“Indeed.” Stephen reached casually between them, and she trembled when he gently lifted her hand out of the fountain and ran his thumb across her wet knuckles. “Careful. I wouldn’t want you to catch a cold from the water.”
“That – that’s largely a myth,” she gasped as he brought her slender wrist to his mouth.
“Is it?” he murmured against her flesh. “Do you know what else I thought a myth until this very moment?”
“N-no.” Helena was not a woman who stuttered. Or blushed. Or lost her heart to charming scoundrels with blue eyes. But as she stood poised before Stephen with her hand in his hand and her heart in her throat, she found herself guilty of all three.
“Love at first sight.” He turned her arm and kissed the inside of her wrist where her pulse fluttered fast as a butterfly’s wing.
She released a breathless laugh. “You – you cannot be serious. Lord Ware–”
“Stephen,” he interrupted. The corner of his mouth hitched in a roguish grin. “If you’re going to be my wife one day, the least you can do is call me by my Christian name.”
Helena felt as if she’d read the first page of a book, then suddenly flipped to the last. Lord Ware – Stephen – couldn’t possibly be serious. Except he was, she realized in shock when she met his gaze and saw the sincerity there. He was serious. He really did intend to marry her. And maybe it was madness brought on by moonlight, but she wanted to marry him as well.
“This is insane. I…you…I need to sit down,” she decided abruptly.
Still holding her hand, Stephen joined her on the edge of the fountain. “Is following your heart any more insane than ignoring it?”
Helena glanced boldly between his thighs, then back up at his face. “Are you certain it’s your heart that is talking to you?”
His hearty chuckle filled her with pleasure. On the rare occasions Helena dared speak her mind, she was quickly silenced by her mother or whatever suitor she’d been unlucky enough to be paired with. Their condemning glares said a woman was to be seen, not heard. A pretty cherub to sit atop a fountain for others to admire. Always lovely, always polite, always well-behaved.
Helena enjoyed being lovely. She knew her own beauty and wasn’t timid in using it to her advantage. She liked fashion as well and had the patience to sit for hours while her hair was combed and curled and pinned. Her collection of jewelry was only outmatched by the number of shoes tucked in a long row beneath her bed, and her dresses were too numerous to count.
She also, given the right situation, could be exceedingly polite.
But where she failed, time and time again, was being well-behaved.
It was most likely why her parents wanted to marry her off as soon as possible. She could only imagine her mother’s expression if she knew her eldest daughter was in the company of a viscount. Unchaperoned, nevertheless. Helena wouldn’t have put it past Lady Holton to be lurking in the bushes, ready to spring out with a wedding veil in hand.
Her lips twitching at the thought, she snuck another glance at Stephen out of the corner of her eye. He was still grinning, and her own smile deepened. He was a scoundrel, no doubt. Wicked through and through.
But then she could be a little wicked herself.
“I am afraid I cannot commit to marriage,” she said, extricating her hand from his grip. Linking her fingers together, she neatly crossed her ankles and perched her hands on the edge of one knee. The epitome of ladylike grace even as a glint of devilishness burned in her jade green eyes.
“And why is that?” Stephen leaned back until he was daringly close to the water. Helena had the most ridiculous urge to push him, just to see what would happen.
And what his body would look like wet.
“I don’t know the first thing about you,” she said with a flutter of her lashes. “Except that you’ve a penchant for bothering young women who could not make it more obvious they wish to be left alone.”
A lock of hair tumbled across of his brow as he canted his head. “Am I bothering you, Miss Holton?”
“You were.”
“And now?”
She pursed her lips. “I haven’t decided.”
“What else would you like to know about me?” Sitting up, he placed his boots flat on the stone walkway and spread his arms apart. “Ask anything you like.”
“You could lie,” she speculated. “Tell me everything I want to hear and make yourself seem like the perfect gentleman. I’ll fall helplessly in love with you. We’ll marry, and it’s only after I’ve signed away my rights to my money, and my body, and my future children, that I will realize you’re a terrible human being and I am trapped with you for the rest of my life.”
A line appeared between his brows. “You’re quite cynical for someone so beautiful.”
“I’ve found cynicism and beauty have more in common than people think.” The side of her breast brushed against his outstretched arm as she twisted towards him.
Her breath hitched. His eyes darkened.
“What can I do, then, to prove my worth?” he rasped.
“Actions speak louder than words, Lord Ware.” Slowly peeling off the glove on her right hand, she straightened the pin on his cravat, then peered up at him. “Any dandy worth his salt can spin pretty words. It’s what they excel at. But do you know what a dandy cannot do?”
With his eyes never leaving hers, he gave a curt shake of his head.
“They cannot kiss. Not well, anyways,” she said with a dismissive flick of her wrist. “They’re too selfish, you see. And when someone is selfish, they think only of the pleasure they wish to receive, not that which they are capable of giving.”
“You sound like you speak from experience.” As if he couldn’t help but touch her, Stephen reached for an auburn curl that had come loose from her coiffure and tucked it behind her ear. He lingered at the small, sensitive spot where the edge of her jaw connected to her neck, and her pulse leapt in response.
“If you’re asking if I’ve kissed a dandy, my answer is yes.” Like a feline, she closed her eyes and leaned into Stephen’s hand. “He was charming, like you. Handsome as well. He said all the right things.”
“But?” Stephen asked.
Her eyes flicked open. “But he did not bring me any pleasure.”
He caught her chin on his finger, tilting her head back. “I am sorry to hear that.”
“No, you’re not.”
“No,” he agreed, “I’m not.”
They stared at each other.
Moonlight and madness, Helena thought. That was how she would remember this night. And she would remember. For as long as she lived, she’d never forget the scent of wisteria in the air or the shimmer of moonlight in Stephen’s hair or how alive she felt. As if all this time she’d been submerged under water, and finally, finally, she’d risen above the surface and taken her first real breath.
“Well?” she said at last. “Are you going to kiss me or not?”
“Oh, I’m going to kiss you,” he said huskily. “And when I’m done, you’ll never want to kiss another dandy ever again.”
Her eyebrows arched, both amused and impressed by his arrogance. “You sound certain.”
“I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.” The deepness of his voice indicated he was speaking about far more than just a simple kiss. “I only ask for one thing in return.”
“What’s that?” Desire filled her veins like opium, making her limbs heavy and drawing her gaze down to his mouth. She hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d shared how disappointing her past kisses had been. Not that she’d expected the stars. But surely a little spark had not been too much to ask for. Instead, all she’d received was a mouthful of spit that tasted vaguely of fish. Hardly the thing dreams were made of. With Stephen, however, she had a feeling it was going to be different. With Stephen, there wasn’t going to be a spark so much as a raging fire.
And she was ready to burn.
“Wait for me, Miss Helena Holton.�
� His hand glided across her cheek and then around the back of her skull, fingers sinking into her fiery red curls. “All I ask if that you wait for me until I return.” He searched her face. “My journey should only take eight months. Ten at the most. I understand if you cannot–”
“I’ll wait for you. Be it eight months, or ten, or twenty.” Her mouth curved in a wry smile. “I’d rather wait an eternity for someone I want than settle for someone my mother thinks I need.”
His eyes gleamed. “Then there’s only one thing left to do.”
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Give you a kiss worth waiting for.”
Chapter Two
Four Years Later
Helena knew one truth to be universally acknowledged: a man, if given the chance, would always take advantage of a woman. Which was why she’d sworn off the lot of them.
Indefinitely.
Or, as long as it suited her purposes.
Whichever came first.
Because if there was a second truth to be universally acknowledged, it was that things changed. Constantly. And if you did not change with them, you were left behind, without a roof over your head or a shilling to your name.
It was a lesson Helena had learned the hard way…and a dire mistake she never intended to make again.
“You are looking remarkably tense this morning,” Ives, her lady’s footman (he preferred the term to maid), noted as he gathered her long auburn curls in a loose coil on top of her head and began to place them with pins.
She met his gaze in the dressing mirror. “It’s Monday.”
Ives blinked in acknowledgement. A tall, slender man with sharply defined cheekbones and hazel eyes beneath carefully plucked brows, he was as much Honora’s confidant as he was her employee. They both knew what it felt like to be shunned by the people who were supposed to love them most, and their collective pain had served to forge a bond that was closer than blood.
“Here I thought you might have finally forgotten,” he said. “What would you like me to do with the roses when they arrive?”
For the past two years and three months, a lush bouquet of yellow roses had been left on the doorstep on the first Monday of every new month. It didn’t matter if it was spring, or summer, or autumn. It didn’t matter if roses were in season or not. It didn’t matter if it was pouring rain or the middle of a blizzard or so hot that wax was running down the candlesticks. The roses always came. And for two years and three months, their sender had been shrouded in mystery.
There was never a calling card, or a note, or anything to indicate who might be giving her such a lovely and extravagant gift. She’d tried having the person who delivered them followed on several occasions, but that had always inevitably led to a dead end. She’d visited dozens of flower shops, even traveling an hour outside of London, but her exhaustive searches had never yielded any results.
Eventually, she had stopped looking. Helena was a woman who prided herself on success, and to fail so many times was nothing short of humiliating. What made it even worse was that she suspected whoever was giving her roses was the same man – or at least, she presumed it was a man – who was keeping the roof over her head, and the food on her table, and the dresses in her closet, and a small staff at her beck and call.
A benefactor she’d never spoken to, never met, never even seen. All she knew was that he had, quite literally, saved her from starvation.
And he had a proclivity for yellow roses.
Beyond that, she knew absolutely nothing about him. A frustrating fact she could force herself to forget on most days, except for today. Because today was the first Monday of the month. And any minute, a loud knock would sound on the door, and a footman would open it, and there, sitting on the brick stoop, would be a bouquet wrapped in brown paper.
“Have the roses brought up here and placed by my bed, as always.” Helena might have hated that she didn’t know who sent her the flowers, but she loved to wake to the sweet smell of them. “Do you know if the final alterations have been made on the dress I am wearing to the wedding?”
Tomorrow morning, her dearest friend, Calliope Haversham, was marrying another one of her dear friends, Leopold Maven, the Earl of Winchester. Or Leo, as he was known to her. She’d had more than a hand in helping Calliope and Leo find love, and she was absolutely delighted they were finally going to be tying the knot.
“It should be delivered this afternoon,” Ives informed her. “Have you decided which hat you want to wear?”
She pursed her lips. “Nothing too outlandish. I would not want to detract from the bride. My bonnet with the pink silk ribbons, perhaps.”
“But it doesn’t even have a single feather,” Ives said, aghast.
“I know,” she sighed. “It’s horrifically boring.”
If there were one thing Helena loved more than anything else, it was fashion. Bold fashion. Brave fashion. Fashion that made doddering dowagers gasp with outrage and randy young bucks sit up and take notice.
She was vain enough to admit she enjoyed the attention (both good and bad), but that wasn’t the driving force behind her inspired attire. Ever since she’d been a little girl, Helena had wanted to do things the way she wanted to do them. Not as they were dictated to her. If she saw something she liked, she wore it. And if she couldn’t find something she liked (which as more often the case, given her eccentric style), she had it created. Regardless of whether it reflected the current trends or not.
But for the sake of her friend’s wedding, she was happy to keep her attire demure.
Even though it would mean looking dreadfully dull.
“Well, when you are the one getting married, you can wear whatever you want,” Ives said philosophically as he slid the last pin into place. Taking a step back, her lady’s footman studied his work with narrowed eyes. Then he clucked his tongue and moved to fix a curl that didn’t quite meet his impeccably high standards. “I’m envisioning a gown in gold. High neckline. Long sleeves that taper to a point at the wrists. An emerald tiara–”
“A tiara?” Helena interrupted, auburn brow arching.
“I can only assume you’ll be marrying a duke; in which case, a tiara would only be expected.” Ives paused. “Unless you’d like to wear something flashier, and then we’ll need to find you a prince.”
“I am not going to marry a prince.”
“A duke, then.” Her servant nodded. “Much more practical and fewer dignitary responsibilities.”
“I am not going to marry one of those, either.” Satisfied with her hair, Helena leaned towards the mirror and applied a light dusting of powdered rouge to her cheeks. Behind her, Ives pursed his lips.
“You can’t intend to marry another earl.”
Helena flicked him an icy stare over her shoulder as she rose from her chair and reached for the green jacket draped across the back of it. “I never intended to marry the first one.”
Realizing his error, Ives grimaced. “I apologize, my lady.”
“There’s no need. The only one who owes me an apology is already dead, God rot his soul. Although I would prefer it if you stopped trying to marry me off. Once was enough, thank you.”
“I never meant–”
Helena brushed away his contrition with a wave of her arm. “I know you didn’t. Let us forget this unpleasant little exchange, shall we? I don’t want to disagree before tea. It’s unseemly.”
Ives bent at the waist in an elaborate bow. “As you wish, my lady. Here are your gloves.”
She slipped them on, then swatted Ives lightly on the arm. “You know I hate it when you call me that. Especially when you smirk when you do it.”
“I’m not smirking,” he protested.
“I do enough smirking to know what a smirk looks like.”
“Brat.”
“Ass.”
“Fussock.”
“Gollumpus.” She paused. “What the devil is a fussock?”
Ives shrugged. “Damned if I know. Heard it down a
t the pub one night. I’ve been keeping it in reserve.”
“I like it.”
“I thought you might.”
They grinned at each other.
“Please have my dress laid out as soon as it arrives,” Helena called over her shoulder as she headed for the door. “I do not want any wrinkles.”
“Of course…my lady.”
“Fussock,” she muttered fondly under her breath. There were times Ives plucked at her last nerve, but then, that was what family did. And he was her family. In every way it counted except for blood.
He’d been there for her when she was at her lowest. And whenever she came close to crumpling beneath the weight of her past, he was the one who reminded her to lift her chin and straighten her crown.
She was halfway down the stairs when someone knocked on the door. A footman answered it, but she hastened down the steps and intercepted him before he could pick up the bouquet of roses that had been left on the front step.
“I’ll take those,” she said, hugging them protectively against her chest. They were warm from the sun and slightly damp with morning dew.
Going into the kitchen, she unwrapped the flowers from their packaging and snipped off the ends of the long green stems before filling a vase with water and arranging them inside. Then she sat back on her heels and stared hard at the roses, her forehead unconsciously creasing as she wondered (for what must have been the hundredth time) who her benefactor was…and why he insisted on sending her such a beautiful gift.
She could think of no one in her life who would have the means or the motive. Even if her parents could have afforded such a luxury, they wouldn’t have wasted their money on a daughter they’d forsaken. Her sister Dahlia, happily married with adorable twin girls, would have given Helena the dress off her back if she requested it, but she’d never been able to keep a secret for longer than two minutes, let alone two years.
She’d considered it was someone her late husband, the Earl of Cambridge, had known. A relative, perhaps. Except she was aware of only one living relative, and he’d sooner throw her to the wolves than give her a single crumb of food from his table.
The Secret Wallflower Society: (Books 1-3) Page 11
