Shelbourne took a sip of his own wine, then replaced his glass on the table, sighing heavily. “I wish I could say I was surprised. But in truth, I think a part of me has always known.”
Gabe frowned. “Known?”
What the devil was his friend speaking of? It had only been recently that he had acted upon his lustful urges. He had gone years without touching Helena, without once kissing her or being alone with her. By his own device, they had never danced.
“She was always besotted with you,” Shelbourne said. “From the moment she first saw you, everything was Huntingdon. You were all she could think of. When you became betrothed to Lady Beatrice, I had hoped it would end. But what happened between the two of you proves it did not.”
Helena had been besotted with him?
Helena?
Besotted.
With him?
Everything within him cried out with a resounding no.
“You are certain of this?” he managed, studying his friend’s countenance.
Shelbourne’s smile was grim. “Utterly. I never supposed you would return her feelings.”
“Feelings?” Huntingdon repeated, more confused than ever.
“She fancies herself desperately in love with you,” Shelbourne told him. “Surely she must have told you.”
He did not miss the excoriating tone his friend used. But for the moment, all his thoughts hovered upon was one fact. One notion. Helena in love with him. It could not be. Surely Shelbourne was mistaken.
Unless…
“She told you she was in love with me?” he pressed, certain he had found his answer.
She had been desperate to avoid marriage to Lord Hamish White. Knowing Helena as he did, she would have told her brother anything that would aid her chances of avoiding the union.
“Long ago,” Shelbourne said. “She was but a girl of sixteen then. I expected the years to change her mind. Clearly, they did not have an improving effect upon her.”
A girl of sixteen.
He remembered her then. That last visit to her family’s country holding before she had been presented at court. He had spent much of his time shooting grouse and riding horses. But there had been a few, stolen moments when he had enjoyed the pleasure of Helena’s company. Even then, she had been a beauty. Young, but sweet and vivacious, with a marked intelligence. He had been drawn to her, but she had yet to have her comeout. And afterward, Lisbeth had died.
Everything had changed.
Now?
Huntingdon reached for his Sauternes, swallowing down the rest of his glass in one vicious gulp. Helena had never suggested tender feelings for him. He had been convinced she had gone to Shelbourne to save herself because she considered him the lesser of all evils presented her. Their kisses had been mutual and heated, and he certainly hoped he was a better husbandly prospect than Lord Hamish White, whose outmoded views were more suited to the last century than to this one.
“Clearly, the years have not aided her, if that is truly the way she feels,” he rasped.
His mind and his heart were a tumult of emotion.
Confusion. Longing. Desire.
Tenderness, too. In spite of himself.
He was a tangled web. And mayhap she was as well.
“You are not worthy of her love,” Shelbourne said coolly. “At last we have reached a topic upon which we can agree.”
“Indeed,” Huntingdon agreed.
But his friend’s words had already sunk into him, planting themselves deep, like a seed which would inevitably catch root. Except he did not wish for them to catch root. Nor did he want a wife who loved him, damn it. Love had no place in a marriage that would survive.
“Huntingdon?”
He glanced up from the sight of his fingers idly tapping upon the table to find his friend watching him with a curious, searching stare.
“What is it, Shelbourne? You have already dropped the equivalent of a mountain on my head.” The last was grumbled. But heartfelt, nonetheless.
“You truly had no notion? She did not tell you?”
No, his wife most certainly had not shared her love for him—or rather, her supposed love for him—with him. But discussing his marriage with his closest friend, when his wife was said friend’s sister, was deuced uncomfortable.
So Huntingdon feigned a smile. “Of course she did.”
Shelbourne, no fool, had already scented blood, however. He grinned. “She did not. I can read your face, old chum. You are an abysmal prevaricator, as ever.”
What the devil was he to do?
“She did not,” he acknowledged.
“Nor is she with child,” Shelbourne guessed next, taking Huntingdon by surprise.
He said nothing, for acknowledging his friend’s supposition would only suggest Helena had lied. Which she had, but…Huntingdon found himself hopelessly conflicted.
Instead, he brought his Sauternes to his lips, only to realize, quite belatedly, that he had already drained his glass dry.
“She was desperate to escape the match with Lord Hamish,” Shelbourne added, lifting the bottle of wine and gamely replenishing the stores in Huntingdon’s goblet. “I was furious with you when she suggested she was carrying your babe, but I also know her far better than anyone else, I think. As I know you better than anyone else, Huntingdon. It took me some time to calm myself and realize you are not the sort of man who would get a bastard on his friend’s sister.”
Curse it, he hoped he was not. But he could not be sure. There had been moments, when alone with Helena, that he had most assuredly lost all semblance of control. And now, his sense of honor demanded that he not reveal his wife’s deceptions.
He met his friend’s gaze. “None of that matters now. All that does matter is that Helena is my countess, and you are like a brother to me. I do not want our friendship to end. You have my solemn vow that I will do everything in my power to be a good husband to Helena.”
“That is all a man can ask for,” Shelbourne said.
He meant those words. He meant that vow.
“Friends?” he prompted.
“Friends.” Shelbourne raised a brow. “You still do not deserve her. And I still do not forgive you for cavorting with her all over London while you were betrothed to Lady Beatrice.”
Huntingdon’s face flamed. “I was not cavorting.”
His friend held up a staying hand. “I have no wish to hear the details. But know this, Huntingdon. If you hurt her, you will be answering to my fists once more.”
Fair enough.
Huntingdon drank the rest of his Sauternes.
Chapter Sixteen
If we wish to truly help anyone else, we must get the vote.
—From Lady’s Suffrage Society Times
“How is it, life as a married woman?” Julianna asked Helena over afternoon tea in the blue salon.
Up until this particular query, Helena had been certain her first attempt at playing hostess had gone swimmingly. She had extended the invitation to her friend following breakfast and Huntingdon’s departure. He had indicated she should not expect him until dinner, and since it was the wrong day of the week for her Lady’s Suffrage Society meeting, she had decided to fill the void of her empty day by catching up with her dear old friend once more.
Helena pondered her response to Julianna’s question.
Confusing.
Wonderful and terrible.
“It is hardly any different than my life as an unwed lady,” she fibbed.
Julianna issued an indelicate snort. “Liar.”
Honesty—raw, unapologetic honesty—was one of her friend’s most notable traits. Not always a boon.
Helena winced. “My response depends upon the hour of the day. There. Are you happier now?”
“If you are being honest with me, yes, I am happy. And if Huntingdon makes you happy, then I am as pleased as can be. However, I must admit that I cannot fathom the notion of being tied to a man forever.” Julianna settled her teacup into its saucer
.
“With the right man, it is not so terrible a fate,” Helena countered softly.
For she had to admit, whilst she had considered marriage to Lord Hamish an impossible encroachment upon her liberty, she did not regard her union with Huntingdon in the same fashion.
“The right man,” Julianna repeated, a tinge of bitterness edging her tone. “That seems an impossibility. Similar to saying delicious aspic. Or delightful kippers. Or a lovely hailstorm.”
“What happened while you were abroad to so harden your heart?” Helena asked her friend. “You wrote to me of nothing but delightful social gatherings and a whirlwind of entertainment.”
“It was delightful,” Julianna agreed. “Until it was not. But nothing happened to harden my heart, I can assure you. It was already harder than a rock before I ever left London.”
There it was, the opportunity she had been meaning to seize.
Helena took a small sip of her tea, studying her friend. “And why did you leave London, my dear? I do not think you ever said.”
In truth, she knew Julianna had never explained her sudden defection. She had simply been gone, in the midst of the Season, packed away on a steamer for New York City. Although her mother, an American by birth, had been living a separate life from her father for years in her home country, Julianna had never shown the slightest inclination toward venturing across the Atlantic.
Juliana avoided her gaze, fidgeting with her skirts. “There was no special reason. Need there have been one? I missed my mother.”
“You had not seen her in some years, and the two of you could never abide each other’s company.”
Her friend’s lips pinched. “You know the proverb. Absence sweeteneth the heart.”
“Hmm.” Helena sensed a deeper story there, something her friend did not wish to divulge. “If you shall not reveal the reason you left, mayhap you will explain your return.”
“Are you not glad to see me?” Julianna teased.
But there was a tenseness in her friend’s countenance that could not be ignored nor so easily dismissed.
“Of course I am,” she said. “You know, I quite feared you would marry some dashing American and never return.”
“Marriage.” Julianna shuddered. “Never.” Then she paused, appearing to think better of her dramatic reaction. “Oh, forgive me, dearest. Pray do not take insult to my dislike of the institution. I am sure it shall suit you and Huntingdon well, but I have only to look at my mother and father for all the reasons why I have no wish to ever take a husband.”
The Marquess and Marchioness of Leighton’s union had been marked by bitter contention. The scandal was old, yet well-known. Lord Leighton had publicly accused Lady Leighton of bedding the architect tasked with refurbishing one of their country homes—an American, like the marchioness—and nearly sued for a divorce. The matter had ended quietly, with Julianna’s mother returning to New York City and her father remaining in London. They had lived separate lives ever since.
“I understand your reticence,” she told Julianna. “Indeed, I share it. However, faced with the untenable fate of marrying Lord Hamish White or binding myself instead to Huntingdon, I chose the latter.”
“I would say the lesser of two evils, were not Huntingdon so handsome.” Julianna frowned. “The earl was always such a proper fellow, bound by duty. Does he kiss well, Hellie? Please tell me he does. I cannot bear the thought of my dearest friend tied to a stiff-backed earl who cannot properly woo a lady.”
Hellie.
It was not the first time her friend had used the sobriquet for her. But for some reason, the use of it stood out rather pointedly to her now. Only two people had ever referred to her thus. Shelbourne and Julianna.
Still, she had her friend’s impertinent question to answer. Her face heated as she thought of all the delicious kisses her husband had visited upon her. And not just upon her mouth.
“He is hardly stiff-backed.” Actually, he was, rather. But not always.
“You have not answered my question.”
She frowned. “He possesses excellent talent.”
Julianna laughed. “How prim you sound, and so delightfully English.”
“And you sound almost American,” she countered, having noted the same thing on their previous meeting.
How odd it was that they had been separated for years, for long enough that Julianna’s properly aristocratic accents had been worn down, much like the pebbles in a stream.
“Never say it.” Julianna laughed. “Poor Father would be horrified were he to know anyone can detect a hint of the Yankee in my speech. He does hate Mama so.”
The reminder of the enmity between Julianna’s parents filled Helena’s heart with sadness. Sadness because she feared much the same end for herself and Huntingdon if they did not sort out their differences.
But Lord and Lady Leighton had been married for five-and-twenty years. Helena and Huntingdon had only been wed for three days. Surely there was hope for her? At least hope she could earn back her husband’s trust, if not his love.
“I dare say my parents are hardly shining examples of the state of matrimony either,” she acknowledged grimly, trying to stave off the forbidding portent. “However, I do have hope that Huntingdon and I will find some semblance of happiness in our marriage. I do not expect him to love me, of course.”
Julianna grew serious. “He ought to love you, Hellie. No one is more worthy of love than you. If he breaks your heart, I shall blacken his eye.”
“Thank you.” Helena raised a brow. “I think. However, Shelbourne has already blackened his jaw, and Huntingdon has only just recovered from his injuries. Leave me some time to work my magic upon my husband before you beat him, please.”
“Shelbourne?” Her friend’s expression shifted. “How is your brother these days?”
“He is Shelbourne.” Helena’s nose wrinkled. “He was not pleased with the haste or the necessity of my marriage to Huntingdon, particularly as they are friends.”
Or rather, they had been friends. She could only hope they would one day find themselves capable of moving on from the rift she had created.
“I love you, dearest, I do, but Shelbourne has always been an unfeeling prig.” Julianna sniffed. “It sounds as if nothing has changed.”
Her brother was not unfeeling. Not entirely. He was simply too much in Father’s mold, which meant he held duty and honor of the highest import. But he did have a tendency to be a prude. Helena had to agree with that. Which was why it was so surprising he possessed a secret cache of bawdy books.
“He is not as awful as one might suppose,” she defended lightly.
Julianna’s laugh was bitter. “That is not a recommendation.”
“Was I meant to recommend him?” Her brow furrowed. There was something distinctly odd about both her brother’s reaction to her prior mentioning of Julianna and her friend’s current reaction. “I did not suppose your paths had much crossed.”
“We crossed swords, more like,” Julianna grumbled. “But that is all in the past. It was a long time ago.”
“You and Shelbourne?” Helena repeated, incredulous. Her mind whirled with the possibilities.
“Yes,” her friend said, shifting in her chair as if she were suddenly uncomfortable. “Think nothing of it and do not, I pray, make mention of it to him.”
Something was afoot, and Helena meant to uncover more. But she could plainly see Julianna had no wish to further discuss the subject.
She decided to pivot the conversation and return to the intriguing notion of her brother and Julianna another day.
“I would never dream of it,” Helena reassured her friend. “Your every secret is safe with me, as you know. Let us speak of something else. Something of far greater interest than Shelbourne. There is a meeting of the Lady’s Suffrage Society in two days’ time, and I would dearly love for you to attend with me.”
Julianna smiled. “The prospect of life in London has just become infinitely more attra
ctive. Tell me all about it, if you please.”
Gabe could not stop staring at Helena across the dinner table.
She was dressed in a fetching sapphire-blue gown that showed off her ample bosom to perfection—and distraction. Her hair was dressed in a softer style, a loose Grecian braid with wisps of blonde curls a halo about her oval face. She was ravishing. Stunning.
And she loved him.
Fuck.
“Is something amiss, Huntingdon?” she asked, eying him curiously.
Those emerald orbs bored into him, stoking the fires which had been simmering beneath his surface ever since he had left her bed that morning. And yes, the answer to her query was that something was amiss. He did not think it possible for him to suffer through another handful of courses without hauling her onto the polished mahogany, throwing up her skirts, and feasting upon her instead.
Curse her.
He cleared his throat. “Of course not. Why do you ask, my lady?”
“You are staring at me strangely.” She settled her soup spoon in an elegant motion. “Have I inadvertently dripped some potage à la prince on my bodice?”
If she had, he would not be above licking it off. And then tugging down that indecent silken fabric and her corset with it, until her nipples popped free. She was so deliciously sensitive there…
But she had not dribbled soup. He was simply staring at her because his control had been dashed. Because Shelbourne’s unwanted words were ringing in his head with the persistence of a bell. Because she was so deuced lovely, there was no other place he wished to look. Not even his own bowl, which sat before him, scarcely touched.
The only pangs of hunger affecting him in this moment could not be sated with food.
“You have not, of course,” he told her. “I am merely attempting to accustom myself to the notion of sharing the dining table with my wife each evening.”
He inwardly winced at his words.
She stiffened. “Is it because I am not the wife you intended to sit across this table from you?”
Lady Beatrice was ever a specter between them. One which grew increasingly dim to him with every passing hour.
Lady Reckless (Notorious Ladies of London Book 3) Page 17
