In her heavy skirts, weighed down by the pronounced tournure that gave them their lush fullness, she was no match for him. He caught her in a trice, taking her elbow and spinning her to face him.
“Curse you, Helena,” he said, and then lost his ability for further speech.
The ethereal light of the night bathed her lovely face. Her bosom, pale and full, was a temptation he had not previously noted in the haste of his altercation with Dessington and her subsequent retreat.
“You are remarkably obtuse for a man who is otherwise possessed of an estimable intellect,” she snapped.
Her ire ought to have ruined the effect, but he still felt as if he were a drunkard with his favorite vice laid before him. He wanted to consume her. Drown in her. He wanted to do all the things he had never dared to do.
With her.
Only her.
Why did he have to be afflicted thus, with a weakness for a woman he could never have? Even if his honor did not demand he keep a respectable distance from his friend’s sister, he had promised Grandfather he would marry Lady Beatrice, a woman who could not be more opposite to the fiery, scandal-courting siren facing him now. Lady Beatrice would make him an ideal countess, and their marriage would be perfectly polite, bereft of ruinous passion or emotion. It was what was best for him.
“What you are doing is wrong,” he said, hating the huskiness in his voice. Despising himself for the snugness of his trousers. A gentle breeze blew, bringing with it the scent of bergamot and citrus. He forced himself to continue. “You will only hurt yourself and your family if you carry on in this vein.”
“Why should you care?” she asked.
Excellent question.
He was beginning to wonder the same.
He clenched his jaw. “Because I am an honorable man. Because I am friends with Shelbourne, and I owe it to him to look after you as I would my own sister.”
She tugged at her elbow, but he held firm. “I am not your sister, Huntingdon.”
No one knew that better than he did.
A certain portion of his anatomy was painfully, rigidly familiar with that fact.
“Nonetheless, I consider you my sister in name, if not in truth,” he insisted, which was a loathsome lie. There was nothing brotherly about the way he felt whenever he was within Lady Helena Davenport’s presence.
And that was why he had always done his utmost to avoid her.
Why he ought to be avoiding her now.
If only she would see reason.
“Would that you did have a sister so you could go chasing her about in gardens,” Helena said.
And just like that, her words brought all the hated past rushing back to him. Lisbeth’s face, contorted in death. For a moment, he could not breathe. When he finally did, his lungs burned with the effort, as if he were beneath water. The crushing weight that had never been far from his chest in the early days of what had befallen her returned.
Panic assailed him. He could do nothing but double over, drawing the thick night air into his lungs with painstaking precision.
He must have released his hold on Helena, but she had not fled. Gradually, he became aware of a slow, steady caress on his back. Of a sweet voice, melodious, piercing him through the fogs of agony.
“I am so sorry, Huntingdon. I was not thinking when I spoke,” Helena was saying. “Please forgive me. I was angry with you and said something I should not have.”
The weight receded. He could breathe again. The anxiety lessened, bit by bit. These attacks were reminders of why he was a man of duty and honor. He must never forget.
His heart yet thumped in rapid beats, but he felt more himself. Was it wrong that he remained as he was for a moment longer than necessary, absorbing those tender caresses he had no business receiving?
Yes, it was.
And yet, Helena was touching him. Soothing him. He liked her hand upon him far too much. It made him feel as if she cared. For a fleeting heartbeat of a second, he could almost pretend she did.
But that was a greater foolishness than her campaign of ruination. Futile, too.
He straightened, gathering himself, chasing the old fears and pain, the anxiety. “You are forgiven, my lady. But if you truly wish to make amends, you will return to the ballroom and cease this recklessness.”
His hopes that she would put some much-needed distance between them were dashed when she remained where she was, perilously near, and her chin went up in that familiar show of rebelliousness. “My actions have nothing to do with you. I absolve you of any misplaced responsibility troubling you. Go back to the ballroom and your betrothed.”
Curse his undeserving hide, he had forgotten all about Lady Beatrice. His thoughts, much to his shame, had been completely owned by Helena for the last few minutes. But still, he could not go. Would not leave her in the gardens, alone and determined to ruin herself with whomever she could.
“I will escort you to the edges of the garden,” he countered, “and watch from the shadows as you re-enter the ballroom.”
She sighed. “You are a ridiculous man.”
“On the contrary. I am a logical one.” For reasons he refused to contemplate, he knew he would remain here in the gardens with her, guarding her like a dog. “I will not be dissuaded from my course.”
“And nor will I.”
They faced each other as he imagined duelers of old would have, waiting and watching the first to make a move.
“Stalemate once more, it seems,” he observed.
“I will stay here all evening if I must,” she replied.
They stared each other down some more. When stubborn met determined, what could be done, really? Until, at last, Mother Nature intervened in the form of a drop falling from the sky. First one, then another. A breeze kicked up the fauna in the garden, making branches rustle as clouds passed over the moon.
The scent of rain was suddenly in the air, mingling with lemon and bergamot.
“It would seem the fates have a different idea,” he said wryly. “If we do not return to the ballroom, I dare say we will be caught in a deluge.”
More rain fell, deciding their course for them.
“Oh, very well.” Helena gathered up her voluminous skirts. “I shall return first and you may follow. But do not suppose for a moment this means you have won, Huntingdon.”
He watched her flounce past him down the darkened path. There was no winning in this particular battle.
Chapter Four
We cannot stop fighting to right the injustices perpetrated upon our sex. The denial of equal representation in the matters which affect our daily lives must come to an end, one way or another. Let us hope it is with reason and sound intellect prevailing.
—From Lady’s Suffrage Society Times
Helena had been thwarted by Huntingdon on two occasions.
But today was a new day, and her plan was a new plan, and the ball being held by Lord and Lady Cholmondeley presented the perfect opportunity for her third attempt at courting scandal. The Marquess of Dorset had already agreed to slip away from the fête and meet her in the library at the appointed hour.
The hour was now.
Helena was early because balls were dreadfully boring affairs, and she could not be bothered to feign her enjoyment when Lord Hamish was in attendance as well. Which he was. Already, she had suffered a Viennese waltz with him. He had stepped on her hem thrice. And his breath had smelled of fish and whisky. His hand had been far too familiar with her person. The entire affair had left her feeling as if she ought to take a good, comforting soak in the nearest bath.
But instead she was here, in the cavernous library, which had been lit so lowly with a lone gas lamp that the shadows on the walls resembled monsters. The chamber smelled of old leather, mildew, and tobacco. Hardly an auspicious setting, but Helena told herself she did not care.
Dorset was a legendary seducer. He was handsome, as was to be expected for a man of his reputation. Dark haired, much like Huntingdon. Broad of
shoulders, lean of hip, long-limbed and tall, with a commanding presence and dark eyes which seemed to be shadowed with sadness. Common fame had it that his heart had been broken by Lady Anna Harcastle, who had gone on to become Marchioness of Huntly.
He was debonair. He was broken. He had danced with her and flirted shamelessly. When she had coyly suggested a meeting, he had not hesitated to accept.
In short, she was certain she had found the man who would be her savior. A few well-placed whispers of gossip, and she was equally sure Lady Clementine Hammond—who had never made any secret of her disdain for Helena, nor shied at the opportunity to bring her low—would be entering the library within the next half hour.
The timing was impeccable and essential. Helena had realized, partly because of the Earl of Huntingdon’s cool reprimands, and partly because of her own conscience, that she could not bear to endure a true deflowering. Kisses, embraces, mayhap a raised hem—she would suffer it in the name of her freedom from Lord Hamish. But this evening’s scandal had been planned, down to the minute. No more than one quarter-hour alone with Dorset before Lady Clementine appeared.
Lady Clementine would be shocked. And secretly pleased. And she would carry her tale to every available ear in London. Helena would feign horror and rebuff any obligatory offers of marriage the marquess might offer. She had it all planned, down to what she would say, down to her affectation of surprise.
Yes, this time, victory—and ultimately, freedom—would be hers.
No one, not even the Earl of Huntingdon, could stop her.
The door to the library opened.
She spun about, and her heart sank.
There, crossing the threshold and closing the portal at his back, was none other than the one man who had been plaguing her for the last fortnight. The man she loved.
If only she could stop loving him.
And if only he would cease his relentless determination to thwart her plotting at every turn.
“Huntingdon!” she said his name as if it were a curse, and indeed, in this instance, it was. “Why are you here?”
He strode toward her. She told herself to ignore the effect he had on her in his evening wear. To ignore his neck cloth, waistcoat, and trousers cut to perfection, the way he made her breath catch. And above all, to ignore his face, so beautiful her heart ached at the mere sight of him, even as fury at his high-handedness rattled through her.
“Need I answer that question?” he asked, as effortlessly as if they discussed something of scant import.
The weather, for instance.
Or the Serpentine.
The rising and falling tides.
The number of guests in attendance. Another crush—surely two hundred. She had sworn he was not a guest this evening. How was he here? Oh, it hardly mattered, did it? For he was before her, tall, handsome…
Infuriating.
“Yes,” she gritted. “You do need to answer that question, my lord.”
“Saving you,” he said solemnly. “That is why I am here.”
Helena twitched her skirts in agitation, then stalked several paces away to put some distance between them once more. “I do not require saving!”
And if she did need saving, it was decidedly not of the form he was offering. She had yet to forgive him for the humiliation of their last encounter, during which he had informed her he viewed her as a sister.
A. Sister.
She still longed to rail at him for such a stinging insult, and likely she would have done at the time had not she made the error of mentioning his dead sister. She could kick herself for her thoughtless words; seeing the way he had reacted still haunted her.
Still, she could not help wondering. How could he feel nothing for her when she felt everything for him? Helena vowed she would never understand it.
Silly, ignominious heart.
“I would suggest that your presence in this library conveys the direct opposite of what you are saying,” he said smoothly.
Her heart thudded, and that same liquid heat that pooled in her belly whenever he was near returned. If only she could control herself. If only she could stop loving him. If only she could keep from longing to throw herself into his arms and banish that frown with her lips.
What would kissing him be like?
She would never know. Because he was betrothed to another and he thought of her as a sister who required him to storm to the rescue like a gallant knight of old.
“Dorset is joining me here at any moment,” she informed him, bumping into a wall of books at her back in an effort to keep him as far away from her as possible.
There was nowhere else to escape to.
Huntingdon reached her, those impossibly blue eyes sparkling with an emotion she could not read. “Dorset is not coming.”
Not again.
Oh, drat him. Drat him for his meddling. Drat him for crowding her, for trapping her between the bookshelves and his powerful body. Drat him for his scent, taunting her now, musky and delicious.
“How do you presume to know what Dorset is doing and what he is not doing?” she asked, though she was afraid she already knew the answer.
Huntingdon smiled grimly. “We had a discussion, he and I. I persuaded him it would not be in his favor to dally with you.”
Would he never cease plaguing her?
Frustration and irritation blossomed, making her bold. She settled her hands on his chest and shoved. “Your concern is misplaced, Huntingdon. Direct it toward your betrothed and leave me to do as I wish.”
Touching him was a mistake.
Because she liked it far too much. The texture of his coat was smooth seduction. Heat radiated from him, seeping into her palms, making her weak. Making her want him. Her gaze dipped to his lips. One kiss. She had been doing everything in her power to ruin herself, and all she wanted was this man. His mouth on hers.
“My sense of honor forbids me from leaving you to your own wayward actions,” he growled, flattening his palms on the bookshelf at either side of her head, trapping her there.
A fruitless action. At the moment, she had no desire to go anywhere, though she knew all too well she should.
“I do not need your sense of honor,” she protested, despising herself for the breathlessness in her tone. For her inability to guard her heart against him. For the longing that washed over her, when she knew he could not ever be hers.
“On the contrary, my dear.” His voice was forbidding. “You very much do. If it were not for me, you should be on the cusp of making the greatest mistake of your life. You will thank me later. The Marquess of Dorset is not worthy of touching your hems.”
Was it her imagination, or had Huntingdon’s head lowered?
Of course it was her imagination. He thought of her as a sister.
“Whether or not Dorset touches my hems is for me to decide. Not you.” But as she issued her stern warning, her hands moved, sliding up his broad, firm chest. Settling upon his shoulders.
“This was your final chance, Helena. I have no choice but to go to Shelbourne now.”
Gabe stared down at Helena’s upturned face. She was a tall woman, but his uncommon height meant she was the perfect fit for him. All he needed to do was lower his head, and her lips could be his.
But that would be wrong, he reminded himself.
So very wrong.
“You are bluffing,” the spirited minx told him. “If you were going to go to Shelbourne, you would have already done so by now.”
She was right, damn her. He did not want to go to her brother with this. And if he bothered to examine the reason why, he would have to admit it was because he enjoyed chasing after her. Watching over her gave him an excuse to be in her presence. To be near. So near, her massive skirts billowed into his trousers. So near, he could ravish her pouting mouth to his content.
“I was hoping you would see reason.” His gaze strayed to those pink, lush lips, and he swallowed against a staggering rush of need he had no right to feel. “But you ha
ve proven again and again that you are incapable of knowing what is best for you.”
That much was the truth. It aggrieved him to no end, thinking of the rogues and scoundrels she would have given herself to, without thought, all in a desperate—and foolish—bid to escape marriage. First Lord Algernon. Then Dessington. Now Dorset. None of them deserved her.
“How like Lord Hamish you are,” she said, dragging him from his thoughts. “Believing you know better what I need than I do. You may think I am acting recklessly, but I can assure you that I have weighed my options with care. I am running out of time to save myself. Now kindly go away so I can carry on with what I set about doing.”
She thought him comparable to an arse like Lord Hamish White? That rather nettled. Huntingdon knew he should back away from her. That he should put some necessary space between them. But the light touch of her hands on his shoulders was filling his head with fire.
“I understand that you think ruining yourself is the only means of avoiding your match with Lord Hamish,” he allowed. “But you must see there are other ways, better ways. Have you spoken with your father about your wishes?”
Her golden eyebrows raised. “You must think me an imbecile. Of course I have spoken with my father. He does not take my concerns seriously. I have also spoken at length with my mother and my brother. No one seems inclined to aid me. Do you suppose I would throw myself into the arms of any man I could find as a first choice?”
Her question stung, and only partially because she was right—he had underestimated her. But also because the thought of her in any other man’s arms made him want to tear all the books in the room from their shelves.
“You ought not to be throwing yourself into anyone’s arms, damn you,” he ground out, itching to touch her. One pass of his fingers over her silken jaw. That was all.
Damn it, Gabe. Stop this madness. Step away.
And yet he could not leave.
“Says the man who considers me a sister,” she snapped, an edge to her voice he could not mistake. “Just because you see me as a burden rather than a woman does not mean I am yours to command.”
Lady Reckless (Notorious Ladies of London Book 3) Page 4
