Helen felt the familiar and sudden queasiness, how the muscles of her legs pulled tight and her knees drew together. I will not think of it, she said to herself. Not of Ireland, not of Henley, not of everything he had taken away from her. He had only taken that part of her for a moment, but it was hers again now, just as Marie-Anne said.
She gave a small nod, acknowledging Marie-Anne's advice. "Thank you," she said, and leaned forward to kiss her friend's cheek. "It's all very frightening, you know."
Marie-Anne gave a quivery smile, tears beginning to brim in her eyes. But she blinked them away and said, "Well, that is because it is life. So now go and join the living again, ma chère. It is only what you deserve. And I shall keep in mind," she giggled, the gleam returning to her eye, "that if ever I want out of Bartle, I need only seduce a man and become violently ill. An excellent scheme."
And that was how, tripping down the stairs into the parlor where Stephen waited, Helen came laughing to her wedding.
Chapter 12
An hour or more in the carriage, and still she had found nothing to say. She stared down at the ring on her hand and wondered, if she blinked hard enough, whether it would disappear. The sense of unreality was as much due to her complete ignorance of what lay ahead as it was the swiftness of the day's events. This morning she had woken ruined and penniless, and now the sunset saw her married to the most thoroughly respectable man in the country, making their way through the muddy roads to his home.
"Will we live here, in Herefordshire?" she asked, knowing she would never be so lucky. He had told her once that his lands here were insignificant, and that he had never thought to stay long.
"Only tonight," he answered softly, as if to reassure. But something in his face told her there was little comfort to be found. "Tomorrow we'll travel to the estate in Bedfordshire."
"Oh," she said, as steadily as she could. "Not to London, then?"
"Not yet, though I cannot hide forever." He seemed to go away into himself a bit, thinking deeply, as though absorbing the idea. Contemplating a return to London didn't put him in any good humor.
She stared out at the bare trees and setting sun. It would do no good to tell him she had warned him of this, as little as he had taken heed of her words. His standing in society was important to him. Now he sat across from her, likely saying a silent farewell to the life he had known. Perhaps it would be better if they did hide forever.
"Tell me about your estate," she prompted, hoping to divert him. "Why do we go there so soon?"
His mouth curled up in a humorless smile. "Why, to show my wife her new family, of course. My mother will be there, and my youngest sister as well. Better to go now, and have you well established before winter lets out."
"Is that important?"
"It will make things easier, I think. Our marriage will not be fresh news when the Season starts, if we spread word of it now. And once the household has a good opinion of the new Lady Summerdale, it will go easier." He noted her confusion. "The servants will talk, and if they have favorable things to say about you to other servants they meet in London, it can only be to the good."
She took a deep breath at this novel way of thinking, and let out a sigh. "They do say you know everything. I am beginning to understand why, if you concern yourself with servants' gossip. It's very clever of you." She concentrated on not wringing her hands. "And if your servants do not like me?"
He brightened at that. "Impossible," he smiled. "You have a way about you. Don't let it worry you overmuch, it's only an idea."
He laid a hand over hers. The warmth and sureness of his touch both comforted and unsettled her. It was unreasonable to be so nervous about her wedding night, after what had already passed between them. But she was nervous. For all her joking with Marie-Anne, for all her resolve to leave the past in the past, she had no assurances that the fear would not overcome her in the end. It was horrible, a living thing inside her that she could not completely subdue. She did not know if her will was strong enough to control the sick fear that so unexpectedly gripped her at times.
His hand moved on hers, clasping her fingers tightly. "I can protect you in Society, Helen, at least from being jeered at openly. But there will always be talk." He ran his thumb across her palm, his brows lowering in concern. "If I could spare you from it, I would. But I cannot make miracles. It will call for a great deal of strength from you."
She bit her lip. Still, he thought only of her. Never of himself, of what this might cost him in the end. She forced a humorous indifference, for his sake. "Pish-tosh, it is nothing to me what they think. I have as much strength in my little finger as it will need," she said lightly.
She watched the frown on his face disappear, replaced with a slow-growing grin. It set her heart to beating fast, caused a warmth to grow in her belly. But the fear was there, just beneath the excitement. Tell him, she thought. Tell him now. He should know the true extent of it. Her nervousness would seem odd to him, and the notion that he believed her to be a woman of experience made her take the air into her lungs too fast. He was her husband now. He should know.
"You have twice as much strength in one eyelash as ten men would ever need in their lives," he corrected with a smile.
But she knew he was serious, that he thought she was fearless. She proved him wrong, remaining silent on the matter, looking at his hand in hers and thanking God that he had more courage than she could ever hope to possess. She was sure he would need it, having chosen this path.
He stared at the stack of letters waiting for him. It would be difficult, going home, but at least it was not so removed from things as this part of the world.
Home. The word seemed not to apply, now that Edward was dead. He should have warned Helen. He still should, but he did not want to give up these hours they had together and alone, away from it. There was no sense in putting it off, but they could have tonight.
"Ah. Jackson." He shook himself to awareness as the butler came to the door. "Lady Summerdale has her bath?"
"Yes, my lord. I have taken the liberty of assigning her a lady's maid. Will you be taking dinner in the dining room this evening?"
Stephen gave a grimace. He couldn't possibly think of eating, stuffed as he was from the wedding lunch the villagers had hastily prepared. "If it is agreeable to Lady Summerdale, I would prefer to forego dinner. If she wants anything, have it brought to our room."
She would be waiting for him, fresh from her bath. She was his wife. It was impossible to think she could be his, that she could belong to anyone but herself. Her dark will, so forceful and determined, forbade entry to that secret world she kept inside. But she had let him in, or at least had given him a glimpse of what lay within her. And now, she would be there, waiting for him.
Jackson interrupted his thoughts. "The correspondence from London arrived this morning after your departure, my lord. The messenger indicated that there were matters of importance that should not be delayed."
"Yes, well, when isn't there?" Best to look at them now, and ignore the vague dread that settled around him. "Thank you, Jackson." But the butler was already closing the doors as Stephen sifted through the correspondence. Near the bottom of the stack of papers, he found what he knew he'd been expecting.
The handwriting was elegant. His fingers traced over the sweeping curve of the S, the upward slant of the script causing a familiar ache. Inside, there would be words of love and regret, invitation and desire – everything he'd ever wanted from her, neatly written down and contained in a page or two. His hand hovered over it, tempted to read it even now, with Helen waiting upstairs. But he thrust it into the drawer. Later. He would face it later.
The last envelope awaited, likely some boring business detail. He didn't recognize the hand. He would open it, and then he could go to Helen. Or perhaps it was too early. There was a reserve about her, a shyness that had come as something of a surprise. After using all the persuasion he possessed to convince her to marry him, everything had moved very
quickly, as he'd wanted it to do. But she had clearly not expected it and was a little dazed by it all. Not the best politics, then, to barge in on her while she still bathed.
He picked up the last letter to distract himself, and nearly threw it to the fire once it had been opened.
Lord Summerdale,
Though we are not personally acquainted, I am obliged to introduce myself by letter in the hopes of appealing to your sense of Honor, which is well known and esteemed by all. I pray that you will be so kind as to read these pages, and if a natural Sympathy induces you to aid me I will be forever grateful.
You are aware, I am sure, that the Earl of Whitemarsh has for some time proposed to contract with me for the purchase of my finest wool. The agreement was made, as the enclosed letter from him will attest. However Whitemarsh has declined to sign the Contracts that would bind the deal (also enclosed for your examination) without enlightening me as to why such a sudden reversal should occur.
I appeal to your sense of honor, sir. I took Whitemarsh on his word as a Gentleman that the exchange would take place. There is some devilry here, I fear and I am forced to observe that he has proven unreliable in the matter of legal commitments in the past. I trusted him to deal fairly with me but am disappointed in him once again. But I am reassured that his partner is a most upstanding Gentleman, who is perhaps unaware of this breach of faith and I appeal to you to judge the circumstance with temperate wisdom, and to the benefit of your own interests.
Respectfully,
Henley
He stared at the signature as outrage surged up from the pit of his stomach. He would appeal to a sense of honor, would he? Alex had misrepresented the matter and had proven himself once again "unreliable in the matter of legal commitments"! Stephen knew well that Henley referred to the breaking of a marriage contract, so many years ago. As if losing Helen was akin to losing a business deal.
He thought of Helen's face as she told him the truth, how she could barely breathe, barely speak. As though the shock of it was still fresh and she saw a family lying dead and bloody before her on her bedroom floor. Her voice haunted him. It had sounded like the words had been dragged from the very depths of her, from a dark universe of terror and loathing and despair.
So long as Henley stayed in Ireland, so long as his injury to her stayed in the past, there was little he could do. It was the most infuriating part of it all, that it had happened to her years before Stephen ever knew her name, that it was now too late to stop it or even to exact some form of revenge. The dog skulked in Ireland, out of his reach – safe, where no weapon could touch him. No weapon save one.
Words were all Stephen had ever had. Secrets were power, but it was a power he had always shied from, doing no harm and only reaping the rewards of discretion. A closed mouth and open eye, action taken only as a result of the information gained, but never using the information directly. He knew he could ruin a hundred of London's finest citizens in a day's time with only a word, but he had never taken the power in his own two hands. Just as he had never, before two nights ago, held Helen's hand as she asked him if he believed her.
He turned the documents over in his hands, resisting the urge to rip the letter to shreds. Control. It would call for the utmost control and calculation, if he meant for it to work.
He sat down at the desk again, sharpening his quill until the point was a dangerous edge, and began to write.
When he entered the room where she waited in the firelight, his breath caught at the sight. Her hair was pulled up in a multitude of pins, above a sleek rose-colored robe that opened to show a glimpse of her gleaming white leg. She was curled on the chair by the fire, bent over a book, but his entrance startled her and made her drop it into her lap and look up at him – a quick blaze of awareness, her eyes skipping across his face before she looked demurely down at her folded hands.
He leaned back against the door. The aura of reserve was around her, making her unapproachable, as though she lived in another world and he must find just the right words, the right attitude, if he wanted to gain admittance. He stood there, taking in the sight of her hands calmly folded on her lap, her eyes turned down, the tension in her shoulders. It was decidedly awkward to come to her, knowing that he would spend the night at her side, that he wanted it more than the air he breathed, and yet still unable to break the silence.
At last she stood, laying the book aside and darting a glance around the room. She seemed to be trying very hard to act normally.
"I suppose I shall have to become used to such luxuries again," she said. "It is strange to have a hot bath and a generous fire, not to mention the wealth of literature your home affords."
"Our home. It is ours, for tonight."
"Yes. Of course. I only mean that I feel a bit out of my element." She sighed. "It will take some time before I am completely comfortable."
If he had taken any other woman as his wife, he would have understood that as his cue to leave, to offer her time to adjust while he gallantly installed himself in other quarters for the night. But he had not married another woman. He had married her, and she stood in front of him with all her curves outlined in the thin robe.
"You wanted no dinner?" he asked as he sat on the bed and pulled off his shoes. "You could have it sent here, if you like."
"No, I am not hungry, thank you, my lord."
She had turned away from him to look into the fire, every line of her body rigid. He saw the narrow margin of skin at her nape where the tender wisps of hair curled. He crossed slowly to her, removing his shirt along the way.
"Did I tell you," he asked softly when he stood close behind her, close enough to take in her fragrance, "that you looked very beautiful today?"
She didn't move, her back to him. "I...thank you, my lord."
His hand found her back, the tips of his fingers moving lightly over her shoulder blades and the cool silk of her robe. "Will you call me by my name?" he whispered.
Her chin came up, but still she looked straight ahead, some of the tension going out of her. "Stephen," she said quietly, his name like a vow, an affirmation. "Thank you, Stephen, for today. For everything."
He was determined to chase the shadows from her, to see her smile again as she had when she came to marry him. She so often hid her laughter from him, her smiles so careful and reserved.
He raised his hands to the pins in her hair, slowly removing them. "It is your friends I would like to thank, for arranging your gown and dressing your hair. I have imagined you many times, with your hair swept up. Of course," his voice lowered confidentially, "you must think me inconsistent, intent as I am on seeing it down now."
He did not mention how intent he'd been to have the dress off her as soon as it was on, either, contenting himself with watching her hair fall down to her shoulders. He thought he could see just barely, from the angle at which she held her face, a faint curve to her mouth. Looking more and more hopeful.
"And I would have preferred to see you in anything other than that lumpy brown monstrosity." A slight twitch, as if she held in a laugh. Better and better. "Though it was nothing at all to that travesty in black you so often wear. I wonder, did it serve you well in cleaning out the chimney? I'm sure such a coarse fabric filed the stones down to satisfactory shine."
She ducked her head and let out a small sound. She was laughing now, quietly, little huffs of air. "I rather wondered if you were more appalled by the dress or the apron."
"If I had to choose, I would rather see you in the apron," he answered as he rested his hands lightly on her waist and brought his face closer to her hair. "Just the apron itself, of course, but eventually it would be dispatched as well."
A vivid vision of it burst into his mind, making him slightly weak at the knees. But he saw at once that she reacted differently, standing up straighter even as his hands slipped around to the tie of her robe and rested there, just beneath her breasts. She was jittery, as if they had never been together before.
"No dou
bt I would be dispatched with all haste by one of your villagers, if they knew I had such thoughts." He buried his face in her still-damp hair, inhaling the scent of lavender. "I'm surprised they didn't run after me with pitchforks and torches when they saw I intended to spirit their beloved Miss Helen away."
She placed a tentative pair of hands on his arms around her waist, a soft touch that changed the slow burn in him to a leaping flame.
"They would not, you know," she told him. "They have come to trust you."
"Oh, you say that now, when I am safe from the mob. I saw the look on the baker's face. I'll do well to stay out of Bartle for a time." Her hands came over his and she laced her fingers with his, leaning back into him. "Next time I ride through town, they'll heave week-old bread at me, and break my skull."
Her full smile encouraged him, and his hands moved to untie her robe. She did nothing to stop him. It fell open, revealing a river of flesh that he could see over her shoulder, the firelight dancing on the skin exposed at her throat, between her breasts and her belly. He briefly closed his eyes at the beauty of her, breathing deeply. Before, it had been impulsive, impetuous, unexpected. But now he had the luxury of seeing her, of watching as she grew languid in his arms and gave herself up to the slow seduction of his hands running lightly along her sides.
"Mr. Higgins is more likely to use his rolling pin as a weapon, I think," she said breathlessly. "Or to call on his wife. She has a reputation for a heavy fist." He could feel her all along the front of his body, how she made an effort to divert herself with humor and fought against the desire to hide herself.
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