With elegant strokes and bold, vibrant colors, the artist had managed to perfectly capture the love between Calliope and Leopold. In the portrait, the newlyweds were all but glowing with happiness. The new bride was sitting beneath a large oak tree on a swing. Her husband stood beside her, his hand resting protectively on her shoulder. Calliope gazed at the painter, her lips curved in a soft, almost knowing smile, while Leo only had eyes for his wife.
It was a lovely, intimate peek into their relationship. And as she traced her fingertips along the edge of the frame before following the maid out through a set of French doors, Helena couldn’t help but wonder if she’d ever find a man who looked at her the way Leo looked at Calliope.
Stephen looks at you like that, a small, unwanted voice intruded.
Helena gritted her teeth as she sat down at a circular metal table facing away from the sun. Stephen had looked at her like that. For one night, he’d looked at her as if she’d hung the moon and the stars. And when she’d kissed him, she’d felt as if she really had. But none of that mattered now. None of it had mattered in a long, long time. And just as soon as she could get Stephen back out of her head where he belonged, it would never matter again.
“Is – is something wrong with the fruit, my lady?” the maid asked hesitantly.
Too late, Helena realized she was stabbing a piece of pineapple to death. Never mind that it was a fruit, and as such could not actually be killed. Dropping the utensil with a clatter, she mustered a smile. “No. Everything’s fine, thank you.”
“Ah…very good,” said the maid, obviously not believing her, but too well-trained to say otherwise. “If there is anything else you need, please let me know. My name is Sara.”
Helena picked up her fork. “Thank you, Sara.”
“Of course, my lady.” With a bob and a curtsy Sara hurried back inside, leaving Helena to ponder her mangled pineapple in private.
She thought about her dream and what it all meant. The hats she understood. She did love a good bonnet. But Cambridge…
With a shudder, she reached for her coffee, instinctively seeking something warm to help stave off the chill that raced down her spine. His was the one face she had never wanted to see again, even in her nightmares. Cambridge was a part of her past she didn’t want to relive. A piece of her life that had brought her nothing but pain, and misery, and heartache. Which was why she’d done what needed to be done, and she’d moved on.
Or so she’d believed until Stephen had stormed back into her life.
Too restless to remain seated, Helena stood and began to wander the gardens. Wet grass pulled at the hem of her wrap as she deviated from the stone path and slipped between two towering hedgerows of roses. Without thinking, she reached out to touch one of the pretty pink blooms, only to yank her hand back with a hiss when a t
horn pricked her finger.
“Careful,” a familiar voice drawled from behind her. “Roses are pretty to look at, but you’ve the devil to pay if you get too close. A lesson I learned the hard way, lamb.”
Sucking on her finger, Helena whirled around. Her eyes narrowed when she saw Stephen, looking every bit lord of the manor in his cravat and tailcoat. Except he wasn’t her lord, and this wasn’t his manor.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded, crossing her arms over her chest. It did not escape Helena’s attention that while Stephen was formally dressed in attire befitting a nobleman of his station, she was still wearing her nightdress and wrap, both of which were see through in the right light.
“I could ask you the same thing.” Snapping a rose off the vine, he twirled it slowly between his fingers. “I wasn’t aware you were such a close acquaintance of Lord Winchester.”
“There are a lot of things you aren’t aware of.”
“Obviously.”
The inflection in that single word – and the cool stare that accompanied it – raised the hairs on the nape of Helena’s neck, and suddenly her dream took on an entirely new meaning. If Stephen was still here because he’d guessed the truth about what had happened to his father…
No, she told herself.
Impossible.
If he knew the truth, she’d already be in prison.
Or worse.
He didn’t know what she’d done. He couldn’t know what she’d done. The only person who did was Cambridge, and he certainly wasn’t telling anyone.
She’d made sure of that.
“I have nothing else to discuss with you.” She gave a careless flick of her wrist, as if she were shooing away an irksome fly instead of a very large, very powerful earl. “Go away, Stephen. These little meetings are beginning to bore me.”
“We never had the chance to finish our conversation.” He glanced down at the rose, then up at her face. His expression hardened. “I’d like to finish it now.”
“I don’t give a damn what you like. I’ve nothing to say to you.” Pursing her lips, she pointedly turned her head away from him. But she couldn’t help but sneak a glance out of the corner of her eye, and the sudden bleakness she saw in his face caught her off guard.
“Stephen?” she said, confused.
“What?” he said harshly.
“I…never mind.” When a lump arose in her throat, Helena closed her eyes. Out of sight, out of mind. Wasn’t that how the saying went? Except even when she couldn’t see Stephen, she could still smell him. She could still sense him. Four years later, and she could still remember what his kiss tasted like.
She opened her eyes to discover him staring intently at her, a line deeply embedded between his brows. Their gazes met, and his scowl intensified.
“Why did you do it, Helena?” The irritated tick of a muscle in his jaw revealed it wasn’t the question he’d wanted to ask, but there was no taking it back. It stained the air between them, hovering like a mist they could see through, yet couldn’t penetrate, no matter how strongly they beat their fists against it. Almost absently, she wondered if he was referring to her marriage, or his father’s murder. Not that it mattered, really.
Her answer for both was the same.
“I had no choice.” When her belly tingled unpleasantly, as if she was in a carriage that had taken a swift turn downhill, she draped an arm across her belly. “It was never something I wanted to do.”
A shadow rippled across his countenance. “Then why? I was at the wedding. I saw you walk down the aisle. You walked, Helena. You weren’t dragged. You weren’t carried. You didn’t mutter so much as a word of protest.” He shook his head. “Hardly the actions of someone who did not have a choice.”
“You were at the church that day?” She almost took a step towards him but caught herself just in time. The painful lump in her throat grew larger. “I never saw you.”
And she’d searched. She’d searched with the quiet desperation of a sailor thrown overboard looking for a life raft, or a piece of wood, or even another person. Something to cling to in order not to get sucked down into the dark water below. Except Stephen had never showed. Or so she believed. And she didn’t know why it should hurt so badly to know that he’d been there, but it did.
Maybe because he’d been there, and he’d done nothing.
He could have stopped it, and he’d remained silent.
He could have saved her, and he’d let her go.
“I was there,” he said flatly. “I saw everything.”
“Perhaps you saw everything, but that doesn’t mean you know anything.” On a choked sob, she whirled around and would have fled down the path had he not grabbed her by the arm. In a single effortless motion, he spun her into his chest, and held her tight as she kicked and hit and did everything that she could to hurt him as much as he’d hurt her.
When she was spent, both physically and emotionally, Helena sagged against him. Had he not held her upright, she would have crumpled to the ground.
“I hate you,” she whispered against his waistcoat.
“The feeling is mutual, I can assure you.”
She tilted her head back. Her eyes were wet with tears, but she’d be damned if she allowed them to fall. She was stronger than this. She was stronger than him. And she wouldn’t let herself be dragged under the water a second time.
“Then what are you doing here?” The lump in her throat had turned to shards of glass that sliced with every word. “What do you want? You already told me you were my benefactor. Fine. Good.” She jerked her shoulder. “Take it all away. The house. The gowns. The servants. Everything. I don’t care. I’ve gone without before; I’ll do it again. But I won’t have you hang this over my head like a guillotine.”
His blue eyes flashed an inch from her own. There was fury in them, but there was also something else. Something achingly familiar. Something that reminded her of moonlight and wisteria.
“I want to know the truth, Helena,” he said quietly. “The real truth. The why, and the how. I want to know how you could do it. Then I can finally be done with it. I can be done with us.”
“I’ve told you; I had no choice.” She winced when his grip tightened. On a vicious curse, he abruptly released her and whipped around, his fingers diving into his hair.
“This was a mistake,” he muttered. “A waste of my bloody time. I never should have come here.”
“You’re right, you shouldn’t have.” Relief coursed through Helena’s veins as she pulled her wrap closer around her nightdress, cocooning herself in the softly woven fabric. Surely if Stephen had known about the murder – or at least suspected – he would have said something then and there. That he hadn’t reassured her of his ignorance, and her own safety.
But it did nothing to fix the hole in her heart.
A heart that still beat for Stephen, even now.
Against her will.
Against her wishes.
Against every fiber in her body.
Stephen wasn’t the only man she’d ever kissed in the moonlight, but he was the only one who had ever mattered. The only one who had made her feel. The only one who had stirred something inside of her.
It was a warmth in her belly. It was a tingling in her breasts. It was an awareness of every breath he took, and every one she shared in response.
If that wasn’t love…what was?
“He was going to marry my sister,” she called out when Stephen started to walk away.
He stopped short, his shoulders stiffening beneath the sharp line of his coat. “What did you say?” he asked harshly.
When Helena was a child, her governess gave her two round magnets to play with. She’d loved to place them on opposite ends of her room, then give one a nudge so it rolled towards the other. That was how she felt as she started to walk towards Stephen, the train of her wrapper trailing behind her. Like a magnet being pulled by an invisible force.
She stopped behind him, her arm hovering
in midair as she contemplated touching him. Of stroking the tension from his muscles. Of giving him the comfort that she desperately wanted for herself. And she almost did it. Then with a tiny, annoyed shake of her head, she balled her hand into a fist and tucked it against her ribcage. Maybe her traitorous heart still yearned for the man standing in front of her, but her head knew better.
And it was her head she needed to listen to.
Stephen deserved the truth. Or at least as much of the truth as she could give him. Then he could be free of her, and she could be free of him, and they could go on with their lives.
Separately.
“Your father. He proposed to my little sister, Dahlia. No.” Her mouth twisted in a sneer just as Stephen turned around. “Proposed is too generous a word. He demanded she marry him. And my parents, seeing an opportunity to expand their wealth and acclaim, were only too happy to agree to the marriage. She was only fifteen. I made the decision to take her place.”
“Why…why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“I tried!” Her nails dug crescent moons into her palms as she struggled to maintain her composure. When her voice threatened to tremble and more tears pricked her eyes like tiny needles, she took a calming breath, then another. “I tried,” she repeated. “That morning you came home, I tried to tell you. But you were so angry you wouldn’t listen. And then I became so angry that I no longer wanted to explain.”
His jaw clenched. “Of course I was angry. I returned to discover you were marrying my father. But if I’d known why you were doing it…bloody hell, Helena! You should have told me.”
She bit down hard on the inside of her cheek. “Would it have changed anything?”
He stared incredulously at her. “It would have changed everything.”
“I…” The lump had returned to her throat, three times larger than before. She could barely speak because of it, and when she did her words were jumbled. “You’re right. I – I should have told you. But – but that night. We’d only known each other for that one night. And I…”
Courting the Countess of Cambridge (Secret Wallflower Society Book 2) Page 8