by Darcie Wilde
But then again, she still hadn’t pulled away.
“Ahem!”
Marcus whirled around, and there in the library’s open doorway stood Patience, hands on her hips. Instinctively, Marcus moved between her and Helene. But not fast enough. The two girls saw each other. Both lifted their chins, but only Patience rolled her eyes toward Heaven.
“The Fitzgerald! Oh, honestly! Has everyone in this family lost their minds!”
She turned on her heel and stomped off into the corridor.
“I’d better go after her,” said Marcus.
“No,” Helene laid a hand on his arm. “Let me do it.”
Helene was out of the room before he could move to stop her. It wasn’t until he heard the door’s latch snap into place that it occurred to him that he had told Helene he loved her, but she had not said the same to him.
Then he remembered that she had not actually said she would marry him, either.
***
“Lady Patience!”
Patience had reached the grand, curving stair. Helene’s call stopped her on the first step. While she watched, Patience straightened her shoulders and shook herself, obviously trying to recover her practiced, icy poise.
Rather too obviously.
Patience turned, her nose in the air. “Lady Helene.”
“There is no pretending this is not somewhat awkward.”
Patience had never responded well to understatement, which was why Helene used it now. It was best to have the blowup immediately. It left Patience with nowhere to go.
“Awkward!” Patience shouted. “It’s revolting! What on earth were you thinking?”
“That your brother just asked me to marry him.”
Patience stared. Helene had heard of the phenomenon of someone’s eyes attempting to start out of their heads, but she had never actually observed it. It was much less charming than twinkling.
“No, he did not.” Patience lifted her chin in the air, ready to defy reality itself. Helene did not let herself smile.
“I’m afraid he did.”
“What did you answer him?”
“You interrupted before we could reach that point.”
“Well, thank goodness for small mercies,” Patience sighed, and Helene wondered if she realized how much she sounded like her aunt in that moment. Probably not. “You will tell him no.”
“Why?”
Patience stared at her as if she’d missed something entirely obvious. “Because I do not want to have to spend the rest of my life as your sister!”
“Why?” asked Helene again.
“Because you’re a disgrace and a bluestocking and everyone will laugh at me!”
This was entirely expected, and Helene brushed it off. “No one laughs at you now, and you’ve been ashamed of your own sister for several seasons before this.” In fact, one of her primary occupations in public had been teasing her plainer, more awkward sister mercilessly.
“That’s because I’ve made sure no one dares laugh at me.”
“Good. That means you are practiced. Between your skill at being formidable and my change of reputation, I think we shall manage this trick rather well.”
Patience’s brow furrowed in confusion. She’d most likely been expecting protests of affection, or appeals to her softer feelings, or assurances that Helene’s future conduct would entirely erase the stains of her past. The current line of reasoning had caught her unprepared.
“You hate me,” Patience said.
“I don’t.”
Another surprise. Patience’s hand curled around the newel post, as if she was afraid she might stagger. “Yes, you do. I’ve never been anything but unpleasant to you.”
“You’ve needed to make sure no one thought you were like me. You chose the obvious path. You’re angry and frustrated at the constraints of society, but you have to live in it, and you’ve done everything you can to make your life as successful as possible. I’ve seen what happens when a girl fails to do that. How could I hate you for trying to avoid my fate?”
Now Patience did stagger, or at least she swayed. She also switched from glaring at Helene to glaring at the wall. Probably no one had ever confronted her with a succinct summary of her own motivations before, and the poor girl had no idea what do to with it.
“You are serious?” Patience said at last.
“Very,” Helene replied.
“And you’re going to . . .”
“It is quite possible.”
Patience rubbed her forehead, probably trying to smooth out the furrows before there was a risk of wrinkles forming. “I’m going to lie down.”
“I think that’s a very good idea. And I suggest you don’t say anything to your aunt. I anticipate an attack of the vapors when she hears.”
Patience glared at her. Then, she stomped up the stairs, as well as one could stomp in slippers.
Helene felt herself smile. She straightened her spine. She needed to return to the library.
She wondered what she would do once she got there.
***
Marcus was standing by the fireplace, drumming his fingers on the mantel. He straightened at once as Helene entered.
“How did things go with Patience?” he asked.
“Rather better than I expected,” Helene replied. She considered making a large circle around him. That picture had gone crooked again, and straightening suddenly seemed an urgent priority.
She did not. She stepped close to him. She lifted her eyes to his. It was both easier and more difficult this time, because the touch of his gaze reminded her instantly of the touch of his mouth and his hands, and that sensation took hold of her reason and tore it to bits.
“I hope,” said Marcus, “that you didn’t tell her you were going to marry me, because it would be rude of you to let her know before you’ve told me.”
“I said nothing definite to her.”
“Do you intend to say something definite to me?”
Do I?
X
Helene opened her mouth. She closed it. Marcus smiled, and had her heart not already been pounding madly, that would have set it off.
She expected him to move away, to give her some room to think and breathe, because that was what he had done so far, and as she had had several occasions to observe, he was a gentleman. But evidently, the Duke of Windford had decided the time for gentlemanly behavior was over. Instead of retreating, he advanced, slowly, taking his time, making sure she could see each movement. Especially as he reached out his hand to take hers and raise it to his lips.
“I might not make a very good duchess,” she said, or rather she gasped, as his warm mouth pressed against her fingers.
“You will make the best duchess.” He was looming. It wasn’t fair of him. Looming and smiling and cupping her cheek with one hand so he could more conveniently press a kiss against her jaw.
How had her fingers come to be digging into his shoulders? She had no memory of having raised her hands.
“My family . . . my mother . . .”
“Will be clamoring for preference and place.” Several strands of her hair had come loose, and he brushed them back. He also let his hand rest on the curve of her scalp. “You’ve told me, Helene. We will cross every one of those bridges when we come to it. I’ve been the duke for a long time already. I know my responsibilities, and my powers.” He hesitated. “You will have to learn to trust me.”
“I do trust you,” she whispered, and her voice trembled and she hated it. “It’s the rest of the world I fear.”
“We will face the rest of the world together.” He spoke seriously. He spoke softly. He spoke so that all she wanted to do was accept each and every word as the absolute truth.
“Marry me, Helene,” he said again. He also kissed her. He began gently, but soon the kiss dee
pened and grew insistent, and not just on his part.
And now her arms were around his rock-hard waist and her breasts were rubbing his chest, and really, she did not ever want to stop, but she needed to breathe!
He lifted his mouth from hers, and he was grinning, and twinkling. Drat the man!
“This is a tactic commonly used on a reluctant girl, I believe,” she muttered, as soon as she had enough breath to do so.
“Is it working?” He stroked her hair, plainly reveling in the touch of the strands under his hand.
“Ph . . . physical desire, no matter how strong, is not a reasonable foundation . . .”
“You were the one who wanted to find out if we were compatible, Helene,” he reminded her. “By the way, do you think we are?”
Considering the fact that some previously unknown part of her had become unreasonably annoyed that they were both still wearing clothes, the answer to that was probably yes.
Marcus did not seem inclined to press that issue, or let go of her.
“This is not about desire,” he said. He also ran his fingers down the side of her throat. “Not entirely, at least,” he chuckled, but then quickly grew serious again. “I ask you to marry me because I love you and because I am convinced there is no one else I could want for my wife.”
She touched his hand. She lifted it away from her. She ran her thumb across the back, and she kissed the same spot. Then she walked away to the window, but not before she saw the distress that showed so plainly on his face.
She was frightening him with her delays. She was frightening herself. He’d asked an honest question, and he deserved an honest answer. Why couldn’t she give it?
“I won’t change, you know.”
“Have I asked you to change?”
“No. Not yet. But.” Her hands were shaking again. She pressed her fingertips against the windowsill. She was not in the garden. This was not Broadheathe she spoke to. She should not even be thinking of that other, odious man, or that unspeakable night. Marcus was good and honest and intelligent and could dance and, it seemed, drive her to distraction with a single kiss. “When a girl, when a woman, expresses interest in the rights and troubles of her own sex, the common assumption is she just needs a man to settle her down. Or that she’s suffered a disappointment and needs a man to take her in hand. Well, I have suffered disappointment, but I will not stop caring about the lives, the rights of others, because I am married.”
“Good,” he answered. “A wife who is quiet, homebound, and dutiful is of no use to me. Your willingness to become involved in the charitable boards and committees and to rub elbows with society’s matrons—not to mention your careful study of the natural order of the ballroom—all will be of very great service to me, and our family.”
She turned. “You’ll be teased. Men will tell you I’m an ice princess and a thousand other things.”
“And the man who says such a thing to me is risking his neck.”
“They’ll think . . .”
“Helene, what are you afraid of?” demanded Marcus. “I’ve seen who you really are. You are fierce and independent, intelligent, ardent, passionate, kind, and loving. You are loyal to your friends and generous to those less fortunate. You believe in justice. You have a sense of humor like none I’ve ever known. In my arms . . . when you’re in my arms you make me long to be the finest man alive so that I can deserve you.”
Her eyes were burning, her heart was burning. He saw that. She could hide her feelings from the whole world but not from him. He was across the room and wrapping his arms around her before she was even truly aware he moved. She pressed her forehead against his shoulder and her hand against his chest.
“You ask what I’m afraid of,” she breathed. “I’m afraid because I love you, too. I want you more than the breath in my body. That frightens me. Because if I lose you . . . I will smother up.”
“But you will not lose me, Helene.”
She reached up one trembling hand and stroked the side of his face. She touched his brow, his mouth. She wanted to assure herself that he was real, and to somehow feel the truth her mind would not yet allow her to believe. He caught her hand, and he kissed it until her fingers uncurled. Then, he pressed her palm over his heart.
“Feel it. Trust it. Trust yourself, Helene. Trust me. This is real. I want you to marry me.”
“Yes,” she answered. “Yes, Marcus, I will marry you.”
XI
“Helene! At last! What happened! What did he say? Did he propose? I’m going to murder him if he didn’t. What did you do? What did you say?”
Helene returned from Windford House to No. 48 to find Adele pacing the length of the green parlor. Madelene followed behind, pleading that if Adele exhausted herself she was going to be of no use to anyone. Only Miss Sewell in her chair by the fire kept up any semblance of calm.
“Yes, he did propose,” said Helene, selecting the most essential questions from Adele’s outburst. “And I said yes.”
“I knew it!” crowed Adele. “Oh, Helene, I’m so happy!”
Adele embraced her, almost crushing the breath out of her in fact, and Madelene took her hand to add her much quieter congratulations underneath Adele’s exultant cheers. Helene knew a moment’s guilt. Madelene returned a tremulous smile, and the distance in her eyes said she was thinking of her own still uncertain future. Lord Benedict was giving her a difficult time. This might be something else that needed to be organized, and soon.
Adele, however, was not paying attention to any of this. “I’ll make you the most splendid wedding dress ever! Oh! And you’ll be married from our house, of course, and—”
“And,” Helene cut her off firmly, “we have enough to plan at the moment. We will have plenty of time to organize any weddings after our ball.”
But although she spoke to Adele, Helene did not look at her friend. She looked instead to their chaperone, who had not moved from her chair or spoken one word in congratulations. Her eyes as she gazed at her trio of protégés—no, at Helene specifically—were not just calm, but concerned.
A cold knot of worry formed in the pit of Helene’s stomach. She set this aside and worked toward turning her friends’ attention back to the visiting books, the guest lists, and the form of the invitations they planned to issue, not to mention the fact that they had an appointment to meet Mr. Henry Cross for one of their dancing lessons.
These tasks proved extremely difficult.
***
The livery stable two streets over from Miss Sewell’s had become used to Helene, and the owner knew to have a carriage and driver ready for her at about this time. The man drove her through the crowded streets with professional efficiency and speed. But when her conveyance arrived, Helene saw with a start that hers was not the first carriage in front of Anandale House.
This other was shining black and dignified, with four roan horses in its harness, its lanterns lit and immaculately liveried postilions in attendance. She recognized it. She’d ridden in it. That was the Windford carriage.
Marcus was in her house. Her ruined, half-empty house. He was in there with her parents, who might say anything, might do anything . . .
Helene snatched up her hems and ran inside.
“Helene!” cried Suza from the stairs as she dashed past.
“Helene! My darling!” cried Lady Anandale from the claret parlor as Helene paused just long enough to determine that Mother was alone before darting out again and dashing for Father’s private study.
She threw open the door.
Marcus rose to his feet. He had a wineglass in his hand. Father, who was in the room’s only other chair, also rose.
Marcus bowed. Helene curtsied and struggled to regain her breath.
“My dear!” Father set his own glass down on the floor, because there was nowhere else, and came forward to take both her hands and plant a
kiss on her cheek. “My heartiest felicitations, my dear. We are so very, very proud of you!”
He beamed at her. Helene was reeling from the force of the emotions colliding within her. Anger, fear, not a bit of disgust at her father’s beaming pride. She could not force out a single word.
Marcus stood calmly, his hands folded behind him. He’d put his own glass on the sill of the uncurtained window. His face was perfectly composed, except for his eyes.
He could not possibly be twinkling at her, not here. Not now.
“You will excuse us, Father,” Helene said. “I would like a word with His Grace.”
“Of course, of course. It’s perfectly proper and expected that you should . . .”
He was still talking as she snatched up the lamp from the one table by the door and led Marcus out of the room and down the side hallway to the library. Her wretched, empty library.
She set the lamp down on her desk. She couldn’t even lock the door. She had to move her chair in front of it.
“You’re upset,” said Marcus.
“Upset.” Helene reached up to untie her bonnet. She placed it carefully on her desk. “I suppose that’s as good a word as any.”
“Why? After I had your consent, the next step . . .”
“Was to do something utterly high-handed without even consulting me!” she shouted and then clapped her hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right, Helene.”
“No. It isn’t.” She shook her head violently. “It’s not reasonable. It’s not rational.”
“But it’s still all right.” He was smiling, drat the man, kindly. He was coming to her to take her hand away from her mouth and turn it over, and look at . . . her gloved palm? Her buttoned wrist?
“I just wish you’d waited,” she whispered. “I would have arranged . . .” She gestured helplessly around the room with her free hand. “I never wanted you to see this.”
