Heart thudding, he forced himself to shrug. Carelessly. Deliberately. "'Tis as I told you at the Dewitt's. I made an error in offering for you. I married you because I thought I needed a wife with connections. You married me to settle your family's debts. It all sounded advantageous—but I fear I've grown weary of matrimony."
"Y-you cannot mean that," Helena stammered.
"Why not?" He lifted a brow, his words measured. "It is the truth."
Helena bit her lip. Then, she said in a rush, "Are you saying this because you think ... there are differences between us? Because I swear to you, I care not about your origins. Or what the ton says about your ... your ..."
"Legitimacy? Or the fact that I am in trade? Can you not even speak the words?"
"Of course I can. I was just trying to be delicate," she said, her lower lip wobbling. "This isn't like you, Nicholas—why are you acting this way?"
Nicholas let his own lip curl and his polished accents drop. "I'm not actin' in any way, milady. I'm jus' callin' the cards as I see 'em. The fact is, I thought I could do this, but it's been a li'l o'er a month, han't it, an' I'm bored to tears with wedlock. Seems I need more variety, so to speak."
"But what of our courtship, the w-way you have held me ..." Tears were leaking unheeded down her face as she stared at him in horror. "You told me I was beautiful."
"An' you took those words to 'eart, did you, luv?"
"Yes," she whispered.
"Then I told you what you wanted to 'ear. For the sake o' havin' some peace." Nicholas lifted his shoulders. "Sorry, but that's the 'onest to God truth."
Helena was biting her bottom lip, he could see, as if she could somehow clamp down on the emotions so clearly trembling within her. "I cannot believe the affection between us is a lie. You cannot deny that you care something for me, as I for you."
"Time passes, as do flights o' fancy," he heard himself say. "What can I say, but our weddin' night squashed that bit o' folly. But what's done is done, eh? We must look to the future, an' I reckon there's a way to salvage the situation."
The color drained from his wife's face. For an instant, he feared she would swoon. That he had pushed her delicate sensibilities beyond the limit.
"Wh-what are you saying?" she said faintly.
He forced himself to continue in a brash, cheerful manner that twisted his insides with self-loathing. "I'm talkin' 'bout an annulment, o' course. I'm rich as Croesus these days an' can afford to 'ire a team o' law men if need be. Wha'ever it takes, I'll see this union 'tween us dissolved. By the by, don't worry your 'ead 'bout a thing—you'll 'ave as much o' the ready as you need for the rest o' your life, I promise you that."
Helena was staring at him as if she'd never seen him before. "I don't want your money," she said in a low voice.
"Suit yourself. I warrant you'll be singin' a different tune when Papa comes for 'elp. At any rate, I've promised to look after you, an' I will. I 'ave only one condition."
"What is it?"
"I want you to leave. Get out o' London an' go stay with your folks in the country," he said bluntly. "It'll 'elp build the case for the annulment if we ain't livin' 'neath the same roof."
Helena was looking at him in a way that made him distinctly uneasy. She took a step backward from the bed, and his first thought was that she meant to leave, that he had finally driven her away. But she did not move any further. Instead, her hands went to the tie of her woolen wrapper. She seemed to hesitate. Then, in a quick movement, she jerked loose the knot. She shed the heavy layer, letting it pool at her feet.
Christ. Bloody fucking Christ.
It took every ounce of willpower he possessed not to react to the sight of Helena in what had to be the poorest excuse for a nightgown known to mankind. The bronze material barely covered her breasts and drew the eye to her perfectly rounded curves. Flushed as Aphrodite rising from the sea, she embodied everything he wanted in a woman. She trembled, but kept her head courageously high and her hands at her sides. His dream goddess, both innocent and sensual. Nay, she was beyond every fantasy he'd ever had of her. Yearning bordering on pain clawed at his gut.
"I'll go if you can tell me you don't want me," she said, her voice tremulous, "that you don't care for me, even a little."
If only she knew how much he wanted, how much he cared. So much so that he would do whatever was required to protect her.
"Put your clothes on before you embarrass yourself further," he snapped. "You disgust me. You're acting no better than a sixpenny whore."
Helena looked stricken. Her cheeks grew red and blotchy as if he had physically slapped her. She scrambled for her heavy robe. "I—I didn't mean to—"
"If I wanted a cheap tumble, I know enough where to get one," he said with crude precision. "A man wants a lady for a wife, not a bleeding strumpet."
Her hands fumbled with the ties. She was looking down at the belt, mumbling as if to herself. "W-we should not be having this conversation. Your senses have not recovered from the shock. The blood loss has addled your senses."
"This conversation will not change. Truthfully, we should have had this discussion long ago. To prevent any future misunderstanding, let me make myself very clear: I want you out of here, out of my life. Do you understand?"
Veiled by downcast lashes, her eyes remained hidden from him.
"When I ask a question, you will answer," he said curtly.
She did raise her eyes then, and they were bright with humiliation and fury. It took every shred of self-control to resist from pulling her into his arms. To resist from holding her, comforting her, begging for her forgiveness. Which he could not do, if he loved her.
Which, of course, he did.
"Go to hell," she choked out and fled to the door.
Too late for that, he thought with weary resignation. He was already there. Had never left, and that was the bleeding truth.
SIXTEEN
"Lady Harteford, do come join us!"
Helena looked in the direction of the voices. When she spied the trio of familiar faces, she pasted a smile on her face. She had met Lady Tillycott and the Misses Haversham at a literary salon when she first arrived in London and counted the ladies in her small circle of friends. She found their company an enjoyable distraction—and she was badly in need of distraction this evening.
Tonight was her first time out of the townhouse in days. After Nicholas had torn up at her, she'd holed herself up in her bedchamber. The numbness had slowly faded; her emotional state now teetered precariously between self-pity and rage. What was wrong with her that Nicholas would treat her so? Remembering his reaction to her negligee, she felt humiliation creep upon her nape. What had she done, other than try to please him at every turn? She had disguised herself as a whore, for heaven's sake, and for what? He'd used her and tossed her aside when she was the doxy; as a wife, she'd received no better treatment.
You disgust me. You're acting no better than a sixpenny whore.
She swallowed the swell of resentment and sailed toward her seated friends, her head held high. Well, no more. She was done. She had wasted enough energy and tears on her scoundrel of a husband.
"How do you do, ladies?" she said, taking the seat they had saved for her. Though truth be told there was really no need—hardly anyone desired the rickety little chairs at the back of the ballroom. Wallflowers and spinsters had the pick of the lot.
"Not nearly as well as you, Lady Harteford," Miss Lavinia Haversham said.
Unmarried and at an unmentionable age, Miss Haversham was considered firmly on the shelf. She possessed a gaunt, spare figure and large, rather protruding eyes. Unfortunately, the bug-like quality of her gaze was not helped by the lorgnette she wielded. Her faded blue eye blinked, grotesquely magnified as she took in Helena's appearance. "I do declare you shine like the brightest star this evening! Is that a new gown?"
Beside her, her twin sister Miss Matilda Haversham, bobbed her head in agreement.
"Thank you," Helena replied with a gr
ateful smile. She had taken special care with her toilette this evening, wearing a scandalously low-cut dress of indigo satin. So Nicholas did not find her desirable—well, she would show him. No longer would she play the role of the shrinking violet; in her remaining days in London, she would be the merriest, most dashing matron the ton had ever seen.
For she'd written her parents, and, as it turned out, they had begged off on her visit for another fortnight; apparently, Papa had a hunting party ensconced in all the rooms. Not wanting to alert them to the state of her marriage, Helena had responded simply that she would come at their convenience. She'd penned Nicholas a note as well—a chilly one informing him that he would have to bear her presence for a few more weeks. She hadn't received a response. In fact, she'd seen neither hide nor hair of him since their estrangement.
Helena became aware that Miss Lavinia was asking her about the source of her improved wardrobe. "Oh, Madame Rousseau designed it," she said.
"Madame Rousseau! She is very expensive, is she not?" This came from Lady Tillycot, the last lady to make up the trio. Wearing a fussy pink gown that clashed magnificently with her hennaed hair, she was as fleshy as Miss Lavinia was thin. "I'm told she caters to only the most elite of clientele."
Helena ignored the jibe. "Lady Marianne Draven secured an appointment for me."
"Perhaps she could get one for me," Miss Lavinia said. Miss Matilda nodded eagerly as well.
"I shall ask her," Helena promised.
Lady Tillycot sniffed. "I would watch who I indebt myself to, Miss Lavinia." She turned to Helena. "I have been meaning to say something about your friendship with Lady Draven. You came with her tonight, did you not?"
Helena nodded. Marianne had shown up on her doorstep earlier, insisting that wallowing helped nothing and Helena would be better off accompanying her to the Fraser's ball instead. As usual, Marianne had had the right of it.
"Yes, I did," Helena said. "Lady Draven is an old and dear friend of mine."
"Then I tell you this for your own good. I should not want your consequence tainted by this association."
"Now, Lady Tillycot ..." Miss Lavinia began.
"Tainted?" Helena asked, puzzled. "Whatever do you mean, Lady Tillycot?"
Lady Tillycot leaned closer, the long plume in her turban nearly poking Helena in the eye. Her tone was low and smug. "Marianne Draven runs with a fast crowd, Lady Harteford. I will not soil your ears with what I have heard, but suffice it to say, she is a lady of loose morals and questionable character."
Reticule strings pulled tight between Helena's fingers. "I should question the character of anyone who passes along gossip as truth, Lady Tillycot."
"'Tis not gossip but fact that Marianne Draven did not spend so much as a day in mourning for her late husband before she began carousing about Town," Lady Tillycot said. "And I am not the only one to observe that nary a stitch of widow's weeds has ever graced her person."
"'My grief lies within, and these external manners of lament are merely shadows to the unseen grief'," Helena retorted.
"Mr. William Shakespeare, King Richard II, Act IV, if I am not mistaken," Miss Lavinia said, clapping her hands together. "Bravo, Lady Harteford!"
Lady Tillycot's eyes slit with malice. "The tale of Clytemnestra and Agamemnon is the more apt analogy, I believe—or haven't you heard the rumors concerning Draven's rather sudden passing?"
"You go too far," Helena said, her voice shaking with anger.
Lady Tillycot rose, a casual movement that nevertheless resulted in a cataclysmic shifting of flesh. "Suit yourself, Lady Harteford. I cannot be faulted for my attempt to salvage your reputation, little that it may be."
She walked off with a satisfied swagger which made Helena's blood boil.
"Never mind Lady Tillycot," Miss Lavinia said. "She is having an attack of the doldrums today and relieves herself by making everyone around her miserable as well."
"What does she have to be miserable about?"
"Lord Tillycot, of course," Miss Lavinia said matter-of-factly. "He lost ten thousand pounds on a hand of hazard they say. The creditors are leaving their calling cards."
Despite her annoyance, Helena felt a stir of pity. She knew only too well the effects of gaming. Had it not been for Nicholas, her father might be living in France, seeking refuge from debtor's prison. Her brow puckered at the thought of Nicholas again. The dashed man had a mercurial temperament, that was for certain. One minute he was all that was kind and generous, and the next ...
He had humiliated her, cut her to the bone with his rejection.
She was not going to waste one more thought on him.
She cleared her throat. "Will the Tillycots recover, do you think?"
"Who is to know?" Miss Lavinia shrugged at the same time as Miss Matilda did. "'Cards and dice—the ultimate vice,' as they say. By the by, have you heard about the recent debates in Parliament concerning the penalties for debtors? There are efforts to reform the current laws, met with fierce opposition, of course, by the Tories ..."
Helena spent the next hour engrossed in discussion. The Havershams deserved their reputations as having the most well-informed minds in the ton. The self-proclaimed bluestockings conversed with facility on all manner of topics, ranging from penal law reforms to Wollstonecraft's masterpiece. They had just begun to debate the merits of sensibility versus reason when Helena felt a light tap on her shoulder. She turned around in her seat.
Marianne, resplendent in a silver gauze gown striped with blue, gave her an amused look. "So this is where you have been hiding, Lady Harteford."
Helena introduced the tongue-tied Havershams to Marianne, who smiled and complimented them on their matching gowns. The sisters flushed with pleasure.
"Of course, our dresses are humble compared to yours," Miss Lavinia said diffidently.
"Do you like it? I would be happy to introduce you to my modiste."
"You would?" Miss Lavinia's pale lips trembled.
"Of course. I will let Madame Rousseau know to expect you both. Now, come, Lady Harteford, won't you join me for a promenade?"
"I would like that," Helena said. "Miss Lavinia? Miss Matilda?"
"Oh no, we'll stay here," Miss Lavinia said, her eyes bright with excitement.
As Helena departed with Marianne, she heard the Havershams exclaim at once, "Madame Rousseau!"
"That was kind of you," Helena said, smiling. "I do believe you have made the Havershams' evening."
"It was little enough." Marianne yawned delicately behind her fan, a confection of silver silk iridescent with sequins. "Lord, the Frasers throw a crashing bore of a party."
"Do you think so?" Helena looked around the ballroom. The theme appeared to be Grecian Garden, with plaster pillars and statues placed to resemble ancient ruins. Garlands of pink and white flowers hung from the high ceiling and draped over the tables. "I thought it rather charming."
Marianne fluttered her fan. "If you say so."
They strolled along the perimeter of the ballroom, stopping to chat with acquaintances. Helena cast surreptitious glances at her friend. Marianne appeared recovered from the malaise of several days ago. Once again her stunning self, she sparkled as she conversed, her wit drawing admiring laughs from those around her. But Helena thought she noticed a certain feverishness beneath her friend's gaiety and strain underlying her light repartee. Notes of music began to play, and Marianne became besieged by eager dance partners. To Helena's surprise and gratification, a number of gentlemen approached her as well.
"Our dance cards are full," Marianne informed the suitors in a laughing voice, and taking Helena's arm, she led her away from the disappointed faces and toward the terrace.
Once outside, Helena could not hide her astonishment. "I have never before had so many invitations to dance!"
Marianne smiled. "Well, you are quite transformed, my dear. 'Twas a stroke of genius for Madame Rousseau to layer matching tulle over that indigo satin. And to pair the gold necklace and eardrops—
an inspired choice. You look positively pagan tonight."
"Thank you." Helena paused. "I have been meaning to ask you ... is everything quite alright, Marianne?"
"Whatever do you mean, dearest?"
"Is there something troubling you?" Helena blurted. "Something that caused your recent malaise? Because I should like to help, if I can."
Marianne's lips parted, but she said nothing.
Seeing the ripple of uncertainty that passed over her friend's exquisite features, Helen forged on. "You've rarely spoken about your ... your marriage. I know you are much wiser than I, but if there is anything at all I can do, Marianne—if there is any pain or grief that I might help ease ..." Helena gave her a rueful smile. "Lord knows you've heard enough about my troubles."
"Pain or grief?" Marianne echoed. She laughed, then, a sound like glass breaking. "Oh, dearest, I think not. At least, not in the way you mean."
"In any way, then," Helena said earnestly. "You can confide in me. Please know that you can."
Marianne's smile seemed a little sad. "I do know it. And I treasure our friendship all the more. Perhaps one day, Helena."
"Because you do not think me ready and able to help?"
"No," Marianne said, her voice hollow. "Because I do not think myself ready."
Hearing both an admission and a warning in those words, Helena let the matter drop. She could only hope that Marianne would one day choose to unload the burdens of her heart. When that time came, she would be there for her friend. They walked to the edge of the terrace, looking out into the shadowy gardens. The chirping of night crickets filled the silence.
At length, Marianne said, "What are you going to do next?" She didn't need to clarify what she meant.
"What is there to do?" Helena gave her friend a bitter smile. "When Papa gives me leave, I will return to Hampshire. There I shall rusticate for the rest of my life."
"Come now, that is doing it a bit brown, is it not? Though I know things are at sixes and sevens with Harteford, I cannot help but think your husband's behavior is out of character. He's not acting at all like I expected." Marianne frowned. "Are you certain the two of you have discussed matters thoroughly?"
Her Husband's Harlot Page 16
