He felt blood trickling over his fists and found an unholy pleasure in it. It drowned out the sounds of other voices that called for him to stop, to control himself. But he had controlled himself forever, and he would not stop now, not when Henley gasped and bled and begged to the rhythm of the blows.
He begged for his life, which made Stephen want to choke it out of him. He wrapped his hands around Henley's throat, watched the face turn purple and swollen, ignored the hands pulling at his arms. He only squeezed harder, waiting. When Henley's eyes lost focus and rolled back in his head, Stephen let go.
He stared down at the gagging heap at his feet. It had been too quick, too sudden. He felt outside himself, unreal. Slowly, he became aware of Foster standing beside him, speaking his name fearfully. He turned around, gulping air, and caught sight of Helen. He had forgotten her entirely.
She sat on the floor in front of the desk. She had absolutely no expression on her face as she stared at Henley. The maid was less composed, weeping and grasping at Helen while she gaped at the scene. Stephen blinked, trying to regain coherent thought as the tumult of rage died down to a simmer. He motioned to Foster.
"Send for Lord Whitemarsh," he rasped, as quietly as he could so that Helen would not hear. "Tell him what has happened. Remove this...filth. Keep him in the stables and take Lord Whitemarsh to him."
It was the only thing he could think of. Let Whitemarsh deal with what was left of Henley. Stephen could not bring himself to leave Helen's side. She was white and lifeless, sitting there in a heap.
He crossed to her and dropped to his knees as Foster moved to do his bidding. Stephen stopped the maid's hysterics with a sharp word and sent her to the kitchens. Still Helen didn't move. When he reached out to her, she gave a little jump and stared at his hands moving to embrace her. But she backed away, scooted just out of his reach on the floor.
He looked down at himself. He still wore his coat and gloves, and they were covered in blood. He could smell it with each ragged breath of air he brought into his chest. Dimly, he remembered her voice speaking to him on a night that seemed a lifetime ago. I detest blood, she had said.
He sat there wordless, unable to reach out to her, only capable of saying her name. But she didn't respond, didn't move. She hardly seemed to breathe as she stared at the floor. He waited for her to come back to him, to show anything at all, even if it were only to scream or cry. She was like a shadow of herself, a lifeless statue.
The servants came and dragged Henley out, coughing and wheezing. Stephen had them bring a basin of water and cleaned himself, cutting the slick buttons off his gloves with a paper knife that had fallen to the floor. He felt bruised inside, devoid of any thought except that he must not come to her with blood on his hands.
When he was clean, he looked at her again to find that she had not moved.
"Why–" His voice caught on an unexpected sob. He pressed mouth shut to stop it, squeezed his eyes closed to block out the vision of what was becoming clear to him. "Why didn't you tell me?"
Her voice came as a whisper, the ghost of words riding on an exhalation of air. "It wasn't so important." She looked up at him, still without expression, tilting her chin a little. "He didn't kill me."
His arms lifted to her, but she pulled away again, moving across the floor in tiny increments as he followed her on his knees. She reached the wall and slumped against it, blinking at him.
He looked at his outstretched hands, shaking between them. He let them fall, looking at her helplessly. His knuckles were throbbing, and he dropped his gaze from hers as he sat back on his heels. She didn't want him. How could she ever want anyone to touch her? He had thought she was only reticent, that she capriciously chose to let someone in or keep them out in the cold. That it only wanted time to breech the walls she built around herself. It should come as no surprise that he would fail, that he would be left outside. As he always had been.
But she surprised him, as she so often did. He felt her hands close around his, felt a shiver in her grow from a fluttering to an uncontrollable shaking.
"I'm tired, Stephen." She sounded like a child. She bit her lips and looked at him as if she didn't understand herself. "I'm so tired."
And she let him put his arms around her and carry her upstairs to their bed. He laid her down, wrapped her in a blanket as he had the first night they were together, and stretched out next to her in silence.
She did not sleep. She lay shaking against him and stared as the shadows lengthened in the room while he stroked her hair and accepted defeat. The one thing he'd ever taken pride in, knowing the truth. Understanding the nature of a complicated situation, when no one else could. Seeing what others could not.
And when it mattered the most, when all the signs were there, he failed. His family turned out to be right after all. He was useless and dull, nothing more than a cunning illusion of power. Destined to live outside the circle of warm life he felt in Helen, that he would give anything to be made a part of. She did not hold herself back from him in the night because she was selfish or timid or cold, as he had told himself a hundred times. It was because of this – of the pain and fear and violence she had known. In his colossal blindness, he had blamed her.
Finally, when night came, she turned in his arms, a quick movement that startled him after her hours of immobility. Her arms wrapped around him and he saw she was close to sleep. She spoke against his throat, a soft murmuring that reached deep inside, past the bleak sorrow, and left him floundering in a sea of hope.
"I only want an ordinary life," she breathed. "I can have that, can't I?" He felt her tears slide down his neck, a warm tickle that broke his heart because he had no way to stop them.
"I want it." She rubbed her face against him. "With you."
And they lay in silence as she drifted to sleep.
Chapter 16
Nearly two weeks, and still he had not touched her with anything other than brotherly affection. They went on, day to day, and he showed the same tender concern as he always had, but he never came to her bed at night. He disappeared into the dressing room that adjoined the chamber they had shared, and slept on the little cot there, with the door closed between them. Helen thought she would weep for the loss of him.
Perhaps she disgusted him. Perhaps it was acceptable for a woman to give her body out of love, but to have been forced was something that made her untouchable. She didn't know, and she couldn't bring herself to ask him why he kept his distance. At first, in the day that followed Henley's appearance, she was happy Stephen did not try to kiss her or touch her in any intimate way. She had been exhausted from it, and it had taken some time until she felt quite herself again. But she was herself again, so as the days went by and he left her to sleep alone, she began to worry that it would never be the same between them.
She had asked him, fearfully, what would become of Henley, and he had been quick to reassure her. Alex had taken care of things, he said, though Helen knew her husband must have played some part in it. If Henley ever stepped foot in England again, he would be thrown in the nearest prison barge – if he lived that long – and Alex and Stephen had been sure to make that plain to him.
"He'll not come near you again, my love," Stephen had said, delivering a chaste kiss to her forehead.
After that, he had set about charming her, trying to make her forget any sadness or fear. There was never a moment she was with him that she was not laughing at some jest or drawn into some engrossing conversation. It was like when he first came to her little village and wedged his way into her life, only now there was no hint of seriousness beneath his bantering. It was a gentle flirtation without the promise of something more.
But he seemed more protective of her than ever, she was reminded as they sat in the Duke of Thursby's cavernous dining room. She had not wanted to come to the dinner party, knowing that the Duke was famous for choosing his guests with an eye to entertainment. He mixed and matched members of society, often producing a volatile blend of
personalities. Occasionally, the mixture produced nothing but sheer boredom. Helen was hoping for even that, for anything other than another night sitting with only Stephen at the table as she tried not to think of the cold bed that awaited her.
Unfortunately, Thursby's dinner was eventful in a way she would never have wished. There was the celebrated violinist and the actress who was his mistress, both of whom sat across from Helen. A viscount and his wife, whom the Duke had introduced with a gleam in his eye. She thought perhaps the viscount and Stephen had some bad blood between them, from the hopeful look on the Duke's face. Among the assorted others was a debutante who was all the rage this season, a Mr. Niles known for his business acumen and gambling habit, a parson who spoke twelve languages fluently, and a handful more of London's most fascinating citizens. And Anne Pembroke. Of course.
Stephen had stayed unfashionably by Helen's side before dinner, steering her away from Miss Pembroke after a brief hello. He seemed to know that the one thing this disparate company had in common was that each one was fully informed and positively gleeful about the scandal that had shaped Helen's life. But he did not shy in the face of it, as Helen would have done had he not been by her side. He greeted each of them pleasantly, introduced his wife with a note of quiet pride and implicit challenge, and they made it through dinner without a hitch. That was in no small part due to his own stature, and his ability to subtly direct the conversation among the diners. He had them discussing the price of grain and the fear of revolt among the workers, drawing the viscount into a defense of the protective laws on imports.
He was clever. It was a topic that sparked lively conversation among them all. No one was unaffected by it, and everyone had an opinion to impart. Everyone, she reminded herself, but Stephen, who only observed them all and prompted the debate by politely inquiring after the flaws in each of their arguments. He carefully preserved his neutrality, and she began to understand that it was more important to him than his reputation.
The Duke, who had been casting disappointed looks at Stephen throughout the dinner, looked hopeful again as the ladies withdrew to the salon and the men stayed for port. Now was the real test. She must sit with the ladies, without Stephen to protect her from whatever they may choose to say to her. Or about her.
She spent the better half of the time talking to the actress, Miss Avery, the only one of the women who did not hesitate to speak to Helen. The debutante looked at both of them as if they carried a disease she was afraid to catch. But though the other ladies kept a carefully polite distance, they were civil enough. Anne Pembroke, it would seem, was biding her time. She found her opportunity after Miss Avery had finished a song, slipping up behind Helen to speak in a too-sweet tone.
"She's quite a celebrated talent," Anne observed, "both on and off the stage, I believe. Before she was occupied with her violinist, the Duke of Varley was quite taken with her."
"Is that so?" It was all Helen could think to say, in the absence of any way to stem the tide of her gossip. "I understand Varley's a sponsor of the expedition to Africa to take place later this year," she groped, remembering something she had read in the papers. Anything was more interesting than discussing Miss Avery's lovers, and Africa was far more intriguing than Anne Pembroke's idea of suitable topics.
"Africa? My, but you have such unique interests. Indeed, I would say your preference of acquaintance is unique, if you were anyone else," she said with a nod to the actress as the other ladies gathered around. "But knowing what I do about you," she continued, with a malicious little smile, "it is rather more predictable."
Such disapprobation, only because Helen had dared speak with Miss Avery. She could not help but feel a little sorry for this young woman. Poor Anne Pembroke. All these years of scheming and conniving, and still she had not bagged a rich husband. Instead, she chose to pass her time in making remarks about Helen's past.
With that thought, the pity was gone. She might not have Marie-Anne or Maggie at her side, but she knew exactly what they might say about this dreadful woman. The thought of it gave her heart.
"I have found that predictability has its advantages, Miss Pembroke," she said calmly. "Are we not kindred spirits in that regard?" She watched Anne work herself into confused offense. "I mean, of course, that you are predictably still Miss Pembroke, and have not stirred things up by doing anything so bold as taking a husband. It's quite admirable."
The debutante let out a horrified little giggle, and the rest of the ladies looked delightfully appalled. Only Miss Avery looked directly at Helen, an admiring grin on her face as she mimed applause in Helen's direction.
Helen was suddenly ashamed of herself for rising to the bait. Anne Pembroke looked as if she might like to scratch her eyes out. Oh, please God do not tell me Anne Pembroke can in any way make trouble for Stephen, she prayed. As if her thoughts had the power to summon him, she realized that the men were entering the room. But Anne had rallied.
"I am not fooled by you," hissed Anne, apparently unaware of the new arrivals. "You are every bit the hussy you were six years ago, no matter that you've married the Earl of Summerdale himself."
"Do I hear my name?" Stephen asked, moving smoothly to the little party and taking Helen's arm. He looked at Anne as if he had only just noticed she were there, giving her a little gracious bow and a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. "My thanks for your good wishes on our recent wedding, Miss Pembroke. And give my regards to your cousin."
Helen had time to notice Anne's sudden pallor as Stephen pulled her away. "My cousin?" she asked, and Stephen hesitated.
"Yes," he replied with an easy grin. "I believe he'll be back from the… country in another year or so. Would you care to tell me how he's faring?"
There was something in it the way he said it, and the look of horror on Anne Pembroke's face, that changed the seemingly harmless statement into something much more. Miss Pembroke fluttered her hands as though she could shoo the topic away, but she was unable to disguise her agitation.
"No," said Stephen quietly, with a meaningful look at her. "I didn't think that you would wish to speak of him." With another slight bow, an acknowledgement of Anne's quick nod, he steered Helen across the room to where the viscount stood.
"Her cousin?" Helen whispered as they moved.
Stephen brought his fist up to his mouth, clearing his throat. "Debtor's prison," he responded under cover of his concealing hand.
It continued that way for the rest of the night. Anne Pembroke's outspokenness had brought forth the topic, and though she did not pursue it, the others now considered it open season on Helen. When the viscount slyly congratulated Stephen on the swiftness and secrecy of his wedding, Stephen thanked him politely and made some inquiry about the opium trade that left the other man speechless. The others were not quite so outspoken, but it only needed the hint that Helen was the target of the next comment for Stephen to introduce a subject that was outwardly innocuous, yet somehow powerful enough to de-fang one of the guests in an instant.
Helen could not guess what lay behind his comments that made the others become practically servile in response. Even the parson, when he seemed reluctant to speak to Helen, changed in a blink after Stephen merely mentioned Coventry.
She watched him change, in a single evening, from a neutral bystander to a dangerous foe. Every last person was intimidated – scared stiff, she would even say – by the time he was through. And she was certain he did it only for her. He gave up the noncommittal air that he had carefully cultivated for the sole reason that he did not want her to suffer the sting of condescension and mockery. She looked at him, feeling a wave of tenderness as he challenged the Duke with a question about the artwork on the walls.
The Duke gasped like a fish out of water at that seemingly innocent inquiry, but Helen could only see the sweep of her husband's lashes as he reached for a glass. I love him. God help me, but I love him more than myself.
She felt it like an arrow through her heart, knowing how muc
h of himself he gave up for her. She'd rather put herself up for public mockery than see him become the very thing she well knew he loathed, but he did not give her the chance. Almost, in that moment when the brooding set of his mouth caused her to drop her eyes for fear that all could see her feelings, she nearly reached for his hand on the glass. They were so strong, so beautiful, and it had been so long since she had felt them on her.
When they returned home, he went directly to his office, leaving her to crawl into bed alone again. It was her, not him. It had always been some fault of hers that now made it easy for him to sleep elsewhere. He had made her a part of his life, and he did nothing but suffer for it. The demands of her past had come to haunt his home, and now his reputation changed from perfect gentleman to active player in the game he despised.
When she thought of it, she could not fault him for staying away. She didn't even want to sleep with herself anymore.
"A visitor to see you, my lady."
Helen looked up from the silver serving spoons she was polishing. The staff still found it odd that she sometimes helped with household chores, but they were quick to indulge her in it. During her years with Maggie, she had learned from her friend how useful these monotonous tasks could be when she was upset. It helped in sorting her thoughts. Just now, she was carefully rubbing tiny circles on the silver, watching the surface shine while asking herself over and over again if it was wise to be so in love with her husband, who was courteous and kind and handsome, and had hired workers to renovate the room next to hers. It used to be a nursery, and now it would become his bedroom.
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