"A megrim? Should you like Harteford and me to accompany you back?" Helena asked, concerned.
"No, no. I need to rest, that is all."
"Really, Marianne, you ought to—"
But it was too late. Marianne had slipped away without another word.
Baffled, Helena watched her friend disappear into the crowd. What was going on with Marianne? She would have to call on her tomorrow. But for now, she had her own matters to attend to. Once outside, she felt a rush of relief to spot Nicholas's broad back. He stood away from the others, on the farthest side of the veranda next to a series of hedges. Helena hastened over to him, words of greeting on her lips. The words died when she heard the voices rising from the other side of an enormous leafy divide.
"Brazen bastard, isn't he? Thinks just because he married Northgate's girl he can trample about in Society." The man's voice boomed, inebriated and indignant. "Well, I still say blood shows—his mother was a whore, after all, and his fortune is from trade. He positively trails the scent of shop."
"And that, dear Sir Jacoby, is why he is our own dear Merchant Marquess," responded a woman with a tinkling laugh.
"I'll be damned if the bastard isn't eyeing my stables, too, what remains of them," the male voice continued viciously. "Circling like a hawk, he is. Last month, he snatched up my finest greys at Tattersall's—and he didn't pay half what they're worth, the bloody skinflint. I wager he heard about my misfortune at the tables through those merchant friends of his. Mark my words, he's no better than those tradesmen knocking on the door. It is a sorry state indeed, my dear, when the lower classes don't mind their place."
Helena heard the sharp, snapping sound at the same time that Nicholas had whirled around. She had never seen such raw anger, from the molten obsidian of his eyes to the raised fists that looked ready, nay eager, for a brawl. Punch dripped, blood red, from one of his hands, as shards of delicate crystal cascaded to the ground. His large powerful figure quivered like a hound with prey in sight. At first, he did not seem to recognize her. When he did, his face flamed.
"Nicholas ..." she said, reaching out her hand.
"Eh, who's there?" A moment later, a portly middle-aged man stumbled from the other side of the bushes. His ruddy, thickly veined jowls grew even redder when he saw Nicholas.
"Come back, Jacoby. I am sure it is nobody ..." A stick-thin woman emerged, tugging at her sagging bodice. Her small eyes protruded almost comically from her narrow face.
In the awful silence that followed, Helena's heartbeat grew louder and louder in her ears. In the periphery of her vision, she saw other guests circling, drawn to the hunt and the scent of blood. Murmurs, mocking laughter surrounded them.
"I say, what are you about, Harteford? Skulking like a common thief," Jacoby said.
The woman, cueing in on her lover's strategy, chimed to the offensive. "An invasion of privacy, that is what I would call it. Most ungentlemanly behavior!"
Nicholas' gaze swung to Jacoby. His face was expressionless, yet Helena could see the strain of rigid control. Nicholas' fists bulged at his sides. Despite his well-tailored evening clothes, he emanated a savage physicality that only a fool would overlook. Jacoby instinctively inched backward, his throat bobbing up and down. Nicholas' knuckles expanded and whitened. The quiet seemed to crackle with tension.
Then slowly, oh so slowly, Nicholas unclenched his fists.
Nicholas turned to face the woman, who clutched her hands to her shallow chest. An ostrich feather drooped limply over her eye. He swept her a mocking bow. His colorless voice chilled Helena to the core. "Pray do not concern yourself, madam. As you have said, I am nobody to worry about."
As he turned to leave, the crowd's jeering whispers grew in volume. Coward. Bastard. What do you expect of the lower classes? His eyes did not meet his wife's as he walked past.
Rage, brilliant and pure, washed over Helena. Red clouded her vision as she regarded Jacoby and his tittering consort. Without another thought, she crossed over to them.
"Yes, well, what is it?" Jacoby demanded uncomfortably. "It's not polite to stare, young lady. That's what comes of rubbing with the inferior classes. Would have thought Northgate brought you up to be ..."
He never had a chance to finish. With a resounding crack, Helena's reticule connected with his jaw. Yelping, Jacoby stumbled backward. Helena dimly heard the collective gasps of the gathering crowd, but she did not care. How dare he malign Nicholas in such a manner? The pompous prig. She swung her reticule again. As the beaded silk collided with flesh and bone, she realized she felt alive: every inch of her astride-riding, tree-climbing, baker's son-pummeling self burst into song.
The feeling was so satisfying, so very rewarding, that her arm drew back again of its own accord. Only to be restrained by an iron grip.
"Enough, Helena," Nicholas said quietly.
Helena leveled a withering stare at Jacoby and his lover. Both backed away from her, their faces immobile with shock. In a voice that shook with anger, she managed, "Shame on you. Shame on you both."
She turned to Nicholas and slipped her hand in his. Without a word, he led her away.
TWENTY-SIX
Nicholas handed Helena up into the carriage. Instead of following, however, he shut the door behind her and said to the driver, "Take Lady Harteford home. Do not stop, no matter what she says. I'll be along shortly."
The driver gave his cap a pull and the reins a snap.
As the horses started off, the window opened, and Helena's head poked out. "Nicholas?" she called out anxiously. "Where are you going? Why aren't you coming—"
He blocked her out. Couldn't bear to face her or the pity in her eyes. The equipage rounded the corner and disappeared from sight. He began to walk with no direction in mind. Given that his other option was to return to the ball and beat the living hell out of Jacoby, it seemed the better course of action. A gentleman would probably call the bugger out—but he was no gentleman, was he? He'd killed before, and he had no desire to murder another man, for any reason, no matter how justifiable. His honor—whatever there was of it—was certainly not cause enough.
Bloody fool, how could you have believed you were good enough for her?
With a savage stride, he trudged on. Humiliation ripened within his chest as he thought of Helena having to defend him in such a way. By the morrow, she'd be a laughingstock and shunned by the world she came from. They'd be tittering about her over breakfast, at every fashionable tea and club in town. All because of him. Because every word Jacoby had said was true: Nicholas was a bastard, a coward ... and a fool who'd deluded himself into believing that his past could be left behind. At times he wished his bleeding sire had never acknowledged him at all. Better to live a bastard's life than to have a tantalizing dream dangled forever out of his reach.
He didn't know how long he walked. It seemed he'd been wandering the streets all his life—St. Giles, Mayfair, the docks, what did it matter? Peace eluded him everywhere. By the time he climbed the steps to the townhouse several hours later, he'd at least worn himself out physically. He wanted nothing more than to fall into his bed and into oblivion. Before he could ring the bell, however, the door opened. Helena stood there, still in her evening finery.
"Where have you been?" In a frantic motion, she grabbed his sleeve, and he let himself be pulled inside. "Don't you know how worried I've been? Sweet heavens, you didn't even get your coat or hat—you must be freezing!"
He hadn't felt cold. Hadn't felt much of anything until he'd laid eyes upon her and all his earlier hopes sliced through him like one of Farraday's scalpels. Fine, delicate cuts that left no mark and yet could bleed a man to the bone.
"Let's go to your study," she said decisively. "I'll pour you a brandy and we'll have Crikstaff bring some warm blankets—"
"I don't want to do this." His words resonated in the antechamber. They sounded as flat, as empty as he felt.
"The drawing room, then—"
He shook his head. "I mean I can'
t do this. With you. Not tonight." He hadn't the energy, the wherewithal to sort out the best course of action. Right now he needed to get to his bedchamber and bar the door. "Tomorrow, perhaps."
"Dash it all, we are going to talk now."
Helena's fierce tone took him aback. Her eyes were spitting fire at him. Had the night's events sunk in then? Had she finally realized the price of being married to the ton's outcast?
A responding flare of anger lit his insides. He'd tried to warn her, hadn't he? Tried to tell her this was all a mistake—but she wouldn't listen.
"You want to talk? Fine," he said and headed to the study. He held the door open, gave her a mocking bow.
Head high, looking more like a marchioness than he'd ever seen her, Helena marched by him. Crikstaff had left the lamps burning low, and the curling flame of the fireplace and lingering traces of tobacco added to the study's cozy ambiance. Helena strolled around Nicholas' private domain as if she belonged there. She inspected the wall of books spanning from floor to ceiling, running her finger along the spines.
Nicholas headed in the opposite direction, straight for the tray of spirits. He poured himself a glass from a crystal decanter before pausing and turning to look at her.
"Forgive my manners," he said shortly. "I do not keep sherry in here. Shall I ring for tea or hot milk?"
"I am not a child, Nicholas, who needs milk before bedtime. I shall have whatever you are drinking," Helena said.
He frowned. "I am drinking whiskey."
"Fine."
Helena seated herself in one of the wingchairs facing the fireplace. He could not help but note how the masculine furniture dwarfed her, how small and feminine she looked against the studded burgundy leather. As he handed her the glass, their fingers brushed, and he felt the jolt all the way to his toes. Damn her for having that effect on him. He sprawled into the adjacent armchair. Keeping his gaze fixed upon leaping flames, he silently drank his whiskey.
He heard a slight sputter. "Is everything alright?" he said.
"Y-yes." She coughed again, then muttered, "How on earth can you drink this stuff?"
If she'd had the occasion to sample blue ruin, the milk of the stews, she wouldn't have to ask. The mellow tingle of whiskey was nothing compared to the gut-melting burn of gin. "An acquired taste," he said and tossed back the rest of the spirits. "But it's not my preference in beverages that we're here to discuss, is it? You're the one who insisted on talking. So talk."
She put down her glass. Her hands clasped amidst the folds of her emerald skirts. "I had hoped we would have a discussion, my lord. About what happened tonight. I understand that you are upset—"
"I am not upset," he said curtly. "You forget being issued a cut direct is hardly a novel occurrence. I deal with this most every day, my lady, and I can assure you I do not give a damn."
"Then why did you walk alone for hours? Why are you trying to shut me out?" For some reason, her soft, reasonable tones irked him further. He had to look away from the pleading shimmer in her big eyes. "Earlier this evening, you seemed different. You—you told me you wanted me. Always."
"I was mistaken." He could not keep the bitterness out of his voice. "Surely you can see such a relationship is not possible between us."
"I cannot see that, don't you understand? I cannot see anything when you keep me in the dark. I cannot read your mind, which is blasted mercurial by the by, and I am tired of trying!"
He stared at her. That was his first mistake. Her cheeks had blossomed with roses, and her plump bottom lip was all a-quiver. With her decadent breasts straining with each agitated breath, she embodied temptation itself. She also looked hurt and angry, and if he hadn't thought it possible to hate himself more, he now realized his error. He cursed himself a hundred times over for causing her distress. He'd thought to spare her the truths that no lady should know—but had he just been rationalizing his own fear? Who was he truly protecting—her or himself?
Seeing her bewildered pain, he knew he could not run any longer.
"Of course you cannot read my mind—I lost it from the moment we met," he said in a weak attempt at humor. When she only continued to look at him, he sighed. "I have not been the husband you deserve, Helena. For that, I do apologize."
Her next words tore at him. "Is it because of me? Have I done something or not done—"
"No. This is not, and never has been, about you. I told you before—the problem lies with me. With who I am." His throat felt scratchy, abrading his words. "And what I have done."
"Tell me, Nicholas. For God's sake, just talk to me." Her eyes glimmered. "Please."
He felt himself weakening. His second mistake. "You are asking me to speak of things I never have before. Not with anyone—not the Fineses, not even Jeremiah." He struggled to make her understand. "My past, Helena ... it is not fit for a lady's ears."
"I am not just a lady." Her chin lifted. As he was learning, an ominous sign. "I am your wife. And I love you, and nothing you say could possibly change that."
He swallowed. "I ... I want to believe you."
"Then take the chance. Let me know you, my husband," she whispered. "About your childhood, how you grew up to be a man ... everything."
The sincerity he saw in her beautiful eyes twisted a knife deep in his gut. The shame of the evening's earlier events did not compare with the torture of the present. He would have to witness Helena's love turn to disgust, once she knew him for what he was. Rising, he returned to the beverage tray to buy himself time. And courage. When he splashed more whiskey into his glass; he was surprised to find his hands trembling. Liquid sloshed onto the silver.
"You have no idea, do you, what you are asking me to share," he said. "The ugliness of it, Helena—you will wish you had not asked."
"Let me be the judge of that."
"As you wish." Gulping down another shot, he let the burn ease the way into the past. "I was not born a bastard, but I lived as one for all the years up until the last. There is little about my sire's sordid affair with my mother, a beautiful opera singer half his age, which has not been bandied about. How he competed fiercely for her affections with two of his cronies, how daily wagers were placed in the betting ledger at White's on who would triumph in claiming Sylvie—that was my mother's name—under his protection. In the end, it was the marquess who won."
"That he set her up in a cozy cottage was known to all. What the ton did not know was that in a reckless fit of passion, he married Sylvie. In secret, by special license. For the first few months, he visited her regularly. It was no surprise, then, that Sylvie found herself increasing within a short time. She thought this would cement her position in the marquess' life, but she was mistaken. When she lost her shape, she also lost his interest. Weeks before she was to give birth, she found out that the marquess had a new mistress, younger and more beautiful than she. In a rage, she confronted him. He responded by throwing her out."
"He abandoned his pregnant wife?" Helena said in disbelief.
Nicholas shrugged. "My mother had no proof of the marriage, and my father was a powerful man. He threatened to have her thrown into Newgate if she so much as breathed a word of their relationship. She had no choice but to leave with the clothes on her back."
"What did she do then?" Helena asked faintly.
"She bore the child, a boy, and left him in her sister's charge. So great was her fear of her husband that she never spoke a word of the boy's true parentage. For a while, she found employment as a singer again." Nicholas let his shoulders rise and fall again. "I believe she may have sought the protection of other wealthy patrons—she did send money now and again, mostly in the form of jewelry."
"Did you ever see her again?"
"No. She died when I was nine, from consumption I was told." Nicholas remembered well his aunt's red face as she had imparted the news.
Sylvie's dead, with nary a shilling to her name. We've got six mouths to feed as it is, so don't go thinking you can live on our charity. The workhou
se is where you're headed, my boy. The place where all the bastard brats go.
"What happened ... after?"
Nicholas' hand curled reflexively around his glass. "My aunt could no longer bear the responsibility for my upbringing. I was sent to a workhouse." As he had learned, even orphans possessed a social hierarchy. Those who occupied the top rung had respectable parents—shop owners and tradesmen, even the occasional penniless squire—who had expired in some unfortunate circumstance. Bastards, in particular those born to whores, clung to the very bottom tier, a lesson he had learned through bloodied noses and torn fists. "Eventually, I ran away and found my way back to my aunt's house."
"She took you back in," Helena said, clearly relieved.
"No." Nicholas wondered how he could have been so naive, so stupid as to think that his aunt would welcome him back once she knew of the workhouse conditions. He'd thought if he could just explain that he was willing to work his share, to contribute to the household—what a fool he had been. "No, she did not take me back."
"Then ... what happened?" His wife looked at him wide-eyed.
He expelled a breath. "She sold me."
The words popped like a cork into the silence. Finally, Helena appeared shocked, bereft of words. But he had gone too far already; as the ignominious tale poured forth, he found he could not stem the flow of words. His lips seemed to move of their own accord.
"It happened that a sweep named Ben Grimes was looking for apprentices. He wanted young boys, no older than the age of seven. Do you know why, Helena?"
She shook her head, a barely perceptible movement.
"Because the stacks are narrow. Tight so that only a small child can pass. At places no wider than three hands across."
He advanced toward her, using his hands to illustrate the girth of the airless tunnel. Panic gripped his throat, reflexive, ineffaceable. Even if he lived to be a hundred, he'd never forget the times he'd gotten stuck in the soot-choked darkness, certain he'd be left to die. For the chummy was a disposable commodity—children being so cheap and easy to come by that a master sweep would sooner find a new child than try to save a useless one.
Her Husband's Harlot Page 25
