“Do we have a consensus, then?” asked Lady Sinclair, who had become a leader by default with the other members preoccupied by their growing families. “All in favor?”
“Aye,” agreed a chorus of feminine voices.
The Countess of Sinclair grinned. “I cannot wait for A Woman and the mysterious M. to have a peek at the Lady’s Suffrage Society Times. Undoubtedly, A Woman shall swoon with horror. M. will similarly shrivel up in disgust, I should imagine.”
“Mayhap M. and A Woman ought to go boating together in the Serpentine,” Helena suggested mildly.
“In a leaky boat,” Julianna agreed.
“One outfitted with some fortuitous leaden weights,” Lady Jo added.
“Do tell me where to stand,” said the Duchess of Longleigh, “and I shall happily watch them sink. If only they would take His Grace along with them.”
There was a moment of silence as all the women convened privately reckoned with the realization that the Duchess of Longleigh had just suggested she wished her husband would sink to the bottom of the Serpentine. It was one thing to imagine anonymous, invisible opponents slipping beneath the waters, but another indeed to think of a person they knew. No matter how dastardly he was.
“Forgive me,” the duchess said. “I forget sometimes that I am the only one of us in an unhappy marriage. Do not allow my bitterness to ruin the excitement of the afternoon, I beg you. And if it pleases you, I would dearly love to write articles for the journal as well.”
But was she the only one of them in an unhappy marriage?
Helena bit her lip as she contemplated that most unwanted thought. Lady Sinclair was hopelessly in love with her husband, and Lady Jo was every bit as smitten with Mr. Decker, and the husbands were equally besotted with their wives. That left only Julianna, who was not married, and Helena, who was.
She loved Gabe quite desperately.
But was she happy?
No, said a voice deep inside her heart.
Because loving someone without being loved in return was…torture. That was the word to describe this constant flux. Pure, utter, torture. From which there seemed to be no escape.
Torture.
That was the best means of describing each day in his new marriage.
Complete and utter. Delicious, awful, inescapable—torture.
He did not want to long for her as much as he did. Every day, he told himself he would keep his distance. And each night, he found himself going to her chamber just the same.
Until finally, Gabe vowed he would not do so tonight.
And that was why he was seated at his desk instead of on his way to his wife’s bed. That was why his accompaniment was a glass of claret instead of Helena. He had told her he would not come to her this evening, that his attentions were required elsewhere.
He had taken note of the confusion in her vibrant eyes and the hurt in her clamped pink lips. But he had deemed some distance necessary. It was not Shropshire, but it was just enough to remind him that he must not allow himself to care for her too deeply.
On a heavy sigh, Gabe lifted the claret and took a generous sip. If there was anything he had learned from his parents’ hellacious marriage, it was that even when a union began in love, it could quickly descend into destruction. Father and Mother had been a love match, once upon a time.
The heart was a fickle thing. Far too shallow.
He turned his attention to the reports from his steward in Shropshire. The repairs to the western wing roof were being undertaken. Unfortunately, the damage to the upper rooms was worse than what had originally been supposed, and some of the original eighteenth century plaster medallions and ceiling frescoes would require complete removal.
The estate in Shropshire had been a crowning jewel in the coronet of the Huntingdon earldom for centuries. Adringham Hall had been built upon the ruins of a former abbey. Grandfather had preferred it to the bustle of London, and Gabe had often sought his own solace there. His current presence in London had been down to Parliament being in session and his impending nuptials to Lady Beatrice.
The latter, of course, no longer being a reason for him to remain.
Damnation, he was accomplishing nothing save watching the hands on the ormolu mantel clock tick aggressively toward the midnight hour. Irritated with himself, with Helena, with the world and every bloody person within it, he finished his claret and rose. Turning down the lights gave him no pleasure. He made his way to his chamber, lost in his thoughts, no more settled than he had been before he had avoided his wife in favor of solace.
Solitude was not a cure for what ailed him.
As he mounted the steps and took himself upstairs, he came to the unwanted realization that there was no cure in existence. He was restless. Displeased. Randy as a sailor who had just arrived at port after a sojourn at sea. He was a man of too much contradiction and too little peace. He longed for Helena quite desperately, and yet he despised himself for that weakness, that yearning.
He had a wife he had never wanted or planned for, and yet desired more than he had ever thought possible. A wife who had, whether through her actions or his own, caused him to break his vow, his betrothal…
He reached his chamber, closing the door with more force than necessary at his back. The claret had done nothing to soothe the sting of the unrest rising within him. He stalked about his chamber, divesting himself of his attire. Bennet had seen to every preparation; the counterpane was turned down. The lights were low, a bowl and pitcher of water to splash upon his face awaiting him. More claret awaited him as well, further proof that the valet possessed an almost eerie ability to predict what Gabe wanted before he realized it himself.
Naked, he slid on a banyan and poured himself another measure of claret. His traitorous cock was rigid and insistent, making him eye the door connecting his chamber to the dressing area and bathroom he shared with Helena. Having to share the space was an inconvenience he had yet to accustom himself. Even so, the arrangement was not entirely unpleasant.
He had found he rather enjoyed the lingering scent of her garments and perfume in the dressing room. She had a tendency to leave her baubles everywhere, little traces of her he never failed to find and smile over before her lady’s maid inevitably located them too and tidied them up. Just this morning, he had discovered a pair of emerald earbobs in the bathroom, suggesting she had removed them herself and then abandoned them wherever she had left them in the moment. Later, they were gone, whisked back to their proper place as if they had never been strewn about in distracted disarray.
Now that he was thinking of the bathroom, a nice, calming soak seemed just the thing. Taking his claret with him, Gabe padded to the adjoining door, pleasantly surprised to discover the bathroom engulfed in low light, warmth suffusing him from the waters of the drawn bath. The entire chamber smelled of the sweet perfume of citrus, an oil Bennet frequently used for his baths.
Bless the man. He had predicted Gabe’s needs this evening far beyond expectation.
Gabe shrugged out of his banyan, allowing the cool silk to pool on the tiles at his feet. And then he stepped into the deep, ceramic bliss of the tub, sinking into the water up to his armpits on a well-pleased groan.
Hanging his arms over the edge of the tub, Gabe tipped his head back, allowing it to rest upon the lip. His eyelids shuttered. Hot water lapped at his skin, soothing him. Calming him.
Yes, drawing the bath had been an incredibly attentive action on Bennet’s part. Gabe was going to give his valet a raise. He was, in every instance, a man who ventured beyond the call of duty to his master. He was a man who truly cared.
A man who—
“Gabe?”
The shocked echo of his wife’s query had his eyes opening. There, on the threshold of the bathroom, stood Helena, clearly hesitating in her robe de chambre, cinched neatly at her waist. Her golden locks were unbound, cascading in a wild bevy of curls down her back and over her shoulders.
She looked, in a word, delectable.
Belatedly, he realized he was staring. Devouring her with his gaze as he longed to do with his lips. But, he cautioned himself, tonight he had decided to keep his distance.
Gabe sat up in the tub. “Have I disturbed you? Forgive me. I thought you long since gone to sleep.”
Her gaze flitted over his shoulders and chest, warming every bit of skin above the surface of the water. And all the skin below it as well. By God, he was on fire, and it had nothing to do with the temperature of his bath and everything to do with the woman hovering on the threshold of the bathroom.
“I was not able to sleep,” she said then, giving him a smile that was at once demure and seductive. “I read for a time, and then my lady’s maid drew the bath for me. I see I tarried a bit too long and you discovered it before I could claim it.”
Well, bloody hell. Bennet had not drawn the bath for him, nor entirely guessed at his needs before he knew them himself. The bath had been meant for Helena. And Gabe had greedily sunken himself into it.
A pang of conscience hit him. “Forgive me, my dear. I had no idea it had been drawn for you. I had supposed my valet had done it, guessing at what I would require after I retired. Would you…shall I remove myself?”
“Of course not.” But instead of retreating to her own chamber where he most decidedly needed her to be, she moved deeper into the room. “You are already enjoying the waters, are you not? It seems a pity for me to require you to remove yourself on account of my whims. Selfish, even.”
She was being most accommodating to a husband who had essentially informed her he wished to spend the evening without her company, albeit in more polite terms. He willed his aching cock to behave itself and wither. He had no wish for her to see the effect she had upon him. Or, worse, for him to lose control now that he had so deliberately set out to exercise it this evening.
“I can finish my bath in peace and then draw fresh water for you if you like,” he offered. “I will not be but another few minutes, I promise, and there should be sufficient heated water to call for more.”
“I would not dream of ejecting you from your bath prematurely,” she countered as she reached the tub, bringing with her the seductive scent that was purely hers. And the decadently curved body that was also, purely, hers.
His fingers itched to seize her by the waist and haul her into the bath with him, dressing gown and all. It was only by the thinnest reminder of his intentions for the evening that he did not.
“You are hardly ejecting me,” he forced out, gratified when he did not hear a hint of the turmoil secretly raging within him. “I am willingly abandoning the bath that was yours to begin with. It is hardly the selfless act of a martyr.”
The selfless act of a martyr would be to remove himself from this chamber. This moment. Because he was finding it increasingly difficult to resist her. Or rather, to resist all the urges she brought to life within him. Wicked urges. Deep-seated urges. The same damned urges which had led to him compromising her and having to marry her.
He would never learn his lesson.
“Or,” she said, trailing her fingertips over his forearm in a caress that made his cock stand at attention beneath the water, “you could remain in your bath, and I could aid you.”
“Aid me,” he repeated, then ground his molars as her touch skipped down to his wrist.
“Yes.” Her pink tongue peeked out, moistening her lips. “I can wash you, if you like.”
He had to stifle a groan at the thought of her passing a cloth over his body. Of her remaining near enough he could be tempted to haul her into the tub with him at any moment. His resolve was weakening fast.
“I am not certain that would be a wise idea,” he said, irritated with himself for the hoarseness of his voice.
“If you would prefer solitude, I understand.” Her hand settled atop his briefly before flitting away.
The notion of her going, now that she was here, filled him with a strange sense of loss. She had offered to assist him in his ablutions. He should agree with her that solitude was best.
She turned to go.
He hated himself for the hurt tone of her voice.
“Wait,” he called out before he could think better of his decision. “Do not leave. Your company is welcome.”
As is your touch, all over my body. Especially upon my cock.
Damnation, what was the matter with him?
Helena gave him a smile that lit him up from the inside. “I was hoping you might change your mind. I missed our usual tête-à-tête this evening.”
So had he.
He cleared his throat to keep that maudlin sentiment from revealing itself. “I do believe Bennet keeps my soap and towels in the cabinet just over there, if you wish to have a look.”
In his haste to slide into the soothing waters of the bath, he had neglected to take note that the soaps laid out were not his. If he had to spend the night smelling of Helena’s soap, he would never get any bloody rest.
“Of course,” she said, turning away to retrieve his soap and a cloth.
She was back in no time, proceeding to roll up her sleeves so she would not get them wet. The intimacy of the moment—the sweet domesticity of it—was not lost upon him.
He needed to distract himself. To keep his mind from wandering to unwanted places.
“How was your Lady’s Suffrage Society meeting today?” he inquired.
There—an excellent subject for suitable distraction.
She dipped the cloth into the water and used it to wet the cake of soap. “It went well, and we are continuing to collect signatures for our petition for the second reading of the Franchise Bill. We are beginning a suffrage journal, written by us, to be distributed to like-minded ladies throughout London. Lady Jo’s husband, Mr. Decker, has volunteered to distribute it for free. Lean forward, if you please, and I shall begin with your back.”
Gabe obeyed her soft order. “That is remarkably generous of Mr. Decker.” The extension of the Parliamentary franchise to women had been argued since 1867. It was a bitterly contested subject, and one which had been met with innumerable obstacles over the years, not the least of which was a Prime Minister who was not in favor. “I support the amendment to the Franchise Bill that would give women the right to vote, as you know. However, I greatly fear Gladstone will once more squelch it.”
“I suspect you are right, much as it grieves me. Many liberal members have pledged they are in favor of women’s suffrage. However, it is unlikely they will not bow under pressure. This all just makes the work of the Lady’s Suffrage Society that much more important and imperative.” The cloth passed over his shoulders in gentle, swooping strokes. “Do lean back now, if you please.”
He did as she asked, and she began to spread the frothed cloth over his collarbone, affording him the opportunity to study her. “I admire you for your dedication to your cause, Helena.”
She paused, her gaze flying to his. “Thank you, my lord.”
Regardless of the muddle in which their marriage had begun, Helena was worthy of praise. She was intelligent, steadfast, and determined. Unfortunately, those traits had also led to her making some reckless decisions, which had in turn forced them to the situation in which they currently found themselves.
A situation which did not seem terribly unwanted at the moment, as situations went.
She passed the cloth over his chest.
He forced his mind to less-tempting matters. “Your work with the Lady’s Suffrage Society is estimable. The cause is a worthy one, and I approve of your determination. Forgive me for not saying so before now. I am an abysmal husband, I fear.”
She cast him a tentative smile. “You are not so abysmal. At least you did not abandon me whilst you r
an away to Shropshire.”
He grimaced at the reminder, though her voice held a light, teasing note. “That is not saying a great deal in my favor.”
His former plan seemed as if it had been hatched a lifetime between then and now. So much had happened since. But with that thought came the steely reminder that he dared not allow himself to lower his guard with Helena. She had already crept past most of his defenses. The lesson of his parents’ ill-fated match remained, however, a pointed rebuke.
But his wife chased any traces of rebukes and reminders from his mind when she leaned closer, so near an unbound curl fell into his bath. He plucked it up, holding the sodden hair as it dripped. A mistake, for it felt like warm spun silk, and he no more wanted to release it than he did to spend the night with only his hand for accompaniment.
This was getting increasingly more perilous, his obsession with Helena.
She stilled, those verdant orbs pinning him in their thrall once more. “Gabe?”
He swallowed down a knot of rising desire. “Yes, my dear?”
This he said as mildly as possible. As if he were discussing, say, a scuffed boot. Or mayhap the improvements to Adringham Hall. He impressed himself with his ability to sound so decidedly unruffled when inwardly, he was a conflagration. Every part of him wanted to kiss her. To pull her into the tub with him, have her ride him as water sloshed all over the tiles.
“I do not wish for you to think you are anything but an excellent husband to me.” A sad smile flirted with her luscious lips. “I know our marriage was sudden, and that I am not the woman you originally chose as your countess. However, it is my hope that in time, we can find our way past these initial barriers.”
She was not wrong in her words. Helena was a woman he was never meant to have wanted, let alone married. However, as he looked upon her now, he could not fathom any other woman being in this chamber with him.
There were so many things he could say. The words rushed to him, clamoring on his tongue.
“That is my hope as well,” he told her thickly instead of revealing the full extent of his thoughts.
His response appeared to be enough, for she nodded and continued performing his ablutions for him. Slowly, tantalizingly.
Lady Reckless (Notorious Ladies of London Book 3) Page 20
