“It is because having a wife is new to me,” he countered.
As was having a wife who loved him. Because love had no place in a marriage.
But he must try to push that particular thought from his over-burdened mind. He still had no inkling of what to do with it. He had not been seeking a love match. He had been seeking a calm, rational union with a lady who would give him children and companionship, one who would never bring him scandal.
The perfect countess.
That was what he had been seeking.
What he would have had, if not for the siren seated opposite him. If not for his own helpless attraction to her, his stupid actions, his lack of restraint, her lie…
“I suppose I cannot find fault in that,” his countess grudgingly offered now. “For having a husband is new to me as well. At the moment, he is not attempting to flee me in favor of Shropshire, and that is my small measure of success.”
Gabe winced. “I was never trying to flee you. I was trying to put some time and distance between us, that we might find our places in this unexpected union of ours.”
She pursed her lips. “That you might have our marriage annulled, you mean to say.”
Damnation. She had not forgotten that.
“Helena,” he began, attempting to explain himself as a tide of guilt threatened to drown him from within, “I never intended to annul our marriage.”
At least, he did not think he had intended it, not truly. He had told himself it was an option because he had been so angry with her for lying to Shelbourne. And he was still angry with her for what she had done. For forcing him to break the promise he had made to Grandfather on his deathbed.
A man without honor is a man who has nothing.
One of Grandfather’s favored adages returned to his mind, a mocking, silent reminder. For he had proven himself in painful dearth of it, both in his interactions with Helena and Lady Beatrice.
Helena cast a slicing look of disapproval in his direction now. “Do not lie to me to spare my feelings, Huntingdon. You have already confessed you considered it.”
“Fair enough.” He inclined his head. “I told you I considered the possibility. However, I decided against it. Either way, last night has decided the matter for the both of us.”
Quite deliciously, too.
Before he could say more, the servants returned, robbing them of their privacy and their soup course both. The next course was laid before them. Partridge rissoles and fried parsley with a macédoine of assorted vegetables, swimming in a mushroom sauce. Ordinarily one of his favorites. But the rich scent wafting to him did not appeal at the moment.
All that did was the woman seated across from him.
He dismissed the servants against the instinct that warned him further intimacy with Helena could only lead to more mayhem and distraction. When they were once more alone, he could not wrest his gaze from her.
She sighed. “You are at it again, my lord.”
Staring at her, she meant. Yes, he could not seem to help himself.
He took a sip of his wine, searching for a suitable response and finding none. He settled upon levity instead. “What am I at, Lady Huntingdon? The dinner table? Indeed, I am, as it is the ordinary place for the evening meal to be served.”
Her lips pursed in a pout he could not help but long to kiss. “You know very well what I am saying. You are staring at me, as if I have dropped soup down my bodice, which I assure you I have not. Having experienced the sensation once before, I can promise, it is unmistakable.”
He could not help but to laugh at the notion of her dripping soup down her bodice. “You are having me on.”
“I am not,” she countered. “It was guinea fowl soup, and it was quite dreadful. I had to spend the entirety of a dinner party with a hunk of celery firmly lodged within my corset. The more I wriggled in an effort to move it into a more comfortable position, the deeper it fell.”
“Being a gentleman, I never considered the unfortunate prospect of such an occurrence.” Gabe envisioned her squirming in her seat through a ten-course dinner. “Did not your fellow diners take note?”
He would have taken note, he thought. Never mind the lump of offending celery. He would not have been able to keep from being enthralled by the sight of her shimmying, those glorious pale mounds of her breasts swaying with her every movement.
“I do hope not, but my mother admonished me quite sternly for my fidgeting on the carriage ride home. I did not have the heart to reveal the cause of my agitation.” Helena grinned, a pink tinge giving her cheeks some lovely color.
He was not entirely certain how they had so far diverged from the original path of their conversation to be discussing lost celery in bosoms, but he was grateful for the distraction. Helena’s humility was refreshing. Lady Beatrice would have perished before she would have ever admitted such a faux pas.
“Are you certain a piece of celery is not now similarly lodged within your bosom, my dear?” he teased. “I would be more than happy to search for it in the name of your comfort.”
Her color heightened, but there was a newfound warmth in her gaze that seeped into his heart and settled there to stay. “There was no celery in the soup course, Huntingdon.”
“Do you think you might call me Gabe when we are alone?” he asked, shocking himself with the question as much as with the desire to hear her husky voice call him by his given name.
Last night, he had been inside her. He had consummated their union. And yet, this request of his somehow seemed more intimate, emerging from a deeper, more profound place. He ought to be alarmed.
“I would be pleased to call you Gabe if you wish.” A shy smile curved her delectable lips. “Is that the reason why you have been staring at me so strangely ever since dinner began?”
Of course it was not. But somehow, broaching the topic of her feelings for him did not feel right in this moment.
“I was staring at you because you are beautiful tonight, Helena,” he told her instead. Because this, too, was true. “And because it is difficult indeed to look anywhere else.”
Her color deepened once more, but the smile she sent him, tentative and sweet, revealing the slight gap between her front teeth, hit him with the force of a fist. “Thank you, Gabe. That is the nicest compliment any gentleman has ever paid me.”
“You are welcome,” he said with matching politeness.
What an arse he was. Had he never told her she was lovely?
He would have to tell her more often.
Every day.
No. He was still angry with her for making him break all his vows to himself, his vows to Grandfather. Was he not?
That was the crux of it. Gabe was no longer sure. And the more time he spent in Helena’s intoxicating presence, the more he wanted to cling to the future rather than the past.
Chapter Seventeen
Change does not make us weak. Rather, it makes us stronger.
—From Lady’s Suffrage Society Times
Helena settled into an overstuffed chair by the hearth in her chamber, book in hand, and told herself she must not be disappointed if Huntingdon did not come to her this evening. She would distract herself with literature. Books were lovely. Words were an excellent form of escape.
The book in her lap was one she had intended to begin reading some months ago, a memoir penned by an anonymous gentleman. All London was abuzz over it, and Helena herself had only managed to secure a third printing of it on account of the previous runs selling out within a day. Thankfully, her friend Lady Jo Decker’s husband owned the publishing company, which had enabled Helena to finally get her own copy.
She had meant to begin reading it well before now. But then, she had been distracted by her whirlwind marriage to Huntingdon—strike that, she corrected herself, Gabe. His invitation to refer to him by his Christian name at dinner had been unexpected, but appreciated nonetheless.
Still, she remained hopelessly confused with where she stood. Her husband had not wanted to marry her.
He had preferred the paragon Lady Beatrice. He wanted Helena, and yet he seemed to loathe himself for the weakness.
She opened the book to its frontispiece, which bore an elaborate engraving of a handsome gentleman dancing with a lovely lady in a ballroom. The attention to detail was impressive, but her mind was still too occupied with thoughts of her husband.
Dinner had been surprisingly pleasant, peppered with moments of unexpected intimacy and shared laughter. Afterward, they had decamped to the blue salon, where they had shared some wine and chatted before her husband had announced he intended to retire. There had been a brief moment, when he had pressed a kiss to the top of her head before withdrawing, when she had sworn something more would happen.
And then, it had not.
Stinging disappointment had been her accompaniment for the rest of the evening thus far. Helena had finished her sherry alone, in the damning silence of the blue salon, surrounded by dismal pictures of bleak, dreary landscapes adorning its walls in overwhelming abundance. Truly, there were some aspects of Wickley House which needed the inviting touch of a woman. The blue salon was just such a place.
Helena sighed. She flipped to the first page of the book, trying to quell her irritation. She made her way to page three before she realized she had not absorbed a word she had read and turned back to the beginning of chapter one. How desperate she was, lingering in the glow of the gas lamps, her lady’s maid already long since departed for the evening, herself clad in nothing more than a wispy night rail without benefit of a robe de chambre. Awaiting a husband who had no intention of visiting her.
A husband who resented her.
A husband who was impossible to read.
Much like this book.
On another sigh, Helena snapped the volume closed before settling it upon the table at her side. She rose to pace the Axminster, her bare feet sinking into the plush softness of the carpets. At least that was one part of the house she would not need to rectify—the Axminster was thick, plush, and new.
He was not going to come to her tonight.
Each minute that passed told her so.
How had she been foolish enough to believe they had somehow made progress? For every step forward, there were at least another three in retreat. Last night had been wonderful. Breakfast had been positively dreadful. Dinner had fared only marginally better. To say nothing of her foolish tale of dribbling soup down her dress.
“Celery,” she grumbled beneath her breath as she made another turn of the chamber. “You utter fool.”
What had she been thinking, to share such a humiliating story of gracelessness? She had not been thinking at all. Rather, she had been blurting.
“Celery is an erudite vegetable. I cannot fathom why you would be upbraiding it just now.”
The low, amused baritone slipped over her like a silken caress.
Helena spun about to find the object of her tumultuous thoughts hovering on the threshold of their mutual territory. They shared a bathroom and dressing room, and the fact had not been lost upon her whenever she had spied his distinctly masculine accoutrements strewn about the spaces. To say nothing of his divine scent, which lingered like a particularly maddening taunt, long after he had inhabited a chamber.
“Huntingdon,” she said, pressing a hand to her instantly fluttering heart. “I did not hear you.”
“Gabe,” he reminded gently, offering her a smile that hit her in the heart. “Am I welcome?”
Always and forever, my beautiful man.
“Of course,” she said instead, giving him what she hoped was a practiced, serene smile.
Then she wondered at the protocol for such an event. Last night, she had been a tangled mess of nerves. She did not recall what she had done. Ought she to curtsy? In her night rail?
“I would hate to find myself at odds with you,” he said lightly as he sauntered into her chamber after closing the door at his back. “Celery was doing quite poorly just now.”
He was teasing her, and the slight lift in his sensual lips said so. Who was this version of the man she had married? She was not accustomed to lightness from him, nor levity.
Helena smiled back at him against a sudden onslaught of nervousness. “That is because celery found its way into my bosom, and I have never forgiven it since. Nor have I forgiven myself for sharing such a humiliating detail with my new husband—who already has considered annulling our marriage. After The Celery Incident, I can only imagine what he must think of me.”
Gabe winced as he reached her, the distance between them scant. She tried not to notice he appeared to be clad in nothing more than a dressing gown once more. His bare calves and feet refused to be ignored. So, too, his broad shoulders. His robe this evening was of a dark, lush navy that complemented his eyes and rendered them more startlingly blue.
“He thinks you are an original,” he told her. “Just as he always has. There will be no annulment, as I said at dinner. We have progressed beyond that option, and even had we not, I would not wish to pursue a dissolution.”
Hardly words of undying love and devotion, but Helena would gladly take them. He thought her an original? Was that a good thing or a bad thing? Hmm…
“You are certain, my lord?” she asked, then recalled his request at dinner once more. “Gabe?”
“As sure as I can be of anything.” He reached out, brushing a curl from her cheek and sending a rush of electric sparks skittering over her skin. “I spoke with your brother today.”
The admission seemed torn from him, and it took Helena by surprise. The sparks should have faded, but they lingered. “Shelbourne? What did you speak about? I do not see any bruising, so I suppose he must have controlled himself.”
She was still greatly displeased with her brother for attacking Huntingdon—Gabe. She felt largely responsible for the attack, and she wished she had possessed the foresight to realize Shelbourne would not react well to the news that his sister had been ruined by his best friend. She had known, all along, he would not be pleased. No man would. However, she had not anticipated such violent aggression on his part.
Her husband inclined his head, that brilliant gaze of his seeming to devour her. “We have reached an understanding, I believe.”
“Good,” Helena said on a rush of relief as molten heat pooled in her belly. “I could not bear the notion of the two of you being at odds, especially since I was the one at fault for suggesting I was carrying your child. I am not proud of myself for making that claim. Desperation is hardly an excuse.”
“You were not entirely at fault,” her husband corrected gently. “I compromised you, whilst I was betrothed to another. I hold myself accountable for everything that transpired. I hope we can begin anew tonight.”
Tonight.
The heat burst into unadulterated flame.
She wanted to ask him if he could forgive her for what she had done, but the words would not leave her tongue. Instead, she searched his gaze, trying to find the answers she sought. His eyes were hooded now, obscured by the sweep of dark, too-long lashes.
“Gabe?” she asked hesitantly.
“Yes, Helena?” His fingers had lingered behind her ear, and now they skimmed lightly down her throat.
She summoned her daring. “Will you kiss me?”
Her skin was smooth and creamy. The sweet scent of citrus and bergamot teased his senses. And heaven help him, but that filmy night rail clinging to her curves was nearly transparent. The dusky circles of her nipples were on full display, the peaks stiff and wanton. Begging for him.
His fingertips traveled lightly over her in a slow caress, absorbing her heat, the frenzied beat of her heart. Her verdant eyes burned into his, so vibrant they took his breath. Her sweet, pink lips parted.
“Will you kiss me?”
The hesitant invitation had his cockstand rising to full attention beneath the cloaking drapery of his dressing gown. He wanted to haul her into his arms. To give in to the frantic urges sweeping over him.
But this
was only their second time making love. He did not wish to rush her. He intended to proceed slowly. To seduce her, to savor her.
He gently cupped her face and lowered his mouth to hers, giving Helena his answer. Kissing her was always a revelation. No matter how many times he felt her lips beneath his, each kiss felt new and more intoxicating than the last.
On a pleased-sounding sigh, she wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing herself against him. The voluptuous crush of her breasts sent an arrow of need straight through him. The tight buds of her nipples abraded his chest. He deepened the kiss, licking the seam of her lips until she opened, their tongues tangling.
She tasted of the sherry they had enjoyed in the blue salon following dinner and of something that was mysteriously, indefinably her. He allowed his hand to drift from her jaw, slowly coasting it over her breast and cupping her there. When he ran his thumb in circles over her hungry nipple, she arched into him and made a seductive sound low in her throat.
He was lost.
Desire overwhelmed him. His caress traveled lower, his fingers tightening on the soft fabric of her night rail to pull it slowly upward. All the while, he kissed her with the fevers raging within. He found the sleek curve of her hip, and he discovered she wore no drawers. Nipping her lip, he sought the heart of her, his fingers gliding over hot, slick feminine flesh.
She was drenched for him already, just from their kisses. From his fleeting touches. She was so responsive. He found her pearl and rubbed it in slow, teasing strokes until her hips undulated against his hand and she sucked on his tongue.
Her unabashed desire for him thrilled him more than he could have imagined. He tore his lips from hers and kissed a path down her throat, finding her collarbone, then settled his mouth over the hollow where her pulse pounded. All the while, he continued to tease them both, slicking her dew over her as she clutched him.
If he took her to the bed, their interlude would be over before it had begun, so desperate was he to be inside her. But Gabe was ever cognizant that she had been a virgin. He needed to be tender with her, to take her to the heights of exquisite pleasure. Their lovemaking could not be rushed.
Lady Reckless (Notorious Ladies of London Book 3) Page 18
