Because he was insensate to anything but his need for her, raw, uncompromising, all-consuming. He rolled them as one, without breaking their kiss. Slowly. Tenderly. Until she was the one on her back, and he was leveraging his body over hers, his tongue dipping between her lips to tangle with hers.
Lemon and bergamot filled his head.
And as before, he was on fire. Only this time, he was burning hotter than he could have imagined. Hotter than he ever had. Lady Helena Davenport would be the end of him. Half of him was certain he would not mind if she proved his demise, for he would die a happy man.
A wicked urge hit him, then. He wanted to know if she wore drawers. Gabe prayed she had not attended this evening’s entertainment in the hopes of ruining herself yet again. His hand traveled of its own accord. He found his way beneath her voluminous skirts. His fingers connected with the soft, warm curve of her calf first. Covered in silken stockings. Lace-frilled drawers met his questing touch next.
His need for her was about to tear him apart. He would surrender every vestige of his pride, all his honor, to make her his. To take her here and now, although he knew quite well he could not. That he must stop.
And he would.
Soon.
But first, a small sampling of paradise. The paradise he had denied himself for far too long.
Ah, Lord. His palm slid over the delectable curve of her hips. Perfection. Soft, lush womanly flesh. Her legs opened without any provocation, naturally, instinctively, welcoming him. And oh, how much he wanted to take everything she offered and more. How much he wanted to make her his.
Forever.
But that was not meant to be. And neither was this moment of desperate hunger between them. Their familial duties were calling them in twain directions. His inner confusion was more difficult to battle today, but tomorrow would be a new day.
For today…
He kissed her harder, almost with bruising force, his tongue sinking into her mouth as his fingers traversed the thin layer of fabric keeping the divine flesh of her inner thigh from him.
He groaned into her mouth. She hummed her pleasure. This was a mutual desire, consuming them both. He did not fool himself that it was one sided. Mayhap it was the recklessness of the moment, the excitement of their precarious assignation, the chance of being caught. Whatever the reason for her eager reaction to him, he thanked the heavens.
Some part of him balked at what he was about to do, but the rest of him took precedence. Helena filled his mind, his senses. She was all he could think about, all he could feel. To hell with honor. She was beneath him, kissing him back, making him wild. She was his, damn it.
Just as she should be.
No, that was wrong. She could not be his because he was promised to another. But as he struggled to recall Lady Beatrice and stop himself, he found he could not. He could blame it upon the whisky he had consumed after returning to his home. He could blame it upon Lady Beatrice’s strange reaction at their meeting earlier today.
But the oddest realization of all was that he had no wish to worry about a damned thing past this moment. For the second time in his life, he was going to do what he wanted and worry about the consequences later. He had Helena where he wanted her, where he had dreamed of her being, for far too long. He had been longing for her from the moment he had realized his friend’s precocious younger sister had blossomed into an elegant, desirable woman.
He kissed the corners of her lips. And then he finally, at long last, skimmed his fingers over the slit in her drawers. Damp warmth seduced him. He was so close, desperately near, to touching her there. He could not stop himself. Another kiss, and his fingers were on her. Hot, wet, female flesh welcomed him.
Gabe swallowed her moan as he deepened the kiss.
He parted her, finding the bud of her sex. She was so slick, and she gasped, her hips jerking responsively. He knew this was wrong. Desperately wrong. But nothing had ever felt so right. He wanted to make her come undone. To feel her shudder helplessly as she surrendered to her release.
He wanted to be the man who made her spend.
He wanted to be the only man.
The realization hit him with the weight of a landslip.
He tore his mouth from hers and reared back, his breathing ragged, fingers still drenched in her beckoning dew. What was he doing? He could not be the only man. He had no right to touch her thus, to claim her for himself. She was not for him, and nor was he for her.
He was betrothed, for God’s sake, and she nearly was as well.
He exhaled, forced himself to withdraw his hand from beneath her skirts. “Forgive me, Helena.”
Another few minutes of mindless pleasure, and what would he have done? What was he capable of?
Once again, her lips were swollen from his kisses, her emerald eyes dark with desire. Her breaths were every bit as ragged as his. She swallowed, and he followed the movement down the elegant, ivory column of her throat. His cock was stiffer than a ramrod in his trousers. He thought he would offer his soul to the devil for the chance to make her his.
“You seem to be making a habit of offering me apologies lately,” she pointed out, a cutting edge in her contralto.
He was still atop her, he realized, a burst of shame blossoming in his chest. What a hypocrite he was. What an utter rogue. He had believed himself better than this. Had not imagined he would ever stoop so low.
“I will not take advantage of you again,” he vowed stiffly, rolling to the side and standing before offering her his hand.
Which she promptly ignored, opting instead to leverage herself into a sitting position on her own, and then to rise to her feet. Her silken skirts were wrinkled from their tussle on the floor. His self-loathing was on the rise once more, rather in the fashion of the tides. Threatening to consume him.
She shook out her skirts. “I do not require your form of aid, Huntingdon. If you carry on in this fashion, you will be the one to ruin me. And what will your precious Lady Beatrice think of that?”
What indeed?
Up until their interview earlier that day, he would have sworn she would have been outraged. Now, he was no longer so sure. What he did know, however, was that his actions had been inexcusable. And wrong.
Before he could muster a response, Helena swept past him, leaving him alone in the lady’s withdrawing room, wallowing in equal parts shame and lust. What the hell had he done?
More importantly, how was he going to make amends this time?
Chapter Seven
There are those who would argue that women should be denied Parliamentary franchise because involving us in politics will prove damaging to our constitutions and characters. One cannot help but to wonder what people of such an opinion think of the characters and constitutions of men…
—From Lady’s Suffrage Society Times
“You look utterly miserable, darling.”
The words took Helena by surprise, and for a moment, she feared they had been directed at her. But much to her relief, Callie, Lady Sinclair, had issued her pronouncement to Lady Jo Decker instead.
The women were both newly married, and they were leading members of the Lady’s Suffrage Society. She had become fast friends with them through their shared work, and Helena was keen to introduce Julianna to them now that she had returned to London. But first things first—they had gathered over tea.
And Helena was relieved for the much-needed distraction her friends brought her. Because those stolen moments in the lady’s withdrawing room with Huntingdon had been…
Thrilling.
Wonderful.
Terrible.
Yes, all those words would be quite apt descriptors. Her unexpected kisses with him had left her once more in a hopeless state of inner turmoil. She wanted him, but he was betrothed to another. He seemed to want her, and yet he hated himself for doing so. Either way, she was not any closer to ridding herself of her impending marriage to Lord Hamish. As it was, she had all but fled the dinner at Lord and Lady
Hartstock’s, and she had not seen him since.
She forced herself to study Lady Jo now, who did seem rather Friday-faced for a new bride.
“You do look as if you just watched a carriage run over a puppy,” Helena added.
Jo frowned at both Callie and Helena. “Et tu, Brute? The two of you are supposed to be my friends.”
“It is because we are your friends that we are telling you that you look as if you are about to attend a funeral,” Callie said.
“Or as if someone has just drowned your favorite kitten,” Helena chimed in, fearing she looked little better herself.
Her future loomed before her, a forbidding pastoral of misery.
“What a grim lot you are,” Jo grumbled. “Cease with your bleak similes, if you please.”
“You ought to be on your honeymoon,” Callie observed. “And yet, you are here in London. Is that the reason?”
“Of course that is not the reason,” Jo said.
“Then what is the reason?” Callie frowned. “Is anyone else famished? I am going to ring for a tray of cakes and biscuits. Is it wrong to suddenly be beset by the urge to eat quail eggs at this time of day? Do not answer that. Tell us what has you so distressed, dearest.”
Callie was expecting her first child, though one could not tell to look at her. She was a petite, dark-haired beauty with a slender frame and an inimitable sense of fashion.
“I could eat quail eggs at any time of day,” Helena offered as Callie went to the bell pull, not as much because it was true as because she had no wish for her friend to feel uncomfortable.
“I am in love with my husband,” Jo blurted, surprising Helena, for Jo’s marriage had been rushed and, as she claimed, not a love match. It had instead been another case of an overbearing lord browbeating a lady into doing her familial duty. If only someone would browbeat Helena into doing her familial duty with Huntingdon. She would more than happily accept.
But alas, that was not meant to be.
Unless…
No. Helena dared not contemplate such a manipulation.
Callie turned back to them all, looking pleased. “I knew you were in love with him!”
Helena blinked, thinking for a moment the words were meant for her again. They were not, however. She had been too preoccupied with the unsettling idea which had erupted in her mind, much like a volcano.
Dangerous and destructive.
She banished the thoughts, knowing them unworthy.
“How did you know?” Jo asked.
“You made it quite apparent the day I suggested Helena use Decker to cause a scandal,” Callie said gently, returning to her seat. “That is wonderful, dearest! I know this marriage was a bit rushed, but I am relieved to hear the two of you are in love.”
“Not the two of us,” Jo said. “I fear I am alone in my feelings.”
A hated state Helena knew all too well. Still, she had seen the manner in which Mr. Elijah Decker, the handsome businessman Jo had so recently wed, looked at his wife. If only Huntingdon would gaze at her with such longing in his eyes, rather than with disgust over his lack of gentlemanly decorum.
“But the way he looks at you,” Helena argued, shaking herself from the unworthy thought, “I would be willing to wager you are wrong.”
“I fear not.” Jo sighed heavily. “He has never hinted at the slightest bit of feelings, and for a man of his reputation…”
That, too, sounded familiar. Huntingdon had never admitted to caring for her or for possessing any tender emotions toward her in the slightest. Of course he did not love her. Could not love her.
And yet, the idea was still there. The unwanted notion. Tempting. Taunting.
Did she dare? All this time, she had been attempting to ruin herself with other gentlemen, and the only one she had managed to behave scandalously with was the man she loved. And if she was faced with having no choice other than to marry Lord Hamish, could she truly be desperate enough to use Huntingdon’s actions in the lady’s withdrawing room against him?
She looked inside herself and the answer was undeniable: yes. She was.
They discussed Decker’s past for a few minutes, and Helena was grateful for the diversion. Until the conversation turned back to her.
“Enough about me, if you please,” Lady Jo said. “I am certain it shall all untangle itself as it ought. How is your campaign against the odious Lord Hamish going, my dear?”
Compromising herself to avoid marrying Lord Hamish had been an idea she and her friends had developed together. Heat crept over Helena’s cheeks.
Here was her opportunity to consult her friends and see what opinions they held on the matter. “I do believe I may have convinced someone to aid me in my quest to be ruined.”
“Tell us everything,” Callie demanded.
A knock at the door heralded the arrival of a maid.
“After I arrange for my biscuits, cakes, and quail eggs, of course,” she amended, grinning.
Helena waited for her friend to make her unusual request to the kitchens before explaining everything that had happened to her thus far, detailing Huntingdon’s successful attempts to keep her from other gentlemen, up until the kiss they had shared.
“He seems dreadfully invested for a man who has recently celebrated his betrothal to another lady,” Callie pointed out shrewdly.
The reminder of Lady Beatrice nettled.
“He does,” she agreed miserably. “He had insisted he considered his actions a duty on account of his friendship with Shelbourne. And I believed him until…”
Lady Jo leaned forward in her chair. “Until? Do not leave us in suspense.”
“Until he kissed me,” she admitted, her cheeks going hotter as she made the revelation. Not because she was embarrassed, but because she could not help but to recall Huntingdon’s kisses. “I had arranged to meet the Marquess of Dorset at the Duke and Duchess of Bainbridge’s ball, and Huntingdon somehow discovered and met me in the library himself. I had arranged for Lady Clementine Hammond to walk in upon us and solidify my ruination. I scarcely had enough time to send Huntingdon out the door before Lady Clementine arrived.”
“If she had caught you and Huntingdon in an embrace, all London would have known in the outside of ten minutes,” Callie said.
“That is why I chose her.” Helena smiled sadly. “Imagine her dismay when she walked in to find me alone, a volume of Lord Byron in hand.”
“Everyone knows she thrives on scandal,” Jo agreed. “I overheard her bragging about how many society marriages she is responsible for. Fifteen at last count. But let us return to the more salient information you have just provided. Huntingdon kissed you?”
“He did,” she admitted, glancing down at her abandoned teacup as she struggled to decide how much she wished to reveal to her friends.
She trusted them implicitly, of course. But how could one properly say that a gentleman had pinned her to the floor of the lady’s withdrawing room and slid his hand inside her drawers while ravishing her mouth with kisses?
“He has agreed to ruin you himself?” Callie guessed. “I confess, I am surprised. Huntingdon is such a cold man. Proper to a fault, as well.”
Ah, there was the crux of the matter.
Huntingdon was proper. He cared a great deal about his reputation, his honor, and his familial duty. If she attempted to get him to ruin her, she would effectively set fire to everything he held dear. Including his betrothal to Lady Beatrice.
She could never do that. Could she?
She inhaled slowly. “He has not agreed to ruin me himself. I wish he had. Instead, he has apologized for his actions quite profusely. He told his betrothed about the kisses, though he did not reveal I was the one he kissed. He told me his actions were loathsome and unworthy. He insisted they would never be repeated. And yet they were.”
Jo’s dark eyebrows rose. “He has kissed you on two separate occasions, all while claiming he wants to protect your honor and keep you from causing a scandal? It sounds to me as
if Lord Huntingdon protests too much.”
Helena nodded, still at sixes and sevens over what had happened between them. “And that is why I am considering doing something drastic.”
“How drastic?” Callie queried.
“I can refuse the match with Lord Hamish, but my father has vowed he will turn me out if I do not marry as it pleases him,” she said slowly. “But causing a scandal and making certain Lord Hamish will no longer want to marry me has proven impossible to achieve thus far because of Huntingdon. There is only one option remaining. Huntingdon has already compromised me. If I go to my family with this information…”
She allowed her words to trail off. For the thought of what she must do was itself so daring, so damning, she was not prepared to give voice to it. Hungtingdon would be furious with her. So furious she was not certain if he would ever forgive her. Lady Beatrice would possibly end the engagement. But Helena herself would almost certainly be free.
“Your father may demand you marry Huntingdon instead,” Jo pointed out. “Are you prepared for that?”
Hardly.
Yet Helena nodded as if she were. “If I am forced to marry anyone, I would choose him. For years, I have loved him from afar. He has no notion of my feelings for him, and nor does he return them. But I would happily marry him.”
If only she could say the same of Huntingdon. He was attracted to her. He certainly felt the sort of base urges toward her she had read about in Shelbourne’s naughty books. But lust and love were two different beasts entirely, and Helena did not fool herself that Huntingdon could ever love her. Especially if she revealed what had happened between them. It would be a betrayal of the first order.
Huntingdon prized loyalty, duty, honor. He wanted to marry a woman like Lady Beatrice, who would never dream of debasing herself to escape a marriage. A woman who was quiet and poised and ineffably lovely. One who had no doubt never rolled about on the lady’s withdrawing room floor with him.
Yes, there was a definite possibility that in revealing everything to her family, she would suddenly have within her grasp everything she had ever wanted—her freedom and the man she loved. But in so doing, she would make him hate her forever.
Lady Reckless (Notorious Ladies of London Book 3) Page 7
