Sheltered though she was, Helena had heard whispers about the infamous club. The Nunnery was rumored to be an expensive gaming and bawdy house where the classes mingled. During the weekly masquerade, peers of the realm hob-nobbed with merchants and solicitors and whoever else possessed sufficient coin to drink, gamble, and enjoy the company of the exquisite demi-monde. Even more shocking, according to her friend Lady Marianne Draven, certain married ladies of the ton frequented the masquerade as well.
"When one is disguised, one's true nature is unleashed," Marianne had said, with an indifferent wave of her fan. "After all, the need for amorous diversion is not the sole province of men. What is sauce for the gander and all that."
Helena knew she had risked all—her pride, her very reputation—to come tonight. She had thought in her love-addled mind to beg Nicholas to reconsider consorting with a whore; for her, the pain of a shattered heart would far surpass the physical pain she had experienced during their wedding consummation. She would do whatever he wanted to lift the fog from his eyes, to feel again the warmth of his affection. Fierce longing surged through her to be the kind of wife Nicholas would want. She would do anything to have him love her again. Anything.
And, she reasoned now with renewed determination, learning to please her husband in the bedchamber could not differ much from learning any other skill, could it? If she felt confident in anything, it rested in her aptitude as a pupil. She prided herself on being a student with good sense. Had not her tutors always commented on her quickness in acquiring proficiency in various subjects, from French to watercolors? Why, much to the amazement of her piano instructor it had taken her only a fortnight's practice to competently render a tricky passage of Master Bach's fugue in C-minor.
So, too, could she learn to be a wife.
All she required was instruction. Or, at the very least, the benefit of careful observation.
Emboldened by hope and desperation, Helena edged out of her hiding space and peered around the desk. With her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she could make out the lines of the furniture and—Heavens!—the soles of the woman's feet waving madly above the back of the settee. The figures themselves hovered below her line of vision. How could she observe and remain hidden at the same time? As she pondered the dilemma, she noticed the heavy velvet drapes to the left of the seating area. The curtains hung from ceiling to floor, and there looked to be voluminous layers of drapery behind them. Deep enough to conceal even several persons.
Perfect.
Only one task remained: to reach the curtains undetected. Helena ran her palms against the loose material of her tunic and felt the rustle of her petticoats. Her stays, too, restricted her movement. They would have to go. After several minutes of struggle, she managed to release the strings that bound the layers of undergarments to her and eased out of them like a butterfly shedding its fragile skin. Hoarse cries provided the perfect cover.
'Tis now or never.
She took a deep breath and crawled toward the curtains, her skirt barely a whisper against the carpet. With each movement forward, the distance seemed to lengthen. She expected discovery at any moment, an angry voice or a hand to halt her progress. Still, she crept onward with blind determination. By the time she slipped into the safety of the velvety folds, her palms were clammy, and her body shook with nervous excitement.
Then she bumped into a hard, warm object.
Her breath froze in her throat. As she thought to scream, a large hand clamped over her mouth while another trapped her at the waist. She was rendered immobile. Shock warred with a horrifying realization.
She was not alone.
"Be still or we risk discovery," a familiar voice whispered in her ear.
If possible, her heart thudded even faster.
"Do you understand?" His voice was so low she could barely hear it, but she would know those deep masculine tones anywhere. The mixture of dread and relief made her giddy. Slowly, she turned her head around and looked up into orbs of fathomless darkness. Nicholas. In the silvery moonlight from the windows behind them, she could see that he had removed his mask. Shadows obscured the details of his face, but she could make out the granite set of his jaw, the tight line of his lips.
She held her breath, waiting for her husband's reaction. What would he say to encountering his wife at such a time, in such a fashion?
"Do you understand?" he repeated as quietly as the last.
Numb with shock, she nodded.
Merciful heavens, he does not recognize me!
He released her, and belatedly she reached up to touch her cheek. She felt the feathery shell of the mask securely in place. Her fingers wandered to the profusion of brassy curls—red, she'd chosen, to disguise her own straight brown locks. Likely the paints, too, retained their concealing power. At the start of the evening she'd dipped her brush into the tiny copper pots with a liberal hand to complete the disguise. She'd felt a thrill of excitement peering into the looking glass. No one would recognize the demure Lady Helena in the brazenly red lips, smoky eyelids, and darkened lashes. No one would look at the water nymph with shamelessly red hair and scandalously low décolletage and see the Marchioness of Harteford.
Apparently not even the Marquess of Harteford himself.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Grace Callaway writes steamy historical romances set in the Regency and Victorian eras. Her debut manuscript, Her Husband’s Harlot, was a 2010 Romance Writers of America® Golden Heart® Finalist.
Outside of writing, she holds a doctorate from the University of Michigan and practices clinical psychology in a medical setting. She lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her family and enjoys hiking, cooking, ... and reading romance, of course!
For more about Grace:
http://www.facebook.com/GraceCallawayAuthor
http://www.gracecallaway.com
Twitter: @Grace_Callaway
Table of Contents
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
EPILOGUE
AUTHOR'S NOTE
EXCERPT OF HER HUSBAND’S HARLOT
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Abigail Jones (Chronicles of Abigail Jones #1) Page 35
