Her blood went quite cold at the realization.
“You assume that because I’m a woman, my sole interests are needlepoint and drawing room whispers?” How condescending of him. She was tempted to deliver a sound blow to his arrogant head with one of the volumes on the shelves at her back.
He looked surprised. “Of course not. It is merely that most newspapers are filled with utter drivel rather than anything of import.”
“It is apparent, Mr. Storm, that you never read a word of the Beacon. You found a small journal that was an easy prey with a greedy man willing to sell his soul and you pressed your advantage.” She warmed to her task of serving him an ample slice of how-dare-you pie. Irritation felt far more reassuring to her than attraction. It was safer to detest him than to want him. “You are a heartless man.”
His mouth tightened, but she couldn’t discern whether it was from anger or irritation. “How easily you’ve judged me, my lady. Tell me, is it because I’m common?”
“Not in the least. It’s because you couldn’t be bothered to realize what you were destroying with your whims.”
“I didn’t destroy a damn thing.” His tone went more frigid than Wenham Lake ice. “That paper had been run into the ground by Bothwell and was so far in debt it was never going to make its way out without my assistance. I don’t operate on whims, my lady. I make my business decisions with the greatest of care. Hundreds of families put bread on their table through me, and I take that responsibility seriously.”
His words gave her pause. Perhaps he wasn’t entirely heartless after all. But there remained the fact that he had unceremoniously closed the doors on the Beacon’s formidable legacy of reformism without even bothering to read a single article it had ever run. Not to mention his patriarchal assumption that as a woman, she would have no greater thoughts in her head than gossip and nonsense.
“The concern you place upon those in your employ is admirable, Mr. Storm,” she allowed, “however, you’re altogether missing the point of my argument.”
“I reckon the point of your argument is that you enjoy arguing. You’re the single most vexing creature I’ve ever met.”
Truly. He thought she was vexing? She was of half a mind to box his ears. “I assure you that I don’t find arguing with anyone even slightly pleasant, and arguing with you is fast proving a Sisyphean task.”
“I might say the same, my lady.”
They were at a stalemate. She’d never found another man so frustratingly stubborn. So arrogant. So altogether wonderful to look at.
Oh dear, now where had that last thought come from? It wouldn’t do for her to notice how lean and decadent a figure he cut. Or for her to notice how sensual his mouth was, to wonder how it would feel if his lips trailed a path of fire upon her bare skin. No indeed, none of those things would do at all. They would only leave her mired in scandal and ruin, the likes of which she’d somehow managed to avoid for thirty years, against nearly impossible odds.
She sighed. Perhaps it was the lateness of the evening that rendered her maudlin, but she was fast losing her meager line of defenses, and he was her enemy at the gate. “I fear the evening has grown quite late, and I ought to retire. This conversation seems to be going nowhere at all.”
When she would have turned and fled, he stopped her once more with a hand at her elbow. “Lady Helen.”
“Sir?” Helen knew more than a thing or two about putting on airs. She gave him her sternest gaze to remind him that he encroached upon her territory. “It would seem we’ve once again traveled full circle. Here you are making far too free with my person.”
His lips twitched, and she almost suspected it was with mirth. But his countenance remained serious. Almost grim. “I would apologize, but I do believe I’ve offered the maximum amount of apologies I’m willing to give anyone in the course of one day.”
Helen almost laughed at his aggrieved proclamation. “You needn’t apologize, Mr. Storm, merely unhand me, or I shall—”
“Or?” His tone went low and intimate once more. She had unwittingly presented him a challenge. “What will you do? Bring all the servants upon me? Crack me in the eye?”
“Both are tempting scenarios,” she said tartly, but she was inwardly amused despite her best intentions. There was something indefinable about this man that simply got to her, cutting straight past all her barriers, common sense, and good Lord, even her intellect. Whatever it was proved more potent by the moment. She had to guard herself against him. Lowering her defenses just wouldn’t do. She well knew where it had landed her in the past, and she didn’t care for an encore. “However, I would prefer to keep my reputation and your eye both intact for the nonce.”
He retained his grip on her elbow, but it wasn’t forceful or painful. Rather, it was…compelling. “The first rule of business is that you should never make threats you aren’t willing to carry out. Otherwise, you give the advantage to your opponent.”
He had her there, the arrogant man. “I wasn’t aware you were my opponent or that we were conducting business.”
“That depends.” His fingers traveled slowly down her arm to make a leisurely exploration of the bare skin at her wrist.
“Upon what?” Her voice was breathless, even to her own ears. Traitorous body, responding to him thus. One would have supposed she would have a far stronger sense of self-preservation. All these years, she had held fast in her determination to keep every gentleman at bay.
But Mr. Storm was no gentleman, and he had told her so himself, had offered to show her. Perhaps that was part of his allure.
“Upon you, Lady Helen.” He stepped closer, so near that she could smell his deliciously masculine scent once again. “Would you care to continue writing for the Beacon?”
She couldn’t have been more stunned by his words if he had announced that he was the bastard son of Queen Victoria. “I thought my services were no longer required. Not even if my articles were about my grandmother’s shoes.”
Helen couldn’t resist the urge to needle him, just a bit. He had been exceedingly rude, and thoroughly maddening. Both appeared to be character traits of his. She wasn’t certain she trusted this sudden change of heart. After all, he was a businessman. There had to be some reason he’d want her to continue writing for the journal, and with the way he was looking at her now, she had a feeling she had an idea of what that reason was.
She swallowed.
Oh dear.
He smiled, and the effect was smoldering. His dimples carved matching grooves in his whiskers. How ridiculous, she thought, that a man of his beauty should also have a facial characteristic that only served to enhance and call attention to his looks. He waged a full war upon her senses, and it wasn’t fair. “They aren’t required. Merely requested.”
No sense in beating around the proverbial bush. “Why?” she asked bluntly.
His thumb traced a circle over her wrist bone. “Perhaps you’ve worn me down, my lady. I’ve seen the error of my ways. I really ought to have read the journal before I purchased it. If your writing is of such great consequence to you, who am I to still your pen?”
Clever of him to phrase his reply in such a way, but Helen was no fool. Nor was she easily won. “Perhaps I have, or perhaps there are other motives for your sudden generosity of spirit.”
“I reckon we’ll just have to wait and see, Lady Helen.” He took her hand then and raised it to his lips for a kiss that couldn’t have been more polite if it had been done in view of a drawing room full of the highest sticklers in society. “What is your answer?”
She ought to tell him no. Of course, she should. Helen knew that. Continuing to write for the Beacon meant she would have to see him again. Seeing him again would likely hold a wealth of consequences. She was sure that he meant to seduce her. It was plain in his frank admiration of her, in the way he touched her. She was also sure that she may not be able to resist just such an effort. Worse, that she may not want to.
But her cause was also importan
t to her. If she could continue to give a voice to those who had none, continue to try to drum up support in any way she could, then anything was worth the risk. There was so much more that needed to be said and done, so few people willing to stand up and act. Much of the world needed fixing, and Helen wanted to help mend it. Mending healed. It had healed her, once upon a time.
“Your answer, Lady Helen?”
She was about to capitulate, and they both knew it. Still, her conscience prodded her. “What do you want from me in return?”
“Not a thing you aren’t willing to give,” he said easily.
Double oh dear. “You’ll print anything I write?” she pressed.
He released her hand, his expression as indecipherable as ever. “Within reason. I reserve the right to exert my editorial authority, but you are free to write whatever your heart desires.”
“Very well, Mr. Storm.” She took a deep breath, hoping she wasn’t agreeing to her downfall. “I accept your offer.”
Levi woke in a strange bed with the persistence of a whiskey headache thumping his skull. Murky memories of the evening before flitted through his brain. There had been dinner and the happy surprise that his unruly mystery woman also happened to be Jesse’s houseguest. There had been tumblers of whiskey and camaraderie with his old friend.
And then there had been the run-in with a blonde beauty in the library. Damn it. What the hell had he been thinking, telling Lady Helen he’d print her articles? He’d already decided that he was taking the journal in a new direction, one dedicated to business and business alone, the first of its kind. He didn’t even have an inkling of what sort of nonsense she might foist upon him for publication. For all he knew, she could very well write horrid poetry or insipid articles about the art of curling one’s hair.
Yet he had invited her to continue writing for his paper. What worm had taken up residence in his addled mind? It was lust of course. Had to be. He wanted Lady Helen. Despite the reassurances he’d given Jesse, despite Miss VanHorn, despite the fact that the woman irritated him to no end, despite every law of reason in the land, he wanted Lady Helen. There had been a moment last evening where, in his whiskey-fogged mind, he had realized he could walk away and never see her again or he could somehow keep her presence in his life.
He had selfishly chosen the latter, and by the grim rays of the morning, he already knew it to be a mistake. Hang it, the light streaming in past the window dressings was decidedly bright. Too bright, which meant he’d slept far longer than was his custom.
Levi snatched up his pocket watch from the bedside table and confirmed what he’d already feared. He was late. Levi Storm was many things, but late had never been one of them. He regarded punctuality as a virtue very near to godliness. Yet here he was, in bed with a throbbing head when he was an hour past the time he was to have met Eddy. Add to that his ill-advised bid to continue seeing Lady Helen, and well, the day was not precisely brimming in promise.
With a groan that was one part penitence, one part reluctance, he rose from the bed. He’d had a servant bring over some of his necessities from the hotel the previous night, but he had no man to dress him. He had never had a valet in his life and he didn’t suppose he ever would. While he’d grown accustomed to a life laden with finer things, he could never bring himself to allow another to help him dress. It just wasn’t in him. Now he almost regretted it as he performed his morning rituals and slowly turned himself back into a gentleman fit for society.
As he exited his chamber, he turned his mind forcefully toward the day’s business matters that would require his attention. It felt reassuring to entrench himself in his work and cast all thoughts of Lady Helen from his mind.
And then just as quickly as he’d removed her from his thoughts, there she stood before him in the hallway, wearing a violet morning gown that accented her lush curves to perfection. Lust hit him with the force of a blow directly to his midsection.
Damn it all to hell.
She smiled when she saw him, warily, or so he thought. “Good morning, Mr. Storm.”
“Good morning, my lady.” It would seem he’d have to act the part of gentleman. He offered her his arm. “May I escort you to breakfast?”
She rested her hand in the crook of his arm and he wished he didn’t like the way it felt but he did just the same. “That would be lovely, sir.”
They were being very formal now, as if they had not met in the early hours of the morning and clashed verbal swords. Perhaps it was for the best. For the scent of bergamot and rose taunted him.
“I trust you slept well?” he asked, careful to keep his tone cool and unaffected. Lovesick swain was not a role he cared to play.
“My sleep was utterly unperturbed,” she said in dulcet tones, staring straight ahead.
He could not say the same, and he had to wonder whether she was being entirely truthful. He didn’t think he mistook her reaction to him. Even now, she held herself stiffly, the perfect picture of elegance. Too perfect. “Excellent, my lady.”
They reached the curved grand staircase and began their descent. “I’m very grateful to you for your change of heart, Mr. Storm.”
Her soft concession startled him as much as it warmed him. It wouldn’t do for her to think him weak, or worse, kind. “I wouldn’t precisely deem it a change of heart, my lady.”
She stopped right there on the step, forcing him to halt their progress as well, and turned to look at him again at last, her gaze searching his. “No? What would you call it then?”
Selfishness. Stupidity. His cock ruling his head.
But he wisely said none of the initial responses that came to mind. “I would call it good business.”
Her hand tightened upon his arm. They were very close, and if he leaned down a scant few inches, he could take her lips and kiss her senseless right there on the stairs for all and sundry to see.
“You may refer to it as you like, but I remain grateful nonetheless. The Beacon is very important to me.”
Damn it all, if there was ever an inconvenient time for his cock to go hard as a brick, surely it was now as he stood like a vassal in Lady Helen’s gleaming presence, servants bustling below them, stopped on the fourth step down. He cleared his throat, ill at ease, and moved his gaze to the infinitely more innocuous pastoral painting hanging on the far wall. “Don’t forget that I must approve your writing. I haven’t given you carte blanche.”
The instant he said the words, he regretted them. He stole another glance at her to see that she had flushed, her cheekbones taking on a brilliant pink tinge that did nothing to dampen the intensity of her beauty.
“I think perhaps we ought to go down to breakfast before we’re missed,” she said, deftly avoiding the implications of the phrase he’d unwittingly used.
Mistress.
Lady Helen in his bed.
To the devil. None of this was helping the inconvenient state of his trousers, which were suddenly too damned tight. “Yes we ought to,” he agreed, his voice strained, even to his own ears.
What the hell was the matter with him? They descended the remainder of the stairs in silence, Levi thoroughly displeased with himself. He needed to get back to where he belonged. Fast.
He didn’t care what convention or polite society required him to do. If he didn’t leave immediately, he was going to do something inordinately more foolish than what he’d already done. So he stopped and bowed to Lady Helen, who appeared as perplexed as he felt by his actions.
“I regret that I must take my leave, Lady Helen. Please extend my felicitations to our hosts on my behalf. Good day.”
He didn’t wait for a response, merely turned on his heel and strode from Jesse’s house as though Cerberus himself nipped at his heels. And perhaps in a sense, he did.
elen was reasonably certain that accepting Mr. Storm’s invitation to continue writing for the Beacon had been a grave mistake. For one thing, it would give her cause to be in his company. To seek him out. To be near to him, perhaps
alone with him. For another thing, she didn’t like him. He was arrogant, condescending, and utterly without manners.
And for yet another thing, it would require drastic measures on her part. She would have to do something sensational. Something foolish. Something downright dangerous.
Something she was currently in the process of doing.
The East End was not a place for a genteel lady who was the daughter of an earl.
But she wasn’t there on her own.
There was precisely one person in the world she could entrust with aiding her in her cause, and that woman sat opposite her as their carriage halted on the street outside a rather notorious brothel. Mrs. Augusta Bennington was well known for her work with the Ladies’ National Association for the Repeal of the Contagious Diseases Acts. The Contagious Diseases Acts had long been a contentious fight, for the legislation enabled the forced inspection of prostitutes for venereal disease and sanctioned their unwilling captivity in lock hospitals. Mere weeks ago, Gussie’s struggles on that front had met with success, and she and Helen had been present in the Ladies’ Gallery in the House of Commons for the motion that would surely herald the Acts’ ultimate downfall.
Gussie was a voice for change and had fought on behalf of women for the last two decades. Though fine-boned and delicate of appearance, Gussie was a formidable woman. Helen had once seen her wallop a man over the head with her parasol for kicking a dog. The man had been duly chastised, and Gussie had simply scooped up the ill-used pup and taken him into her care. Helen could only aspire to such unfailing mettle.
Sweet Scandal Page 5