There was the time Nicholas had tried to help Percy glue her broken doll and ended up with his thumbs stuck together instead. Or when, as a lark, he and Paul had replaced Jeremiah's whiskey, filling the decanter with tinted barley water. Or the time they'd gotten into an overly vigorous sparring match and tried to hide the evidence by covering Paul's black eye with Anna's face powder.
Nicholas had sat there, listening to the fond reminiscing. Inwardly, he'd thanked God that Anna, Paul, and Percy didn't know the ugly truths, the tales that couldn't be shared over tea. The time before he'd met them. His crimes, his brutality and cowardice—the past that had made him who he was.
As Helena straightened, the sunlight fell upon her chestnut hair, gilding the thick locks and the exposed skin above her neckline. Far too much skin, he thought with a scowl. Heat rose in his loins at the same time that guilt assailed him: what kind of a randy bastard was he, that the night with the whore had not even touched his desire for Helena?
"You're nearly falling out of that dress," he said before he could help himself.
Her lashes lifted in his direction. The corners of her lush mouth tipped upward. "Thank you for noticing, my lord."
"I am not the only one who noticed," he said curtly. "Fines couldn't keep his eyes off you the entire bloody tea."
"Mr. Fines was merely being polite." Her head tilted. "You're not jealous, are you?"
"Of course not," he said between clenched teeth. "What you do is your business. Which brings me to my point—what are you doing, meddling in mine?"
To his shock, she linked her arm through his. Gave him a smile that was like a battering ram to his defenses. Even his bones quivered with longing. "Come walk with me, Harteford. There are private matters I wish to discuss with you. About our marriage."
"I thought I made myself clear the last time," he managed to say as he fell in step beside her on the pebbled path. "We are going to get an annulment. It is the best thing for both of us."
"I disagree. I have decided I want to stay married to you. And I will not support an annulment—if it comes to that, I will make the case for one extremely difficult."
"What?" he roared, before he remembered where they were.
"You heard me," she said.
He dropped her arm. Stared at her. "Why are you doing this?"
She matched him look for look. With her hazel eyes spitting fire at him, her cheek rosier than all the surrounding blooms, she was more beautiful than any woman had the right to be. Damn her.
Her chin lifted. "Because I love you, you idiot. Why else?"
Her words fell like a hammer upon his heart. Blows of pleasure-pain that made it difficult to catch his breath. "What?" he choked out.
"Oh, Nicholas," she said, with a sad smile. "There's nothing wrong with your hearing, is there? Perhaps you don't want to know it, but that is the truth. I love you, and I shan't give you up without a fight."
There it was: everything he'd ever wanted to hear from her.
Don't give into temptation, you selfish bastard. You have no right. You have to protect her.
Seized with panic, he shook his head. "You don't know what you're saying. You don't even know me—"
"Don't I?" She began to walk ahead, determined little strides that forced him to lengthen his own. "I know more than you think, Nicholas. I know your mother was an opera singer, for instance, and that your legitimacy was not declared until quite recently. I can only surmise that you lived as a bastard in the time intervening and that that could not have been easy."
Not easy? There was an understatement. His head was spinning—too many emotions crowding in. "You have no bloody idea what my life was like. You couldn't begin to understand," he bit out.
"Try me." She shot him a challenging glance. "Instead of hiding or running away, just share something with me, this once."
Don't do it. Don't give in—
"Or perhaps you're the one who is afraid?"
His temper snapped. "You want to hear a story? Fine. But let me warn you, this one is nothing like the ones you heard over tea." When she continued to regard him with complete equanimity, he said tersely, "It was the day I met Jeremiah at the docks."
"Go on," she said.
"It's a charming tale. Late one night, Jeremiah was headed home when I approached him."
"Asking for work?" she prompted, as he knew she would.
"With a bludger." Seeing the furrow between her delicate brows, he smiled with grim satisfaction. "Don't know what that is, do you? Let me explain. 'Tis a common enough weapon in the stews. You take a piece of cloth, you see, and wrap it around whatever can do a man injury—rocks, wood. Discarded horse shoes, now, they work especially well. Whatever you can get your hands on, you tie it up and to a stick. So it can be swung like this, see?"
Her eyes followed the menacing motion of his hands. He saw the flexing of her fragile throat. "Y-yes. I believe I understand now."
"I came at Jeremiah that night, figuring him for another soft pig on the docks. An easy mark. I thought to nab myself a fine pocket-watch or a purse full of mint. Didn't matter much how I got it—with blood or without," he said matter-of-factly.
"What happened?"
Nicholas smiled wryly. "Blood was shed that night—only it wasn't Jeremiah's. Tough old dog. Had me down on the dock, didn't he, the wicked end of his walking stick pointed at my throat." He could still feel the cold steel, the numbness that had come over him as he'd faced his demise. After the weeks spent running from his crime, dodging the street gangs and other criminals, death had seemed like deliverance.
"Did he hurt you?" she gasped.
"No."
"What happened then? What did Jeremiah do?"
Nicholas exhaled. "He just ... spoke to me. He said, A man is what he makes of himself, boy. I don't know you from Adam, but I sure as hell know you can do better than this."
Unexpected heat prickled his eyelids; all these years, and the gratitude, nay love, he felt for his mentor had not faded a whit. Instead of death that night, he'd found a miracle: a new beginning.
"Jeremiah told me to find him at his warehouse when I was ready to live better. I had little to lose, so I went to him the next day. He found me a place to stay, saw to it that I had clean clothes and decent meals. He also gave me a position with his dock crew working long hours, hard hours, but they were honest ones. It took me five years to work my way up out of the water and into the office. After several promotions, I eventually spent two years overseeing our operations in the West Indies. I returned when Jeremiah fell ill, and that was when he proposed the partnership."
"How I admire you." His wife's soft voice stirred him out of his reverie. He was startled to realize how much he'd revealed, and yet more startled by Helena's response. Her gloved hand rested gently upon his arm. "You have come from adversity and made something of yourself. You have garnered great success on your own merit. That is a claim few men can make."
"You astonish me," he was forced to say.
"I do?"
"You do realize that my success as you describe it is that I have a profession. I work for a living." He enunciated each word as if she did not understand its meaning. "In the view of the ton, that is regarded as a disgrace rather than an accomplishment."
His wife regarded him with inscrutable eyes. "And you think I care what the ton thinks?"
"You are a lady," he said. "Of course you do."
"Then perhaps you don't know me as well as you think," she said.
*****
This is working. Helena had to hide a giddy smile at her lord's befuddled expression. I am finally getting to know him—the real him. Yet if trust and honesty are to grow between us, he has to know a thing or two about me, as well.
Drawing a breath for courage, she said, "It might surprise you to know that I, myself, have done things that would shock the ton," she said.
This drew a rare smile from her husband. His white teeth flashed against his swarthy skin. "Have you now?"
Helena nodded, a trifle light-headed at his nearness. He was standing very close to her, so close that she could make out the subtle striping on his grey waistcoat. She could smell his unique scent, sandalwood and lemon soap and ... potent male. She breathed him in before continuing.
"My parents despaired of my ever becoming a proper lady," she said, deciding it best to let him down gently. "When I was a girl, they used to send me to bed without supper for all the scrapes I got into."
"Their tactics worked. You are, after all, a paragon of ladylike virtue."
"That is not me!" At Nicholas' lifted brow, Helena flushed. What would it take for him to see her as she was? Not perfect. Far from. Recalling what Marianne had said about men not wishing to bed paragons, she said anxiously, "What I mean to say is there is more to me than decorum. Much more."
"Indeed."
Bristling at Nicholas' indulgent tone, Helena said, "When I went riding with my brother Thomas, I would ride astride once we got out of view of the main house."
When Nicholas looked unimpressed, she added, "With breeches on, I could beat Thomas up a tree."
Still no response.
"I once knocked the baker's son to the ground for making fun of my freckles," she said out of desperation. "His nose was bloodied. I may have given him a bruise or two as well."
"I do not see any evidence of freckles," her husband commented.
"They faded after my mother added a milk-and-vinegar wash to my daily ablutions." Glumly, Helena tugged at a spring bloom. The petals drifted into her palm. Obviously, Nicholas preferred to view her in a certain fashion, and nothing she said was going to deter him. If he could not assimilate her childish antics with his vision of her, what would he do when she revealed her more recent, and certainly more serious, transgressions?
By the by, my love, I also dressed like a harlot and seduced you at a bawdy house.
Or perhaps a more roundabout approach: Do you know I speak fluent French, Nicholas? "J'adore le cock", for instance—might that ring a bell?
Thinking of the possible ramifications to such confessions, she shivered. Trust was a tricky business, after all. Best to proceed with caution and take small steps.
Very small steps.
"Are you cold?"
Warm fingers lifted her chin. Nicholas was studying her, his grey eyes tender with concern.
"No," she whispered.
Afraid to lose his touch, she closed her eyes and dared to lean her cheek against his hand. She felt him hesitate. Then his knuckles trailed along her cheek.
"Do you ... do you still think me a paragon?" she asked, her breath hitching.
There was a stilted silence. When he spoke, his voice was deep and husky. Ragged at the edges. "Ah, Helena, God help me, but I think you very sweet."
Her eyelashes quivered as he continued to stroke her softly, bringing a flush of heat to her skin. She looked at his lips, remembering the heat and texture of them upon her breasts. The way they had whispered delightfully wicked desires only three nights ago—fantasies that had rendered her hot and damp with longing. Her gaze travelled upward, and she found herself dissolving in pools of passionate darkness.
"Nicholas." Her head tipped back in invitation.
At the sound of his name, Nicholas made a noise deep in his throat and covered her mouth with his own. The kiss began softly, gently, like the whisper of dragonfly wings. She absorbed his warmth like a sun-starved flower. Yet even as his touch dazzled her senses, she was aware that he was holding back. Restraining himself ... because of his past? Because of some misguided notion that he was not good enough for her? Didn't he know that he was everything she wanted? If words would not convince him of her passionate love, then perhaps actions would.
Whispering his name, she parted her lips, and the flavor of the kiss changed completely. She heard a guttural sound and then she was invaded, filled with the masculine essence of him. His tongue thrust against hers and delved—demanding, claiming, leaving no doubt that he belonged there. Not that she had any doubt to begin with. Moaning, she twined her tongue with his. She threaded her fingers into his hair, yearning to feel him closer. Needing to feel the hard length of him pressed against her, deep inside her ...
"Nick, Mama wants to know if you will stay for supper—"
The cheerful voice fell like a guillotine in the spring garden. Helena was thrust aside so quickly that her head spun. She steadied herself upon a hedge. When her senses recovered sufficiently, she saw Percy standing there, with eyes big as dinner plates. Those blue orbs blinked back and forth between her and Nicholas, who looked far more composed than she felt.
"Thank you, Percy," Nicholas said, his tone polite, "but no, we won't be staying."
At least there was an edge of unevenness to his breath.
"I didn't mean to interrupt ... I'm so ... oh, bloody hell." Percy's face was redder than the roses. Kicking at a pebble with her slipper, she muttered, "I'll, er, let Mama know." She dashed off.
Helena turned to Nicholas. The joking rejoinder dissolved on her tongue when she saw the strain lining his rugged features. Heaving a sigh, she crossed her arms beneath her bosom. "For heaven's sake, must we do this again? I know what you're thinking, and the answer is no."
"Do what again?" His brows came together. "And what do you mean, no?"
"You were about to try to order me out of your life again, weren't you?" When he answered with a speaking look, she said in dulcet tones, "Your jaw gives you away. It looks hard as rocks when you're about to say something disagreeable. Well, whatever solution you are about to propose this time—living separate lives, getting an annulment or a dashed divorce—the answer is no."
He just stared at her. Good. Let him know that she was serious. She lifted her chin and returned him look for look.
After a moment, his lips quirked. "I suppose you do know me better than I realize."
Seizing the moment, she said steadily, "I love you, Nicholas. And you cannot deny that you feel at least something for me after the last ti—I mean, after the kiss we just shared." Dear heavens, she'd barely caught the slip! She rushed on in shaky tones, "Can you not trust me enough to tell me what is going on?"
The yearning she saw in his eyes raised goose-pimples on her skin.
"I—I do want you, Helena. It has been hell pretending otherwise." The admission sounded rusty, as if it was being pulled from a deep and seldom accessed place within. "Yet there are things in my past that threaten your safety, and I cannot allow that to happen." He cleared his throat. "And, by the way, the answer is no."
"No to what?" she asked, mystified.
"You were about to ask me about my past, and, no, I will not tell you about it." At her stymied frown, Nicholas' mouth took a faint curve. "Husbands are not as dull-witted as you may think. You, my lady, get an adorable little wrinkle between your brows before you bring up a difficult topic."
His confession that he wanted her and his affectionate banter made her heart thrum with hope. There had to be a way around this. "Whatever it is, I don't care," she said eagerly. "I would willingly take any risk to be with you. Besides, life is full of potential dangers, is it not? Why," she continued as inspiration struck, "just a few days ago I was being followed by a pair of criminals—"
"You were what?" Nicholas' face drained of color.
"Oh, do not concern yourself, my lord," she said quickly. "Nothing happened. It was just that I noticed two men in dark coats following me when I was shopping on Bond Street. I visited Lady Draven, and she, er, helped me to switch carriages and thus elude the pair."
"What did they look like, these two men?"
Helena wrinkled her nose. "I didn't get a very close look at them. When I tried to, they turned away, or disappeared into the crowd. But I did catch glimpses of their reflections whilst I was pretending to peruse the shop windows."
Rather clever of her, she thought.
"And?" Nicholas demanded.
"Hmm. They looked rather well-kept for criminals, act
ually. Clean-shaven, proper hats. Their coats were not by any means stylish, but not shabby either." Helena frowned, puzzling upon the point. "Come to think of it, their appearance reminds me a little of someone I can't quite pinpoint ..."
"Mr. Kent, perhaps?"
She looked at her husband in surprise. "Why, yes! How did you know?"
"Because, my dear intrepid wife, I hired those bloody Runners myself."
"To follow me?" she said, aghast.
"To keep you safe," he corrected.
Her hands fluttered to her chest. "What kind of danger am I in, exactly? What on earth is going on? Does this have to do with you being shot?"
"I don't know any of that for certain, Helena. All I know is that there is a villain out there, who wishes me and those nearest to me harm. Listen," he said firmly before she could interrupt. "When it comes to your safety, I will not take any chances. You are too important to me. I want you out of London, the sooner the better."
Delight and fear mingled at his words. "And you are important to me. Who is watching over you, Nicholas, keeping you safe?"
He continued as if she had not spoken. "If your parents won't have you, I'll find someplace else to send you—"
Her heart pounded in denial. Not now. Not when they were finally beginning to make progress. "I don't want to leave you. I won't. Not unless you tell me why."
"God's blood, woman, haven't you been listening? Your life may be in peril, and that is all you need to know!"
"Nothing's happened, has it?" Helena was rather proud of how reasonable she sounded. "I mean, as it turns out, the men I thought were villains were actually investigators hired to protect me. So, in truth, not only was I not in danger—I was safer than I realized."
Nicholas opened his mouth. Closed it. Raking a hand through his hair, he scowled at her. "Where the hell did you learn to argue like that?"
"The debates at the literary salon," she said. "At any rate, I want to propose a solution to our dilemma. A compromise of sorts."
"Compromise?" He snorted. "What makes you think I'm not going to throw you in the next carriage bound for destination unknown?"
Her Husband's Harlot Page 20
