"Mr. Higgins is more likely to call in the blacksmith, and I would find myself dodging a flying anvil," he contested, watching her bare stomach tighten with the little laugh she gave out. "Word would get out that you resisted the notion of marriage, and they'd rise to take you back. Danny would harness me to his father's cart for my trouble and I'd be covered in bruises from sturdy boots and sides of rotten beef."
She was fighting the laughter now, only a thin core of resistance left in her. "Well, it's not as elaborate as the Trojan horse, but they do what they can."
He smoothed his hands over her hips, pulling her back against his hardness, letting her feel his hunger, hearing her soft gasp that was not at all nervousness. "As do you with your arrows," he murmured, gazing at the curve of her neck. The sweetest curve there, just behind her delicate jaw, sloping down beneath her ear. "Your aim is always true." And he pressed his lips to the place he had fallen in love with her.
She relaxed against him at last, but only for an instant. Then she pulled back, all her nervousness reviving just at the moment when she had begun to lose herself in the heat of their bodies. He put his hands on her shoulders and gently turned her to face him, seeing the look he never wanted to see on her again. Fear. Something in this frightened her. She wouldn't look at him, her eyes beginning to skip across the room just as they had when she told him of Henley's treachery.
Of course, she must be thinking of him now. Of how she had given herself to him then, the regrets she had. There was no mistaking her mood.
"Stephen," she said haltingly. "I should tell you – I should explain..."
But she seemed to lose the words. He let them slip away, wanting her to forget everything that had happened before. She would look to her past and the sadness it carried, always, if he did not stop her now.
He forced her chin up. "Look at me, Helen." She did, her eyes finding his and staying locked in his gaze. "I don't care," he told her. "Do you believe me? I don't care about the mistakes you may have made in your past. I understand what it means to give yourself to love."
She looked as if she might cry. "Love?" she said faintly.
He held her face in his hands, feeling the ache of his heart. "If you were in love, and you gave yourself, could I condemn you for that? I don't care, Helen. I have tried very hard to care, since I met you." A ragged breath of amusement escaped him at the thought of his own folly. "But it doesn't matter what the world thinks of you. It only matters that you're with me now."
He had found them somehow, the words that stole the tension away from her. Suddenly, she was in his arms, embracing him, pressing their bodies close together with no fear. She kissed him, her mouth coming up to his with a hunger that made him hold her more tightly as he backed her toward the bed. When they reached it, he could not resist pulling her down with him, spreading her body over the coverlet, kissing every inch of her, from the toes up.
He followed the line of her legs up and opened his mouth over the heart of her. Her scent enveloped him, the feel of her legs falling apart, her damp warmth, a honey glide on the tongue. He learned the textures of her skin with his mouth until she was as excited as he, raising herself urgently to meet his caress. Drawing away to lay his head on her thigh, he looked up across the vista of her belly and breasts spread out above him, and found her looking at him.
Her eyes were dark moons that called to him, inviting him to bring his body over hers. She was so different – her look holding him, panting breathlessly, all shyness in her gone. And he went to her, gave her what her eyes and her body asked of him, sinking into her with a sigh, the scope of his life beginning and ending in her. She never looked away, capturing him with eyes as vast and beautiful as the night sky until he was only dimly aware of his own movements. There was nothing but the sound of her rising agitation and the feel of her moving beneath him, her stare steadily demanding until he gave in to her will at last, losing himself.
He lay next to her, dragging air into his lungs, listening to her immoderate breathing. Never had he felt like this before, as he felt with her. Any kind of control or self-possession was only a myth, when she gave herself to him.
He watched her as he regained his breath, and after a while he reached out a hand to lay on her stomach. She looked at him, and he cocked a brow at her, affecting a mock concern.
"You feel well?" he inquired. Her brow creased in confusion. "I can have a powder sent up," he offered with a grin. "It was a rather large lunch."
Her eyes went wide with embarrassment. She turned and buried her face in the pillows. After a moment, her whole body began to shake, and she pulled her head up to look at him. Her girlish giggles turned into uncontrollable laughter, grew to unladylike guffaws. It shook the mattress, her smile as bright and wide as the future he imagined for them.
He had not known, not until now, how very much he had wanted this: Helen, her glorious body stretched out next to him in his bed, the sound of her joy filling the empty corners of his life.
Chapter 13
It was a huge house, even larger than her brother's estate. It was most impressive, especially with the staff smartly turned out in the Summerdale livery, lined up to welcome their lord home and to be inspected by the new countess. If only the new countess could tear her eyes from her new mother-in-law. Helen felt perhaps her first duty as lady of this place would be to ask a footman to retrieve the woman's jaw from the ground.
Stephen seemed to find nothing at all unusual in his mother's gaping. But Helen found it almost as disconcerting as Lady Caroline's laughter. The girl was fairly shrieking with it.
His hand was firm on her elbow, though, and she would not give into the urge to turn tail and disgrace him as his family was so blithely doing. Good God, in front of the servants. She had imagined, if his family was anything at all like Stephen, that she would be met with grave disapproval. She had been preparing herself for it all day, but she'd thought it would be delivered in private. She had no idea what to do when one's new sister-in-law was helpless with laughter, and one's mother-in-law looked on the verge of an apoplexy upon introduction.
Stephen, though, seemed to know precisely what to do. His voice was withering and his look positively glacial, as he flicked a negligent glance at his sister and spoke to his mother.
"Shall we take this spectacle inside, mother? You look in need of a swooning couch."
At that, the dowager countess's mouth snapped shut and she looked at her son as though he were a curious nuisance, her gaze flicking up and down him. It seemed as though his sarcasm came as a bit of a surprise, for even his sister's raucous laughter died down to a chuckle.
"Oh, fiddle, Stephen!" said Lady Caroline with a mock severity. "You've ruined my fun. Who would ever have thought our dear Mama could be shocked? And by you? I was quite enjoying the sight."
Their mother looked annoyed at both of them, but silenced her daughter with a dismissive wave of her hand and returned her full attention to Helen. "Is it true then? You're really Helen Dehaven?" Something like amusement mixed with admiration began to light her face as Helen nodded. "And he married you?!"
She said it with a scandalized delight that left Helen at a loss. It was Stephen beside her, quiet and cold, that made her find her voice at last.
"Indeed he did, my lady," she said, with as much quiet composure as she could find. "I think it would be best if I made acquaintance with the staff, and then we can get inside out of the cold. I should very much like to speak with you in more private circumstances."
Leaving the dowager countess and Lady Caroline goggling behind them, she allowed Stephen to steer her to where the butler and housekeeper stood. He did not take advantage of the brief moment to speak to her, but gave her elbow an encouraging squeeze.
She managed the introductions as well as she could, considering how very mortified she was. She had thought the staring and mockery could be avoided for a while, at least until they were forced into Society. But here they were married barely a day, and already he
had to come face to face with behavior that he could expect for the rest of his life. She hoped he did not feel too keen a regret.
She thanked the housekeeper Mrs. Bates for preparing their rooms on such hasty notice, and requested that tea be made available. "I'm afraid I don't know the best room for such a conference as this," she confided to the stout woman. No point in pretending as if their reception was in any way normal, when the servants had eyes and ears as good as anyone's. "Where would you suggest, Mrs. Bates?"
"The yellow salon, my lady, unless you would prefer the library?"
"The yellow salon will do nicely," Helen responded, with a glance back at her in-laws. "I think the Dowager Lady Summerdale will require the tea be as strong as you can make it, if you will."
It was impertinent of her, really, and inappropriate to speak to the servants in such a way, but she could not see them as faceless nobodies. They rather reminded her of the villagers back home. Mrs. Bates seemed to find nothing wrong with it, though, and Helen had the distinct impression the woman wanted to smile.
"Right away, my lady," she bobbed. "Some salts won't be amiss, either." And she turned to one of the maids behind her to see to it.
She did her best with the butler, and turned back to Stephen, who gave her an approving smile before his features turned grim once more. He led her inside, and she quickly lifted her chin in the hope of mustering a bit of spirit as Stephen guided her to a lovely yellow room where a fire cheerily blazed in the hearth.
His mother and sister followed them into the room, but he waited for the footman to take Helen's cloak before he leaned against the fireplace and looked to his mother expectantly.
"Well?" he inquired. "Haven't you more to say? I'd rather have it out now so that dinner might be a shade less purgatorial."
The dowager countess, though, was still looking curiously at Helen with an unmistakable gleam of malice in her eyes. Helen braced herself, knowing there was little defense against it. It was nothing she hadn't encountered before.
"You are Helen Dehaven," she said with a touch of wonder. "Oh but pardon me, I must remember to call you Lady Summerdale, mustn't I? Though I doubt I shall ever become accustomed to the idea that my son could be so very daring as to marry someone like you." She cocked her head thoughtfully, as though remembering. "I must say, my dear, no one ever thought to see you again. I remember the scandal plainly. Told this one she'd do well to wait until after marriage to run off into the woods with a lover, not as though she were in danger of acquiring one," she sniffed, inclining her head to Lady Caroline.
Helen stiffened at the delight in the woman's voice. They are only words, she told herself. She turned herself into ice, unable to conjure any other defense.
"But to surface as wife to this old nun," she turned her gaze to Stephen, who stood like a marble statue, expressionless. "I dare to think there's some hope for you yet, my boy. I can't imagine you'd raise a scandal for my amusement. Can it be possible that you couldn't resist, fell into her bed, and felt compelled to marry her?"
As she watched, Stephen held his mother's stare and allowed a meaningful pause before he spoke. The air of menace in the room heightened in the silence.
"I suggest," he said in a soft and dangerous tone that Helen had never heard from him, "that you assume nothing, and that you guard your poisonous tongue when speaking of my wife."
His mother raised a brow. "I do believe that was a threat. My, my, quite an unprecedented day when Stephen takes a trollop to wife and actually threatens his mother. It won't fly, you know. I know you too well."
"Then you know I can cut off your allowance tomorrow, though perhaps you think that I won't." He took two steps forward until he stood within an inch of his mother, his voice still soft and deadly. "I will. Nothing would give me greater pleasure, so you'd best think twice before speaking such filth again."
There was no sound but the tick of the mantel clock. Helen had no idea what to do, or if she should do anything at all. She was clearly watching the latest skirmish in a long and bloody war, and she had no desire to stumble further onto the battlefield. Her husband seemed quite an experienced veteran.
As she watched, her mother-in-law narrowed her eyes and observed, "Another first. I believe you actually mean it."
Stephen didn't answer, but his sister had kept silent long enough. "I believe he does, Mama, and I shouldn't be surprised if he saw fit to cut the tongue out of your mouth." She spoke idly, as though this were nothing unusual, and sat down to her embroidery. "Now, Lady Summerdale – may I call you Helen? Will you tell me the truth of why you cried off your engagement? No one seems to have ever known why, not even Anne Pembroke, though she's always had other things to say about you."
Helen fought to stay quiet at this. One would think it had happened only yesterday, instead of six years ago. Did people actually still speak of it? And did Anne Pembroke, that viper, really still bother to speak of her at all? No doubt she must, so long as there were vicious gossips such as Lady Caroline to listen.
"Miss Pembroke is no friend of mine," she said through stiff lips, wishing that she were back in her empty little house in Bartle, that Stephen were no more than a humble hostler, and that they could be free of scenes like this.
Just then the tea arrived, saving her from having to address Lady Caroline's interest in her past. Helen would have offered to pour, had she thought she could do so without spilling the entire pot, or dashing it into the girl's face. Her hands were trembling, rage and humiliation coursing through her. She had expected to be mocked even by his family, though she'd assumed it would not come so soon or so openly. But that they would treat him so horribly, and that they obviously always had, made her want to reach for the nearest vase and smash it over his mother's head.
She looked up as his sister poured and his mother sat. He stood stock still, staring straight ahead, a hint of the brooding frown about his mouth. When he looked up at her, his features lightened somewhat. She raised her chin and sent him a look that contained all the loyalty she could put into it. She was grateful that he'd chosen to see this through now instead of waiting until she had rested or been shown her rooms. It only confirmed how much he understood her, and how she much preferred to have it over with.
Lady Caroline seemed eager to continue a discussion of the past. "There now, Summerdale, I shan't insult your bride as our darling mother has done. In fact, I must say that she's far more interesting than that girl you had your eye on before."
"Clara," broke in the dowager countess. "A boring fribble if ever there was one. Much more suited to your tastes, I thought, but she slipped away, didn't she? She replaced you with a duke, and you replace her with this–"
"Oh, but she was so dull and this is absolutely delightful!" crowed Caroline. "Just wait until I write to Miss Pembroke and tell her that Saint Stephen has lost a duchess and married a–" She cleared her throat with a sideways glance at Helen. "That is, a woman whose character was formerly in question."
"You will inform no one, Caroline," he said sternly. "I shall tell our acquaintances myself, and have already begun to do so."
Helen felt a little jolt of fear at his words, wondering what he would tell her brother. But suddenly the thought of her brother and all the disapproval he'd heaped on her seemed like the sweetest sugar next to Stephen's relations. She made a mental note to write a message to her brother's wife at last. And to look over Joyce's letter from months ago. She had mentioned this woman, Clara van Doren. A friend, she had written. Only a friend, now. And safely married to a duke.
"And I'll thank you not to question my wife's reputation, whether now or in the past," he continued. He came around the settee to stand behind Helen, placing one firm hand on her shoulder. There was no mistaking the warning in his words or his gesture. She lowered her face and sipped her tea.
"Don't get your back up, Summerdale," returned his sister irritably. "I was rather more concerned for your coveted ability to hold your perfection over the rest of us. Howe
ver will you manage to look down your nose at me now that you've gone and joined the rest of us down in the muck, I wonder?"
"No more than I wonder what could have motivated you," interjected his mother. She looked at him keenly, then at Helen. When neither of them bothered to answer her, she gave a resigned sigh and stood. Helen almost wanted to laugh, so eager were they both to know and so badly did they hide it. They could hardly hope to mystify the rest of Society as much as they had managed to confound his mother.
"I'm going to dress for dinner. You'll want to see your rooms, Lady Summerdale," she said with a tug on the bell-pull and a chuckle. "Ah, a new Lady Summerdale. This will be delightful, I think." And she swept out of the room, just as a footman appeared.
"Come," Stephen said softly to Helen once his mother had gone. "It's been a long journey, and you'll want to rest before dinner."
"No doubt," replied Helen, giving a nod to Lady Caroline as she prepared to leave. "Once more unto the breach, and all that."
He quirked a smile at her as she turned to follow the footman. She heard his sister speaking to him as she reached the salon doors.
"My dear Saint Stephen," she drawled in an amused voice. "I'd solve the mystery for our mother if it wouldn't give her such satisfaction. Let her think you've decided to become scandalous, but I can see the truth of it." Her laughter followed Helen as she stepped out the doors. "My cold fish of a brother has married for love. How very unlikely!"
Helen paused outside the doors, waiting in the hall, unseen by any save the footman who stopped with her.
"Very unlikely," came his reply, and she hurried on, unwilling to hear more, at least not with the servants about.
Dinner proved even worse, which Helen would have sworn was impossible. She found herself wishing for Marie-Anne's quick wit a thousand times. Apparently the rest of the world might hesitate before speaking ill of Stephen, but his family had no such scruples. It was unbelievable that any people could speak to each other in such a way. To think that Stephen had endured an entire lifetime of such venom made her heart ache for him.
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