Lady Reckless (Notorious Ladies of London Book 3)

by Scarlett Scott

  “Lord Huntingdon is the man you choose above all others?” Callie asked.

  Helena did not hesitate in her response. “Yes.”

  He would always be her choice. Even if she had never been his. Much to her shame.

  “Then you know what you must do,” Jo added.

  “Follow your heart,” Callie prompted.

  Before she could say more, a knock at the door heralded the arrival of the biscuits, cakes, and quail eggs. Helena’s heart was thumping as wildly as if she had just escaped a runaway carriage. But her answer and her course were clear and yet murky as mud.

  She was going to save herself by ruining the Earl of Huntingdon.

  Huntingdon was seated in his study, poring over correspondence from the steward of his Shropshire estate, when the door slammed open. All thoughts of falconry and repairs to the leaking western wing roof vanished as Shelbourne stormed across the Axminster. At his rear, Huntingdon’s butler appeared quite out of sorts. But never mind. Shelbourne was a well-known visitor here.

  Even as a sense of alarm swept over him, Huntingdon nodded to his servant, indicating he would not require anything else. He would speak to Lord Shelbourne alone.

  “Sid,” he greeted his old chum, rising in proper greeting. “I hardly expected you this morning.”

  “I dare say you did not,” bit out his friend, an angry sneer curling his lip as he did not halt his stride. “Nor did you expect this.”

  Before he could react, Shelbourne’s fist connected with his jaw with so much force, he bit his own tongue. Pain shot through him as the coppery tang of his own blood blossomed. Bloody damned hell.

  Huntingdon rubbed his jaw, eying his friend warily. “What the devil are you about?”

  But as he asked the question, suspicion rose. There was only one reason his oldest friend would rage into his study with the fury of an invading enemy army and plant him a facer. And that one reason was tall, blonde, and beautiful.

  And perfidious, if what he suspected was true.

  “Tell me it is all a vicious falsehood,” Shelbourne spat, looking as if he were a heartbeat from hitting Huntingdon again. “Tell me you are not a villainous, spineless, maggot of a man! A man without any virtue or honor. A man without loyalty. One who would betray his friend’s trust by abusing his innocent sister in cruelest fashion.”

  Helena.

  She had told her brother.

  He had spent every moment since his ignominious display in the lady’s withdrawing room alternating between cursing himself and wishing he could be within that moment all over again. With Helena’s supple curves beneath him. With her lips clinging hungrily to his. With her taste on his tongue and her scent filling his head. With desire coursing through his veins and the hot, sleek flesh of her cunny beneath his fingers.

  He was a villainous, spineless maggot and every other aspersion Shelbourne would cast upon him. A vile, filthy man.

  A disappointment to himself and everyone around him. For the first time, he was thankful Grandfather was no longer alive. At least he would not have to suffer the crushing blow of realizing Huntingdon was no more worthy of the title and the family name than his father before him had been.

  Huntingdon had no choice but to admit his wrongdoing. To hope Shelbourne would forgive him for his trespasses.

  He inclined his head. “I was trying to protect her.”

  “A damned excellent job you did,” Shelbourne growled. “Was tossing up my sister’s skirts truly essential to her protection, do you think, Huntingdon?”

  Bloody hell. She truly had told him. Every sordid detail.

  “My actions were inexcusable,” he began, attempting to explain himself as shame burned through him. “However, in my defense, Lady Helena tripped and fell, which is how we ended up on the floor.”

  “On the floor? You dog!” Shelbourne took another swing at him, but this time, Huntingdon was prepared.

  He dodged the blow. Apparently she had not given exacting detail. And now, he had just made the situation worse with his loose tongue. Excellent.

  “It is not as bad as you suppose, Shelbourne. Allow me to explain,” he said.

  “You are supposed to be my friend, damn your hide,” Shelbourne bit out, taking another swing. “The most honorable, decent man I know. I trusted you! I ought to beat you to a bloody pulp over this.”

  Huntingdon deflected his friend’s fist. “I do not quarrel with your assessment of the situation. All I can say in my defense is that I recently came into the knowledge that Lady Helena was intending to ruin herself. The sole reason I was alone with her was because I was attempting to keep her from folly.”

  That was not entirely true, his conscience reminded him.

  He had been alone with her on the last occasion because he had been inebriated and desperate. And he had kissed her because he had been unable to resist her.

  “If that is true, you had an obligation to come to me with what you had learned,” Shelbourne argued. “Not to follow her about and take liberties with her, damn you.”

  Shelbourne was not wrong in this. The devil of it was, Huntingdon had told himself the same thing. But he had followed Helena about like a dog in heat anyway. Because he wanted her. He had always wanted her. He had just never been able to have her.

  You cannot have her now either, you conscienceless rogue. What of Lady Beatrice?

  “It was my intention to seek you out.” His excuse was thin. Pathetic, just as his resolve had been. “There was not the time, and in a delicate matter such as this, I was not certain of the best means of approaching you.”

  He was his father’s son, was he not?

  “And so you compromised her yourself instead?” Shelbourne’s lip curled. “Just like your bastard of a sire before you.”

  Huntingdon inhaled swiftly. His fists tightened at his sides. The urge to hit back was strong, but he deserved his friend’s wrath. He had earned every cutting word. Even if that last particular insult had the effect of a whip, lashing his miserable hide to bits.

  “I am not like him,” he denied hoarsely, Shelbourne’s accusation bringing back a rush of bile.

  Of old pain. Old shame. Of hatred and blame and loss and sadness. So much sadness. His chest tightened. His lungs burned. Not now. He could not have one of his fits here, in this moment, facing the man he considered a brother.

  The friend he had betrayed in such villainous fashion.

  There was a rushing in his ears, a dizziness seizing him. Suddenly, there was a fist connecting with his jaw. There was a blinding flash of pain.

  And then, there was nothing.

  Chapter Eight

  Fortunately, we have many allies in men who are not afraid of the prospect of women’s suffrage. To that, we say a resounding hear, hear.

  —From Lady’s Suffrage Society Times

  Helena cried out as she saw her brother’s fist flying toward Huntingdon’s jaw. The manner in which the earl had tensed, and the dazed expression on his countenance, had alerted her that Huntingdon was having one of his spells. Her warning had not pierced the fog surrounding his mind. Instead of feinting left or right or blocking her brother’s blow, Huntingdon received the full brunt.

  His head snapped back, and he crumpled to the floor. The sickening thud of Shelbourne’s knuckles connecting would forever haunt her. This was her fault.

  All of it.

  Why had she not foreseen her brother’s reaction? She had intended to banish any chance of a betrothal with Lord Hamish. But she had never meant for Huntingdon to suffer violence.

  “Shelbourne!” She raced forward, unthinkingly, breath hitching, intent upon reaching the earl. “What have you done?”

  Her brother turned to her, his expression dazed, his knuckles bloodied. “What are you doing in here, damn you? I told you to wait in the carriage.”

  Yes, he had. But she had remained where she was for ten minutes before fear had constricted her heart. When she had gone to Shelbourne with her confession, she had never
imagined his reaction would be so intense. Nor so violent. He had trembled with rage for the entirety of their carriage ride to Wickley House. She never should have allowed him to call upon Huntingdon alone.

  She raced past her brother and fell to her knees at Huntingdon’s side. He was already moaning and moving, regaining his senses, lashes fluttering. A dark, hideous bruise blossomed on his jaw. She gently caressed his hair, attempting to calm him.

  “Huntingdon,” she said. “I am so sorry.”

  “You owe this scoundrel no apologies,” hissed Shelbourne, seizing her elbow in an attempt to force her to her feet once more. “Rise, damn you. Let him rot.”

  But she was not going anywhere. Her brother would have to drag her across the floor if he wished to put any distance between herself and the man she had unwittingly brought violence upon. She owed him that much, at least. What he had done had been wrong, but what she had done was worse.

  She had never meant for Huntingdon to get hurt.

  “I will do nothing of the sort,” she denied, casting a glare in her brother’s direction. “How dare you do him violence?”

  “How dare I?” Shelbourne’s indignant voice cracked through the study. “How dare he do what he has done is more the question you ought to be asking, sister. He is lucky I did not demand satisfaction.”

  “Dueling has long been outlawed,” she reminded him grimly. And thank heavens for that.

  “Helena?” Huntingdon’s confused croak had her turning all her attention back to him.

  She brushed a fallen forelock of hair from his forehead. “Huntingdon? Are you in pain? Shall I ring for a physician to be sent? Pray forgive me. I never imagined he would attack you with such brutal ruthlessness.”

  Huntingdon’s pupils were wide and dark in his brilliant, blue gaze. His lashes fluttered again, his brow furrowing. Why had she never noted before how lush his eyelashes were? She caressed his cheekbone next, marveling at the elegant architecture of this man, so beautiful and powerful at once. Masculine and yet almost pretty.

  But then, he was suddenly alert. Swatting at her touch as if she were as tiresome as a fly buzzing about him. Sitting up. Rubbing his jaw. Glaring at her.

  “What have you done?” he demanded, his voice sharp.

  His anger was not a surprise. The abruptness of it, however, took her aback. In her haste to tend to him and her guilt over his injuries, she had almost forgotten Huntingdon would be irate with her for telling Shelbourne about their indiscretions.

  Not that she had described what had occurred to her brother in vivid detail. No, indeed. She had ventured just enough for there to be no doubt. Just enough that she had hoped he would go to their father. Instead, he had flown into a rage and come here, barging into Huntingdon’s study and thrashing him.

  Had Huntingdon offered up a defense? Likely, he had not. He would never raise a fist in such a conflict. That much, she knew.

  “My lady,” he bit out when she failed to answer him, taking her elbow in a punishing grip. “Have you nothing to say for yourself?”

  “Unhand her,” demanded Shelbourne. “You have no right to touch my sister. Not after what you have done, how deeply you have betrayed not only me but your own sense of honor. God rot you.”

  Huntingdon winced and released Helena at once.

  But Helena was not moving from his side. Guilt and the undeniable magnetism she had always felt for the earl kept her from leaving. Still, she knew she needed to explain. Not that she could with her brother hovering over them like an irate gaoler.

  “I am sorry, Huntingdon,” she said softly. “I never intended for him to attack you. Seeing you hurt is the last thing I would ever wish.”

  “Then it would seem you made an err in judgment, my lady,” he said cuttingly.

  She deserved his scorn in part, she knew. For she had understood what going to her brother would mean, although she had not fully comprehended what it would entail. She had known Shelbourne’s friendship with Huntingdon would be tested. But she was not alone in the kisses and embraces they had shared. He was every bit as complicit in what had occurred between them as she had been.

  Rather, it was the betrayal of trust—far more than the actions—which set them apart. Trust was important for Huntingdon, and in going to her brother, she had proven to Huntingdon that he could not trust her.

  “The err in judgment was yours.” Shelbourne’s angry accusation split the silence. “What were you thinking, compromising an innocent lady? Your friend’s sister? My sister, damn you. You are all but wedded to another, and her betrothal is imminent.”

  Helena huffed out a sigh, turning her attention to her brother once more. He hovered over herself and Huntingdon like a grim, forbidding angel. “He knew I did not want to marry Lord Hamish, and he was trying to aid me.”

  “Aid you,” her brother repeated, incredulous. “By ruining you himself?”

  “Enough!” Huntingdon rose to his towering height once more. “Cease your arguments, if you please. My head is aching. What has happened is not in dispute. I have compromised Lady Helena. However, no one need know what has transpired beyond the three of us. Shelbourne, you now know that Lady Helena is on a mission to ruin herself, however she must. She does not want to marry Lord Hamish. My actions are inexcusable, but they hardly necessitate any more rash a response than those which have already been undertaken.”

  Helena rose to her feet belatedly, shaking out her skirts, as a chill swept over her. He was acknowledging his own wrongdoing but suggesting they keep it a secret—the three of them. And what a tidy secret it would be. His indiscretions with Helena would be forgotten. She would still be forced to marry the odious Lord Hamish.

  Her heart thudded.

  Huntingdon had left her with no choice.

  She had not been certain she could dare, that she would willingly lie to her own brother. That she would cast Huntingdon’s reputation and his honor to the ether. But his words had filled her with a desperation she could not shake. As before, during the tea she had taken with Lady Sinclair and Lady Jo, she knew she had to do what was best.

  Follow her heart.

  Save herself.

  There was only one way. A hate, awful way. Her sole chance…

  “I am with child,” she blurted.

  And then she instantly prayed the Lord would forgive her for issuing such a monstrous lie. And praying that Huntingdon could too, in time.

  Huntingdon’s stare swung to hers, accusing, irate. Glacial. “What the devil?” he asked.

  “What the bloody hell?” Shelbourne demanded in unison.

  Oh dear.

  What the devil and what the bloody hell, indeed? In for a penny, in for a pound, however. If Huntingdon intended to carry on as if nothing had occurred between them beyond that which would could be expiated by fisticuffs to defend her honor, she would have to change courses.

  “I need to marry,” she fibbed, avoiding her brother and Huntingdon’s probing gazes. “Lord Huntingdon is the father, so it is only right that it should be him.”

  She heard Huntingdon’s swift inhalation. Felt her brother’s wrath as if it were another creature loose in the chamber, prepared to attack. But she was desperate, and she was staying the course.

  She was desperate.

  Gabe rubbed his throbbing jaw, studying Lady Helena Davenport, who notably refused to meet his gaze, as comprehension hit him with the force of an anvil to the head. There was no other explanation. Her betrothal to Lord Hamish White was looming, and she had seized the reins he had so foolishly left in her hands.

  Part of him could not blame her for what she was doing.

  But the rest of him seethed.

  They were both complicit in this tangled, unacceptable mess. But what she was doing was a different sort of betrayal entirely. She had just told an immense falsehood. If she were truly pregnant, there was no possibility he was the father.

  There was the chance she had managed to ruin herself with another.

  The tho
ught made him cold.

  His mind was still sluggish after Shelbourne had knocked him out. But it was damned difficult to wrap his thoughts around such treachery on her part. Helena was wild and unruly and reckless. She was bold and brash and outspoken. Everything he did not want in a countess. But he did not think her to be the sort of female who would lie with one man and then pin her bastard child upon another.

  Not that such a supposition was a commendation.

  But he did not have long to contemplate further, because Shelbourne launched himself at him once more, spurred by Helena’s ludicrous confession. This time, Helena threw herself between them, acting like a shield.

  Foolishly so.

  Shelbourne nearly planted her a facer in his boundless rage.

  “Stop this, Shelbourne!” she commanded her irate brother. “No more violence, if you please.”

  After she had already incited all this madness with her ill-planned attempt to force him into marriage, her protestation was rich.

  “He needs to answer for his sins, curse him,” spat Shelbourne.

  Huntingdon wondered if their friendship could weather this betrayal. Whilst it was true that he had not gone as far as Helena claimed in compromising her, he was guilty of lusting after her. Of kissing and touching a woman he had no right to want. His own friend’s innocent sister.

  There was only one means of ameliorating this disastrous affair.

  He settled his hands on Helena’s waist and moved her to the side so he could face his outraged friend without her acting as a barrier between them. He was not a coward, damn it, and he would face Shelbourne on his own.

  “What would you have me do?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

  “You have to marry her,” Shelbourne said. “It is the only way.”

  Yes, he had trapped himself quite neatly in a mess of his own lustful making. What he had not done, Helena had completed.

  He did not flinch, and neither did his gaze waver. “I will marry her. However, I ask for some time. I will need to inform Lady Beatrice of the change in circumstance, and I will need to approach your father formally.”