Lady Reckless (Notorious Ladies of London Book 3)

by Scarlett Scott

  What a hideous liar he was. Helena very much compared. She outshone Lady Beatrice in every way. But Helena was a wild hellion, his friend’s sister, altogether forbidden to him. Lady Beatrice was the woman Grandfather had chosen to become the next Countess of Huntingdon. For all the right reasons.

  His betrothed smiled at him, and her loveliness could not be denied. Nor could his distinct lack of reaction to her. Not a twitch of his prick. Not the slightest hint of heat in his belly or a sense of awareness.

  Apathy was excellent, he reminded himself. Respect the foundation for a sound marriage, the sort of union he wanted for himself. He would not be doomed to repeat the sins of his parents.

  “You flatter me, my lord.” She turned her head to admire a clump of fat, blooming roses. “I am not worthy of your high regard.”

  “You are worthy of my highest regard,” he said solemnly, “and for that reason, I must confess that I come to you today with an apology, Lady Beatrice.”

  She stiffened, her gaze flying back to his, and yet, her countenance remained oddly emotionless. “I am certain you have done nothing which requires my forgiveness, Lord Huntingdon.”

  He hated himself. “While I appreciate your high opinion of me, I fear it is misguided in this instance. I acted in an inappropriate and far too familiar fashion with a female acquaintance yesterday. I remain deeply ashamed of my actions, and I felt the only honorable path was to be honest with you at once. Naturally, if you decide you cannot proceed with our marriage, given my lapse of judgment, I will understand.”

  They paused on the path. Her mother watched from the salon windows, but they were out of earshot. It was enough for a spot of privacy, but not enough to be an affront to propriety.

  “Of course I would never dream of judging you so harshly, my lord,” Lady Beatrice said calmly. “Gentlemen will have their moments of temptation. My place as your wife will be to offer my sincere affection and support however I may.”

  Her response left him stunned. He had imagined a host of reactions from his betrothed on his carriage ride here, and none of them had been complacency and acceptance.

  He cleared his throat. “Your understanding is much appreciated, my dear. However, I wish to reassure you I will never again allow myself to act with such dishonor again.”

  “You need not fear I will object to your keeping a mistress, Lord Huntingdon,” she said briskly, as if she were speaking of something as simple as the rose bushes in bloom. “Indeed, I am more than prepared to encourage you to do so.”

  Helena was hardly his mistress. The wickedest part of him contemplated the notion of her, naked in his bed. Of making love to her.

  No, Gabe. You are better than this. Cling to your honor…

  He did not dare reveal the identity of the lady in question. He had been spending the last few weeks doing his utmost to keep Helena from ruining herself, damn it. Confiding in Lady Beatrice would only undermine that purpose, to say nothing of the other problems it would create.

  “I will not be keeping a mistress,” he said stiffly, the use of the word, spoken to his future countess, feeling shameful and wrong. “I intend to be a faithful husband.”

  Indeed, faithfulness was one of the most important tenets which should guide a marriage. Neither of his parents had been faithful to each other. And look at what had become of them, of Lisbeth.

  “Forgive me for being so forward with my wishes, but I do believe it for the best if you are to keep a mistress, Lord Huntingdon,” his betrothed returned then, leaving him further shocked. “It is expected and, in many ways, natural. If you should wish to pursue more with this…female acquaintance of yours, I would not object.”

  This was not what he wished to hear. Suspicion rose within him. Was she encouraging him to take a mistress so she, too, could pursue another? Because the last thing he wanted was to bind himself in a marriage like the one his parents had shared.

  “Mayhap this is a conversation we should have had before, Lady Beatrice. I will not accept infidelity within the bonds of marriage.”

  She smiled brightly. “You need not fear on that account, my lord. I will be more than happy to be a faithful wife and provide you with the necessary heirs, while you are free to pursue whatever you wish. I wholeheartedly appreciate your candor, and now, I do think it best we returned inside as we have tarried quite a bit in the gardens.”

  “Of course, my lady.” Bemused, he turned and guided them back into the house.

  After a few minutes of polite inquiries between himself and his hostesses, Huntingdon was once more in his carriage. He needed to speak with Shelbourne. Unfortunately for him, a call at his friend’s bachelor’s residence revealed he was not at home.

  Feeling grimmer than he had upon waking that morning, Huntingdon returned home and promptly took up a bottle of whisky, hiding in his study. Even more unfortunately for Huntingdon, he was an infrequent imbiber.

  Which meant that in no time at all, he was desperately bosky.

  And which also meant that in no time at all, he was once more finding himself desperately in trouble.

  With the wrong woman.

  Again.

  Chapter Six

  As for anyone who argues the granting of woman’s suffrage would be a mistake, I challenge them to provide sound, logical reasons why. Of course, they can be in possession of none.

  —From Lady’s Suffrage Society Times

  The Earl of Huntingdon was soused.

  Impossible as it seemed—for she had never witnessed the paragon overindulge—there was no denying the truth of it.

  Helena’s first indication was when he arrived for dinner at the Marquess and Marchioness of Hartstock’s townhome and entered the dining hall swaying like a tree caught in a maelstrom. The second indication was when he spoke too loudly at dinner and laughed overly long at one of his own jokes. To be fair, the fact that he had told a sally at all was yet another troubling indicator. The third was the manner in which he quaffed his wine over the many courses, also quite unlike himself.

  And the fourth was when he followed Helena into the lady’s withdrawing room, stuffing her inside and crowding her with his presence much as he had in the library.

  She had not heard him follow her, and as she eyed him warily, heart hammering, she could not help but to wonder how. He was so large. He could not have trod silently, especially after the amount of wine he had drained over the course of the evening.

  Regardless of his unusual behavior, he was here. Her lips tingled with remembrance of the kisses they had shared.

  “Huntingdon,” she forced herself to say, “what in heaven’s name are you doing, following me in here? If anyone were to come upon us, it would be the scandal of the decade.”

  “I needed to speak with you in private, to apologize for my unpardonable actions,” he announced, dashing any futile hopes she had been harboring that he may have followed her so he could kiss her again.

  “You kissed me,” she said calmly, as if those kisses had not changed her world.

  In truth, his refusal to speak honestly of what had transpired between them infuriated her. His unpardonable actions had been everything to her, drat his beautiful hide.

  “It was a mistake, what happened,” he said, talking far too loudly.

  “Hush, or someone will hear you.” If Helena snapped at him, it could not be helped. He had just called kissing her a mistake, as well. She longed to slap him. And then kiss him some more. “You truly must go, Huntingdon. This is quite unlike you.”

  “I have been able to think of nothing else but what happened.” He reached for her, then frowned and withdrew his hand before making contact, almost as if his body had a will of its own which did not match his mind. “Thinking of how wrong and dishonorable it was of me to act as I did. I cannot forgive myself, even if Lady Beatrice has.”

  The mentioning of his betrothed had the effect of a bucket of ice being dumped into her soul. “Surely you are jesting, Lord Huntingdon.”

  �
�Jesting?” He blinked in owlish fashion. “Of course I would never jest about a matter of such great import. You must know I desire you…er, your respect. As an old chum of Shelbourne’s, of course.”

  Her foolish heart thumped with greater abandon, clinging to his misstep.

  What if it was not a misstep? What if Huntingdon does desire you?

  He did not kiss like a man who did not desire her. If anything, his kisses had been proof of the opposite.

  She searched his deep-blue gaze, trying to find the answers she sought and finding only more questions instead. “You have always had my respect. Until you began this nonsensical meddling in my affairs, that is. You cannot continue following me about. I have settled upon my course.”

  “Ruination,” he muttered, disgust evident in his voice.

  “It is that or commit myself to a miserable existence as Lord Hamish’s bride,” she countered.

  Why, oh why, would none of the men in her life see reason? Why could none of them understand how little power and hope a woman truly held? She was at the mercy of her father and his ludicrous plan she marry a man of his choosing.

  “Shall I speak to Northampton on your behalf?” he asked. “Or Shelbourne, perhaps?”

  Frustration blossomed once more.

  “And what shall you tell them, hmm?” she demanded. “The same thing you told Lady Beatrice?”

  Hated name, leaving her lips. A name she wished she had never heard. A woman she wished did not exist. But those wishes were futile. Every bit as futile, it would seem, as her attempts to create a scandal so she could have her freedom. She was so certain her father would not turn her away and cut off her pin money if scandal kept Lord Hamish from wanting to offer for her hand. And surely, surely, she could find a more suitable arrangement, given the time and opportunity thus far denied her.

  “I did not tell Lady Beatrice about you, specifically.” Huntingdon’s voice sounded thick, his words lacking their usual crisp elocution.

  Somehow, seeing him in a state of alarming imperfection made her want him more. Or mayhap it was the fact that her traitorous lips knew the way his felt molded to hers.

  “Quelle relief,” she said bitterly. “Please, Huntingdon. Just return to the gentlemen and your port and cigars. You have already done more than enough damage.”

  “She forgave me,” he said, running a hand through his dark hair and leaving it rakishly ruffled.

  Some hated part of her longed to reach out and smooth the wayward strands. But she would not—must not—touch him. “How lovely for you.”

  Helena could not bear another minute of discussing Lady Beatrice. She had endured more than enough, thank you. If Huntingdon was not going to leave the lady’s withdrawing room, she would go.

  Helena sidestepped him and moved to sweep past.

  But his arm shot out, hooking her waist and hauling her to him.

  The motion was so fast, so unexpected, so un-Huntingdon, that Helena lost her balance as she whirled to face him. Though the earl clutched at her waist, his inebriated state did nothing to help his ordinarily impeccable coordination. The two of them fell like a downed tree in the forest.

  She landed atop him, the breath leaving her lungs in a whoosh.

  At the last moment, she braced her hands on his chest to keep from knocking her head into his. It did nothing, however, to keep his head from striking the polished floor beneath them. He winced and let out a groan.

  “Huntingdon, have you injured yourself?” she asked, struggling with the weight and layers of her evening finery to remove herself from him.

  Deuce take fashion.

  She was wearing flounced skirts and a full tournure, and she felt as dizzied as an upended chicken. But his grasp clamped on her waist, mooring her to him when she would have removed herself and scrambled to her feet.

  “Hold still, Helena, will you?” he growled.

  “You must let me go.” She moved again, attempting to free herself from his hold.

  Mayhap the fall had knocked him senseless and that was the reason he would not allow her to go. But this position was…far too intimate. Far too tempting. She wriggled with greater persistence.

  “Stop. Moving.”

  He gritted the directive with such force, Helena stilled. “Are you hurt, Huntingdon? I do believe you may have hit your head.”

  “I am aching,” he said, his voice wry. “Mayhap next time I should try to hit it with greater force. Amnesia would be a boon. I am convinced of it.”

  Helena struggled to make sense of his words. His gaze was hooded, the color of the sky just before the stars began to appear in the night. From this angle, his supple lips were a greater temptation. The slash of his jaw, covered with the shadow of dark whiskers since his morning shave, was a thing of beauty.

  “Just how hard did you hit your head?” She frowned down at him, worried.

  “Definitely not hard enough.” His fingers bit into her waist through her corset. “Thank the Lord you are wearing your undergarments today. I suppose you were not planning an after-dinner ravishing in the lady’s withdrawing room?”

  Was that the true reason he had followed her here? To ward off further attempts at achieving her own ruin?

  She frowned down at him. “I always wear my undergarments, my lord.”

  Being so forward was unlike him, even in his cups. Indeed, she did not think he had ever said anything so decidedly improper in her presence.

  “Cease moving,” he said on a groan, as if in desperate pain. “You were not wearing a corset that day.”

  She struggled to understand what he was speaking of. “Have you addled your wits?”

  “That day in the carriage,” he elaborated, “when I saved you from giving yourself to that worthless reprobate Forsyte. You were not wearing a corset when I touched you then. I could not help but to wonder…damn, damn, damn. This is all your fault.”

  “All my fault?” The outrageous man! He must have struck himself silly. “You are the one who arrived at dinner in his cups and then proceeded to drown himself in wine and follow me into the lady’s withdrawing room. This is, indisputably, your fault, my lord.”

  But then, the rest of his words gradually permeated her mind. He had recognized she had not been wearing a corset on the day she had gone to meet Lord Algernon at his bachelor’s residence. And he had been thinking about it, apparently. And he had kissed her, just yesterday.

  And his gaze, at this moment, had slipped to her lips once more.

  She licked them instinctively.

  He groaned again, and beneath her, she detected an unmistakable ridge. A prominence she had read about in the books she had thieved from Shelbourne’s collection. Her breath caught. She inhaled swiftly, and a rush of corresponding warmth slid through her, slow and molten. Could it be that he was not as unaffected by her as he pretended? That he did not, in fact, think of her as he would a sister?

  Yes, said the wicked voice inside her. Huntingdon desires you.

  “My weakness is your fault,” he countered, his hands sliding up her spine, fingers sinking into the careful upsweep of her coiffure.

  His fingertips skimming over her scalp elicited a frisson of pleasure. She never wanted him to stop touching her.

  “How?” she asked, breathless. Need for him rose like a tide. “You are your own man. I have done nothing more than attempt to free myself of the unwanted betrothal my father is forcing upon me.”

  “Because you are so damned beautiful, and I should not want you, but I cannot help myself.”

  His guttural admission pierced her heart like an arrow. Warmth sluiced over her. She became more aware of her position atop him, his big body beneath her, the pulsing evidence of his desire pressed to her hip.

  Helena stilled. So did the world, it seemed. “Huntingdon,” she began, searching for the proper words.

  What to say? What to ask him? Had she completely lost her senses? Could it be that this man desired her in the way she longed for him?

  �
�Shut up,” he said, and then he pulled her head down toward his.

  Their lips met, fused, and she was lost.

  Bloody, bloody hell.

  He had done his damnedest to give the bottle a black eye today. Never had he ever acted with such recklessness, such disregard for himself, for his hosts, for those around him.

  But as Helena’s sweet mouth moved over his, kissing him back with every bit as much fervency, he could not muster the proper amount of regret. Indeed, not just the requisite sum of regret, but none.

  Not a modicum of it.

  All he could feel was relief. And desire. Fierce, overwhelming desire.

  He cupped her head—even the shape of it was ideal, perfectly molded to his hands, and held her to him when she would have withdrawn. Because she wanted this every bit as much as he did. He could feel it in the eager response of her lips. He felt it in the bone-deep connection, the way their bodies melded together.

  A realization hit him.

  Struck him with the force of an unexpected blow.

  He wanted her, as always. But he was not certain, now that he had tasted her lips and held her in his arms, that he could continue tamping down the need to have her. Resisting her, clinging to his honor and restraint, grew fainter, much like the stars of the night’s sky as the sun rose on the dawn.

  I am in my cups. This is wrong. Tomorrow, I will regret this.

  And yet, he could not seem to stop. Even with the layers of their garments between them, there was an undeniable rightness to the way their bodies fit together. But he wanted to be atop her. It was a base urge, elemental. One he could not deny himself.

  Later, he could blame his actions upon the blow to the back of his head—still smarting—when they had fallen as one. Later, he could appease his sense of honor with the knowledge he would never pin Lady Helena Davenport to the floor of the lady’s withdrawing room and have his way with her unless he had struck himself dumb.

  But those insistences would be lies for the benefit of his conscience.