by Darcie Wilde
“Perhaps I should have waited.” He was undoing the button on her glove. His gaze was fixed on his careful fingers, as though he could not fathom what his own hands might be up to. “I was thinking to spare you.”
“Spare me?” Now it was she who was watching in fascination as he drew her glove off.
“From what you said, I imagined my suit would be met with a great deal of haggling and some of it less than dignified. I thought I might have to be firm, even brusque. I did not want to subject you to that.” He ran his fingers across her palm. It tickled. She liked it. She liked every touch from him.
She raised her other hand. He paused, and he swallowed, hard. Then he unbuttoned that glove as well.
“Has something happened, Helene?” he asked. “Did Patience or Aunt Kearsely say something?” He drew her glove off in one sensuous brush of worn kid across her skin. “Surely it wasn’t something Adele said.”
“No. No. Adele is thrilled. I . . . I was just afraid.”
He was standing back, her second glove crushed in his hand. He was breathing like he’d run here. But then, so was she.
She reached up and undid the first button of her coat. Now it was her hands he stared at. She liked this. She liked that she could paralyze this powerful, handsome man. She liked that she could make him forget how to speak, and how to breathe.
“Can I do anything?” he asked huskily.
“Hold me,” she breathed.
Marcus smiled. At last he raised his eyes to hers. “I didn’t hear.”
“Hold me, Marcus.”
“Gladly.”
He wrapped his arms around her, and she pressed herself against him as if she sought to merge their bodies. She kissed him, directly and firmly. He answered, surprised at first, but gradually giving himself over to the act. His strong hands clasped her derriere, lifting her up onto her toes so he could reach her mouth more easily.
“We’re going to have to stop this,” he gasped when they finally parted.
“Why?” she asked, brushing the hands he’d bared across his shoulders. She loved his shoulders. She wondered what the skin there felt like. She wondered what his chest looked like. Did he have a great deal of hair? Fair men sometimes did not. But then his brows were so very dark . . .
“Because I can’t seem to start without wanting to ravish you.”
Helene’s wandering thoughts stilled and turned and repeated his words for her further edification. Warmth and triumph poured through her, both wicked, both dangerous, both so sweet she could not help but smile.
“Well then,” she said, caressing his shoulders once more, and his arms, and taking up both his hands. “We will simply have to arrange a more private location.”
“You’re serious?” His voice broke, and she smiled again at the absurdity of it. Oh, she was going to enjoy surprising him.
She also shrugged. “Yes,” she said simply. “We are engaged, are we not? You have spoken to my father. You’ve seen . . .”—she gestured around the empty library—“and you’re still not running away. We are in agreement and both clearly want to complete the act.” She curved her hand around his hip, delighting in the sensation of it. “As long as we are discreet, there is no reason why we shouldn’t.”
Marcus sucked in a deep shuddering breath. He wasn’t smiling anymore, let alone twinkling. In fact, if she didn’t know better, she would have thought he was suddenly afraid.
“What is it?” she asked him. “What’s the matter? Have I shocked you? Did I . . . do something wrong?”
“No. Not in the least. That is . . .” He put both his hands on her waist, resting them on the edges of her hips. Warmth spread up from the place he touched, sinking through her skin and into her blood.
“What? Please tell me.” An absurd shortness of breath seemed to have come over her. She couldn’t keep her hands still. She had to touch him, brush her palms across his shoulders and down his arms. She thirsted to know what she would see once he removed his coat, his shirt. She ran her fingers across his chest and down to his flat, hard stomach. She should stop. She, they, needed to talk sensibly. But she could not, and what was more, she did not want to.
Marcus seemed to be suffering a similar restlessness. He brushed a stray lock of hair from her forehead. He let his blunt fingertips linger along her brow and softly trace the line of her ear as if its simple shape fascinated him. Then he did the same to the line of her throat. Oh, how could so small a touch be so exquisite?
More, begged every part of her. Please, more.
“It’s not something I ever thought to tell,” whispered Marcus. Helene started a little. She had entirely forgotten they were in the middle of a conversation. “It is not something a gentleman is supposed to . . . confess to a lady.”
“You may tell me anything. You’ve certainly heard a great many shocking things from me already.” She was pleased that she was able to keep her voice so calm as she spoke. Inside, a cold thread of fear rose up from her stomach.
“Helene.” Marcus’s fingertips were resting on her collarbone. It was doing the most remarkable things to her pulse. And the library, which was always so cold, had grown impossibly warm. “Helene, I’ve never . . . been with a woman. Not really.”
Despite recent extreme and embarrassing lapses, Helene remained sufficiently practiced at controlling her own emotions that she managed to confine any shift in expression to a slight lift of her eyebrows. “Do you mean you are a virgin?”
“Technically, no.” Marcus touched her coat lapels and the wrinkles where her sleeve covered her elbow. “I . . . that is to say . . . I’ve been with . . .”
“Prostitutes,” she filled in, otherwise they were never going to get anywhere. It was the accepted manner for a young man to learn how his sex functioned.
“But not since I was a youth. They were brief encounters. And, to tell you the truth, I found them distasteful. Since then . . .” He shook his head.
Helene had many opinions on men and women and their relations. The rules of conduct insisted upon by society were arbitrary and unfair to everyone involved. This, however, was probably the wrong time to launch onto that subject. Marcus was obviously afraid of how she would respond. The strength and suddenness of their mutual physical attraction was enough to disorder anyone’s wits. It had certainly left hers in tatters. But, she suspected it was somewhat worse for him. As a man, he was supposed to be experienced and in command. The idea of what Marcus might command of her was thrilling, which should have left her feeling appalled and wanton. Really, there were too many contradictions. She must set them aside.
What she did do was cover his hand with hers.
“Since then, I’ve mostly avoided the situation,” he said. “People think I shun society because I’m high in the instep. The truth of the matter is, I’m not always certain I will be able to hold out against temptation.”
Helene nodded. There must be dozens of women ready to throw themselves at the Duke of Windford, whether they were looking for marriage or merely a rich protector. A chill ran through her.
“Now I’ve shocked you,” he said.
“No.” She must control herself. Her own past could not play any part in this moment. She could not risk Marcus thinking that it was his conduct, or this confession, that disturbed her. “You are being honest with me. I esteem that above all things.”
He smiled, although uncertainty remained in his eyes. “All things?” He touched the corner of her mouth.
She lifted her chin. “It is inappropriate for you to begin teasing in the middle of a serious conversation.”
“I suppose it is. I apologize.” He also kissed her, softly, slowly, so that the impossible warmth pooled low in her belly.
“I accept,” she murmured when they parted for breath. “And as for your . . . limited direct experience with physical matters, would it help to know I’ve read a few
books on the subject?”
He pulled back and stared. Helene forbore to tell him how very ridiculous his current expression looked. “You have not,” he said.
“I have,” she replied indignantly. “It’s amazing what one can acquire by writing to the correct shop.”
“No one would sell such books to a woman, not for any money.”
“They would if they didn’t know the customer was a woman. As I said, the transaction was conducted entirely through the post. I signed an assumed name. Mister Paris FitzGibbons, at your service.” She performed a gentleman’s bow.
“Paris?” Marcus scrubbed at his face, his habitual gesture when he was trying to hide his anger, or, as in this case, trying very hard not to laugh. “As in the fellow who won Helen of Troy?”
“And had a weakness for beautiful women. Yes. The clerk saw the masculine name and sent the volumes I requested.”
“You do realize most people would consider it indecent for an unmarried girl to be acquiring such material.”
She shrugged. “I could not count on my mother telling me anything useful on my wedding night or at any other time, so I took matters into my own hands.”
He lifted her hands, both together, and kissed the palms, one at a time. “I think I’m glad that you did.”
“Then you would be . . . interested . . . willing, perhaps, before we . . .”
He was kissing her again, and she was glad. The sentence was unbearably silly. Certainly it was nowhere near as interesting as the fresh burst of delight that came from tasting and exploring his mouth, his stubbled jaw and corded neck. She slid her hands beneath his coat and around his waist, admiring the shape of him afresh.
“I think,” he murmured against her ear, “we may assume that I am. In fact, I think we must, or I am going to die of pure need before I reach the altar.”
“Oh,” she murmured, and her body melted against his. “Oh good, I was afraid it was just me.”
***
It was some time later before they both remembered they were supposed to be elsewhere this evening. They both laughed and kissed and laughed again as they attempted to smooth down each other’s disordered hair. Helene did her best to straighten Marcus’s cravat, and he remembered to return her glove.
Fortunately, the light in the house was so poor that neither Mother nor Father noticed anything amiss as she walked Marcus back to the claret parlor to make his farewells. Of course, it hardly would have mattered. Marcus could have declared he was Catholic, or a cannibal, or Father Christmas, and it wouldn’t have mattered, as long as he still agreed to marry her and pay the bills.
Marcus shook Father’s hand and politely cut off his flow of enthusiastic exclamations. He bowed to Mother and let her plant a soppy kiss on his brow and did not grimace at it. No one said a word when Helene offered to show him to the door.
There in the darkened foyer, he took her hand and bowed over it. “Shall I write?” he murmured.
“To No. 48, if you please,” she answered. “The mail here is . . . not quite private.”
He nodded and kissed her hand. “We are observed,” he said.
Helene glanced over her shoulder. Susannah stood at the top of the stairs, her eyes wide with shock. She whisked away as soon as she realized Helene had caught her.
Marcus’s fingers tightened around hers. “It’s all right,” Helene assured him, although she was not entirely sure. “I’ll see you later at the concert.”
Marcus agreed and took his leave, and Helene hurried up the stairs to their bedroom. She found Suza sitting at the dressing table, staring into the mirror.
“Susannah?” Helene said as she closed the door to the hallway. “Are you all right?”
“You need to be quiet,” Suza answered. “I’ve already put Annie to bed.”
“Suza . . .” began Helene again, but her sister just pressed her face into both her hands. Whatever Helene had been about to say died in her throat, and she ran across the room to enfold Susannah in an embrace.
“Oh, Helene!” Suza turned her face away, and fear clenched at Helene’s throat. “What . . . what have you done?”
“Nothing, Suza, I promise. Lord Windford asked me to marry him this morning, and I said yes.”
“You did it to save me!”
“Yes, I did,” Helene admitted. “But I also did it because I’ve fallen very much in love.”
Susannah paused. Slowly, she looked up and blinked back her tears. “You love him? Really?”
Helene nodded. “It is very surprising, but it is true. And you mustn’t worry, Suza. Lord Windford entirely understands our . . . circumstances. You’ll be coming to live with us directly after the wedding. You and all the others. Mother and Father will have their own establishment. It will be arranged and . . .”
“Helene!” Suza spun, and to Helene’s surprise, her eyes were shining and her face was alight with a broad smile. “I’m not worried, not about that! If you have fallen in love with him, then he’s certain to be perfect.” Before Helene could correct this extreme exaggeration, Suza seized both her hands. “Just, please, please swear to me that I can be there when you tell Lord Crispin!”
XII
“No, Marcus,” said Aunt Kearsely. “I categorically refuse to hear you. You did not propose marriage to Helene Fitzgerald.”
The family had gathered for breakfast. Marcus found he had an unusually hearty appetite and helped himself liberally from the dishes on the sideboard. His immediate response to Aunt Kearsely’s disbelief was to smile and continue spreading butter across his toast.
“But I did propose,” Marcus told her.
“He did,” said Adele.
Aunt Kearsely looked at Patience as her last and only hope. Patience looked at the ceiling.
“I have also spoken with Lord Fitzgerald,” Marcus went on, around a mouthful of toast. “And he has given his consent.”
Aunt Kearsely set down her fork. She neglected, however, to close her mouth.
“But . . . but . . . how could you!” she cried. “The girl is a harridan, an hysteric, friendless, and her family a laughingstock. She’s . . .”
“One of my best friends,” Adele reminded her quietly.
“And soon to be the Duchess of Windford,” added Marcus.
“Heaven help us all,” muttered Patience.
“With this kind of reception maybe that’s what Helene should be saying,” suggested Adele.
“Stop! Stop!” cried Aunt Kearsely. “You’re making my head swim! I . . . oh . . . I can’t think. I’m going to lie down. I need some violet water. I . . .” Still exclaiming, Aunt Kearsely left the table and hurried from the room.
“Well, the Fitzgerald was right about one thing,” said Patience, primly breaking off a bite of her own muffin. “She did say there would be vapors.”
“Aunt Kearsely will get used to the idea,” said Marcus. “She just needs some time.”
“Well, I don’t. I think it’s marvelous,” said Adele. “When will you make the announcement?”
Before Marcus could answer that, the footman entered with the morning post on the tray. Among the usual stack of letters, there was a rectangular parcel of plain brown paper tied in white string.
Marcus distributed the appropriate cards and letters to Adele and Patience. Then, he opened the card that came with the parcel.
It contained a brief note, written in a firm, tidy hand.
For your private consideration.
Yrs. Faithfully, Mr. P. FitzGibbons
“Excuse me, won’t you?” Marcus said to his sisters, but he left the table and the room before they said whether they did or not.
Marcus went into his private study. He locked the door and carried the package to his desk. Extracting his paper knife from the drawer, he slit the twine. He could picture Helene carefully wrapping these volumes, maki
ng sure the paper was folded just so, that the knot was centered and not tied too tightly as to damage the books.
And such books. There were three. The first was in French, the second, an Italian translation, the third he could not read at all. It looked to be written in Hindustani or some such, but the illustrations . . .
The illustrations were perfectly comprehensible and remarkably explicit.
He turned the pages slowly. He pictured Helene, bent over these volumes, her brows drawn in serious contemplation of the erotic illustrations. He pictured her holding the book up to him, pointing out the positioning of the man and of the woman. Somehow in his imagining, she was suddenly quite nude and pressed up against him in a very large bed, with plenty of pillows. And then she was not pointing at a page anymore, she was stretched out on the quilts, running her hands down her thighs, waiting for him to come to her, to stroke her and spread her open, like the woman in the diaphanous veil on the page, only Helene would not look so calm or coquettish. She would be ardent, demanding, direct.
Fire and pain lanced right through him, as his cock attempted to stand up straight.
He cursed. He also closed the book and stood up, staring at the volume’s plain brown cover until he had his breathing under control again.
“She’s going to kill me,” he murmured. “She is absolutely going to kill me.”
Then, absurdly, he smiled. Because he knew he would at least die happy.
Clearly, he was going to have a busy day. There was an entire series of arrangements to be made, and he would have to write to Helene as soon as possible. First, however . . .
Marcus loosened his neck cloth and carried the book over to the armchair, where the light was better. He would not want Helene to think he was the sort to neglect his studies.
***
Absurd.
Helene climbed out of the hired carriage in the new and unexceptional square on the western edge of May’s Fair. Helene paused as she looked up at the neat, new terraced house through the thick lace veil she had decided it would be prudent to adopt. Most uncharacteristically, she felt something approaching a whole series of qualms.
