She had not been prepared for the way her body would respond to him, as though it had waited years for him to set her aflame. As though she was made for him, his touch, his mouth. He tasted of whiskey and sin, and she wanted more.
It didn’t matter that he’d purchased the Beacon to transform it into a business journal. It didn’t matter that he had just refused to publish her article. It didn’t matter that he was forbidding and irritating and stubborn.
All that mattered in that brief, glorious moment was his kiss.
And then, it was over.
He muttered a vicious oath and set her away from him so suddenly that she nearly toppled to the floor. She stared at him, uncertain of what to expect. Her actions had been reckless and imprudent. It would seem she’d never learn when to force her heart to listen to her head. A few more kisses, and she would have been on her back on the bed. She would have allowed him to undress her, take her, do anything he’d wanted. Worse, she would have welcomed it.
“If you think you can persuade me to print this with your pretty mouth, you’re wrong,” he said coolly, making her feel even more the fool.
“I think no such thing,” she denied, willing her heart to resume its normal pace. “It was you who wanted to kiss me.”
He strode closer to her again, crowding her with his big body. “And you who invited me to.”
She licked her suddenly dry lips, wishing very much that she didn’t long for him to kiss her again. “It would seem we’re both in err.”
“Yes,” he agreed, his gaze dipping back to her mouth. “We cannot engage in such nonsense again.”
But he had caught her round the waist, drawing her against him, belying his words.
She was breathless. His lips were a scant few inches from hers once more. “It would be foolhardy indeed.”
Mr. Storm bit out another curse. His palm traveled up her back, skimming past the laces of her corset, beyond her shoulders, to rest on the bare skin of her neck just above her collar. She leaned into his touch, looking up at him, her entire body aflame, wanton wickedness washing over her in lazy waves that threatened to overtake her.
He kissed her once more, this time lingeringly, nipping at the fullness of her lower lip. Her fingers sank into his hair. She kissed him back with a ferocity she hadn’t realized was even within her. A sweet, languorous pleasure stole through her, and it made her ache. It made her weak.
Before she had even realized what he was about, he’d undone half the row of tiny buttons fastening the front of her dress. Cool air brushed her heated skin, and then his touch was there, a decadent brand, caressing the patch of bare skin at the hollow of her neck he’d revealed. His large hand slid to rest above her madly beating heart, beneath her chemise.
Dear sweet heavens. What was she doing? Surely there was nothing more ruinous than being alone with him in his chamber and allowing him to undo half her dress while kissing her senseless. She tore her mouth from his with great reluctance, her conscience and judgment uniting to remind her treacherous body that she was a lady and Mr. Storm was most assuredly not a gentleman.
“We cannot,” she said, rather unconvincingly even to her own ears. Every part of her clamored for more. More of his kisses, more of his hands on her. More of everything.
“We can,” he countered, his gaze penetrating and unreadable upon her. He had not removed his hand, and now his fingers slid beneath her corset to tantalize the top of her breast.
She gasped, but not because she was scandalized. Because she liked it. He found her nipple and the most exquisite sensation overcame her. Only a closed door and a dark hallway saved her reputation from utter devastation. Helen didn’t care. If anything, it heightened the way he made her feel.
“We should not,” she forced herself to protest even as she arched into his knowing touch. He rubbed her nipple idly, his gaze lowering back to her mouth.
“Cannots and should nots have never interested me, Lady Helen.” His tone was low, almost hypnotic.
“I don’t doubt that.” In that moment she was heartily glad for it. She very much wanted him to continue the sinful magic he worked upon her. Her hands were still on his strong, broad shoulders.
“Stay with me tonight.” His statement was abrupt, more directive than request. Not at all the soft cajoling one might expect from a lover. But then again, Mr. Storm was not a soft, cajoling sort of man. He was imposing, hard as granite, a puzzle she dearly longed to solve. “Come to bed with me. Let me pleasure you.”
She felt suddenly dizzied. This was not an innocent invitation, but one laden with as much promise as sin. Staying with him, in his chamber, in his bed, should not have appealed to her as much as it did. In truth, she wanted nothing more than to remain with him, to know him as intimately as a woman could know a man. But just as badly as she yearned to say yes, a sinking knot of dread in her stomach told her she could not. Should not. Must not.
Would not.
“I cannot.” She stared at him, memorizing the beauty of his face, for she was certain she would never again see him thus, vulnerable and stripped of his veneer. “I must return to my chamber before anyone is the wiser to my presence here. Thank you for reading my article. I hope that, if anything, it will give you pause, Mr. Storm.”
His expression was inscrutable as ever. He gave her a mocking half bow. “I assure you that it has, Lady Helen. It most certainly has.”
She didn’t bother to wonder at the hidden meaning of his words as she fled back into the dark safety of the night.
he crimson silk, do you think?” Bella gestured to one of three ornate ball gowns on display in her dressing chamber.
The very latest from Worth, it was fashioned of a luscious, vivacious red fabric and trimmed with lace at the bodice and sleeves. It was a beautiful creation, truly, to behold, and on any other day, Helen would have loved nothing more than to drool over her friend’s ridiculously lavish wardrobe. But today, her mind was rather burdened by far weightier matters.
Far more dangerous and wickedly handsome matters.
“I must say that I do so love the blue as well,” Lady Bella went on, moving to the next dress and fingering its elaborately plaited tulle and satin skirts. “It is so very sumptuous and I want to make my mark on this ball. I want Jesse to like it, and he has always seemed partial to me in blue.” She looked up at Helen and frowned. “You haven’t heard a blessed word I’ve said, have you, dear? My heavens, I’m beginning to sound like one of those empty-headed ladies who corners you in a ball to natter on about herself, aren’t I?”
“Of course not,” Helen rushed to answer. “You mustn’t think anything of the sort. I fear that my mind was wandering a bit and it is I who has become empty-headed. Pray forgive me, Bella.”
“Fiddle.” Bella waved a hand as if to dismiss Helen’s protest. “I know when I’m being a bore. I daresay this isn’t like me at all. Ordinarily, I’m quite content to keep my nose buried in my books, but tonight is very important to Jesse and I want to look my best for him.”
Helen envied the passionate marriage Bella shared with Jesse. How could she not? One couldn’t help but to notice their private glances, their subtle touches. Jesse treated Bella with a reverence that was as touching as it was blatant. And even Helen, firmly on the shelf, self-declared spinster that she was, could see their love and wish she too had experienced something like it, even if just for a fleeting moment.
“Don’t be a ninny. You could dress in rags and still please your husband, and well you know it.” She paused, considering the third dress Bella had instructed her lady’s maid to set aside for their inspection. It was a deep, riveting shade of emerald and its tablier of satin fairly shimmered by the light of day. “But I do understand your apprehension. Tonight’s ball has been the talk of the town. The green, I think. It’s quite unique and you’ll be utterly magnificent in it.”
“Is our little ball the talk?” Bella gave an excited clap. “I hope it will go smoothly. One never knows with this sort of th
ing. Throwing a ball, I’ve discovered, is a bit like having a child. You think you know what to expect, but you’re entirely wrong, and at the end of it all you’ve experienced something miraculous and wonderful but you’re tired and every bone in your body aches.”
Helen laughed. “From what my sister tells me, you aren’t alone in that sentiment on either account.” Cleo had a son and was expecting her second babe. Helen adored her nephew. She loved his chubby face and tiny toes and sweet giggles. Sometimes, she still felt a wrench in her heart to know she’d never look upon the face of her own child. But the feeling inevitably passed, and she was above all else a woman who knew what she was meant to do with her life. She didn’t require a husband or a child to find fulfillment.
Bella laughed. “Well I suppose it is good to know one is not alone, is it not?” She gave Helen a quick hug before pulling away to search her gaze. “I’m so happy you’re here with us, Helen. Your company has been very good for me. Thornton is a wonderful bear of a brother, but I’ve begun to realize I was desperately in need of sisters all this time.”
She smiled, touched by her friend’s words. Having grown up with her gaggle of sisters, Helen had never paused to wonder what it might be like without them. Horrid, certainly. “You are an honorary Harrington girl. We’ve brought you into our flock, and we absolutely refuse to let you out of it.”
“I am glad.” Bella tilted her head in that way she had, her dark curls like a halo on her head, considering Helen too closely for her liking. “Tell me, Helen, what is on your thoughts this morning? You are not your usual self, and I fear something is amiss.”
Oh dear. There it was. Apparently, she was as transparent as a window pane. And she’d thought she’d been hiding it so well. She bit her lip, wondering how much, if anything, to reveal to her hostess. For while Bella was her friend and very much like a sister to her, she was aware that her actions could nevertheless meet with censure. Shock. Perhaps she’d even be turned out. It was what a proper lady certainly ought to do. Genteel ladies didn’t go about visiting a gentleman’s chamber after midnight, no matter how noble the cause.
She chose her words with care. “There is something. I must apologize. I should have told you before now.”
“You have a tendre for Mr. Storm.”
Helen stared, aghast, and instantly thought better of her confession after all. “No. Of course I have nothing of the sort.”
Bella gave her a knowing look. “You needn’t worry. I shan’t tell a soul.”
“I most certainly do not have a tendre for Mr. Storm,” Helen protested, perhaps, as Shakespeare was wont to point out, too much. “Indeed, I daresay I don’t even like him.”
“Oh?” Bella plainly did not believe her, and her arch expression said as much.
“Bella.” Helen fixed her most ferocious frown upon her face, the one she thought her best impression of her miserable old governess, Miss Hullyhew. “Mr. Storm is the most arrogant, infuriating, wrong-headed, stubborn, supercilious man I know. I most certainly do not feel anything for him.”
“You did both say arrogant and supercilious,” Bella pointed out in a conciliatory tone.
Helen heaved a sigh. “I’m aware they have essentially the same definition. Mr. Storm is merely so arrogant that I needed to say it twice.”
“If you insist.” Bella shrugged.
“What does that mean?” Helen demanded.
“It means that you needn’t be so defensive.” Her friend gave her an almost pitying look. “I’ve been in your slippers, my dear. I’ve also seen the way Mr. Storm looks at you. Your feelings aren’t precisely unrequited.”
She was flummoxed. Utterly flummoxed. Yes, of course she enjoyed the man’s touch and his kiss. Being alone with him in his chamber had been equal parts temptation, frustration, and bliss. Yes, the plain truth of it was that he was vexing. He was infuriating, and wrong-headed, and every other thing she’d thought to call him. But there was something about him that spoke to her, to the deepest, darkest parts of her that she hadn’t even known existed. Something indefinable and wonderful and frightening all at the same time. It wasn’t just that he was handsome, though he was, and devastatingly so. It wasn’t that he was intelligent or clever or that he’d built something astonishing for a man who had been the son of a prostitute.
It was more. It was simply him.
Her stomach felt as though it fell straight to the carpet at her feet.
“You look as if you’ve seen the ghost of your great-grandmother,” Bella said with a grin, helpful soul that she was.
Helen would swear her friend was enjoying this, watching her fidget about in uncertainty. “I don’t believe in ghosts.” And she didn’t. Not now that she was a woman grown. Helen was far too no-nonsense for spirits and sprites and superstition. She believed in reason, in certainties. She believed in love, but only for others. She had a higher calling. A purpose. She simply had to excise Mr. Storm from her mind and continue on with her purpose true and strong.
“It was a figure of speech, dearest Helen. You mustn’t be silly.” Bella winked, lightening the mood. “There will be plenty of time to see what happens tonight at the ball. Have you already decided upon your dress, or are you fickle as I am?”
“I’ve decided,” Helen said, and in that moment, she had. It was a daring dress, the kind she’d commissioned, packed, carried about, and then never had the gumption to wear. But perhaps tonight would be just the night for it. “What do you mean, see what happens?”
“A great deal can happen at a ball,” Bella said archly. “Trust me on this, if nothing else. A ball is a place of true possibility.”
Helen stared at the gowns, wondering precisely what her friend meant, too afraid to ask. She didn’t dare think of what sort of mayhem she could get herself into in a darkened alcove with a man like Mr. Storm. No, she didn’t dare at all.
Damn it all to hell, he’d forgotten about the ball.
The crush of carriages and glittering lords and ladies swarming about Jesse’s house that evening as he approached instantly reminded Levi that his host and hostess had invited him to the extravagant affair. He had walked the distance from his offices as he often did wherever he was in the world, finding the solitude and rhythmic motion an excellent boon for his harried mind.
But as he came upon the throng of revelers, he wished he had not walked tonight after all. In his rumpled work clothes, he hadn’t a doubt that he was conspicuous as a regimental deserter walking through Mayfair. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to sneak inside through the servants’ entrance and straighten himself into some semblance of proper gentility.
He swept past a woman alighting from her carriage with diamonds winking from her throat and hastily descended to the tucked-away portal reserved for the echelon of society to which he truly belonged: commoner. He was proud of that, actually. He’d never understand the European penchant for aristocratic family trees. In his book, the beauty of life was that a man could be born anywhere, to anyone, and become whatever and whomever he chose to be.
If the servants bustling about belowstairs found it odd to have an interloper amongst them, they didn’t show it. The underbelly of the house was a hive of activity as the ball got underway, the servants so busy that they hardly even spared him a glance. Maids in black dresses, white aprons, and white caps and footmen in formal dress went about their duties. He didn’t envy them their endless tasks.
At least his day, apart from playing the part of gentleman, was largely done. He had telegraphed VanHorn and his other investors back in New York City, explaining the urgent need for a greater investment than the amount he’d initially requested. Of course, he didn’t expect wrangling more money from the wily bastards to be an easy feat, but he had no fear that he could persuade them the risk was far worth the ultimate reward. And it would be. Yes, his affairs were finally getting back to their proper order. His house was nearing completion at last and his office would soon be habitable once more.
If only he coul
d steer his thoughts away from the one person who threatened to undo all the order he’d sternly created.
Lady Helen.
No matter how hard he focused on his work, she was there, fluttering at the edges of his every thought like a shadow he couldn’t shake. He had underestimated her, and the fact unsettled him as much as how sorely she tempted him did. She was no spoiled aristocrat as he’d wanted to believe. She was a spitfire with a cause, and she didn’t write gossip or fashion drivel. No indeed, she wrote about the plight of women born without the protection her wealth and privilege afforded her. Something inside him, some icy part he’d kept long buried and frozen, thawed a bit as he thought of her. The feeling jolted him so much he nearly collided with a harried footman.
Damn it, he had to collect his wits. Forget about the way she had looked in his chamber, beautiful despite her prim black dress. Forget about how she’d responded in his arms. Forget the fact that she had put herself at grave risk to infiltrate a house of ill repute just to write an article he had summarily refused to print.
Ah, her article. It was profane. Shocking. There was no way he could print it even if he’d wanted to, for the damage it would do her. She could be jailed, earl’s daughter or no. He could be jailed. Neither of them could afford the risk, and she had known that but she had cared enough to do it anyway.
At first, he’d been somewhat surprised to discover that the cause she so ardently supported was not only a worthy one but the very sort of cause that most women of her station would have ignored. But the more he read, the more he realized it was precisely what he would have expected of the bold, lovely woman he’d only begun to come to know.
Of course, when he’d read that she herself had entered such a den of vice, he’d wanted to shake her. Levi had been in brothels. He’d grown up flitting in and out of them, for God’s sake, hiding in back rooms while his mother earned their rent. He knew what happened within those walls. What could have happened to Helen, had she not been so lucky. Jesus, but the thought of anything happening to her—some swine assaulting her, or far worse—was still enough to make his fists ball with impotent rage even now.
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