by Liz Carlyle
Nonetheless, as she had stood in Cam’s study this morning, Helene had begun to question the truth of her words. A lifetime had passed since she’d seen him. And in that time, the pain of her loss had lessened, and then numbed, until at last she had thought of him rarely.
Well, perhaps a little more often than that. But what she remembered was no more than a young girl’s infatuation. And so it had seemed, all the way to Gloucestershire, across the Coln, over the wolds, and right up the twisting lane which led to the gates of Chalcote Court. With every mile, Helene had been increasingly confident that what she felt for the new Lord Treyhern was nothing more than a warm fondness for an old friend.
Even when Cam, dark with rage, had stepped into the study, Helene had believed herself to be in control of the situation. In the past, she usually had been. It had taken her all of about five minutes to realize that the tables had turned. No one controlled Camden Rutledge now. Helene saw it, as surely as she could see that the soft-spoken youth had grown into a dangerously quiet man.
And a stunningly handsome one, too. At seventeen, Cam had seemingly reached his full height, a lithesome six feet; yet now, he seemed far taller. Moreover, he was clearly possessed of that kind of silent, solid strength that quiet young men so often carry into adulthood. When Cam had set his hands stubbornly upon the desk and leaned toward her, Helene had watched a man’s strength ripple through his wide shoulders. She had seen a man’s anger—and yes, perhaps even a man’s lust—flash across his face.
Drawing an unsteady breath, Helene turned her face into the pillow, her hand fisting tightly in the soft wool of the coverlet.
3
Thou turn’st Mine eyes into my Very soul
Before Cam realized just how far he had ridden, he looked up to discover that he had traveled the width of Chalcote, and now stood at the high wold which overlooked his Aunt Belmont’s adjoining estate. He reined his horse about and went back down at once.
A dutiful nephew would have dropped in for tea, but he’d been avoiding his maternal aunt and cousin since the funeral. That delicately inquiring look which lingered in Aunt Belmont’s eyes nowadays made him break into a sweat.
Cam accepted the fact that he had a duty to marry someone of unassailable character and exemplary breeding. And Joan more than met those lofty standards. Cam agreed that the old idea of reuniting the estates held some merit. Still, he delayed.
But today, Cam did not want to think about his plaguing, prodding female relatives. Someone else was still on his mind, despite the heart-pounding ride across the meadows and through the forests. How unwise it was to think about his youthful indiscretions at such a time.
But Helene had been his only indiscretion. Youthful or otherwise. Ever eager to vex his sober-minded son, Randolph had once joked that Cam was so boring, trifling with Helene Middleton had been his only lapse in judgment. But in truth, Cam had not been trifling. He had foolishly meant to marry Helene.
At the time, it had not seemed so wildly out of the question. Despite all his earnest promises to his mother, Cam had been eldest son to a dissipated ne’er-do-well. There had been no title, just a ramshackle estate which Aunt Belmont had disdained to so much as visit. Yes, life had been simpler before he’d been thrust into the role of family savior.
With a sharp sigh, Cam reined in his horse and dismounted beneath a tree. He’d been but eighteen when Helene’s mother had taken her away. Some black, desperate void—it had felt frighteningly like madness—had begun to swallow him up. For many months, Cam had been unable to control, and very nearly unable to bear, the swells of grief and rage.
And it was then that he had truly realized how very like his father he must be; governed by his appetites, filled with a raging desire for something he ought not have. Eventually, he had realized the value of control. He had seen the truth of his mother’s oft-repeated warnings; that he, like the proverbial acorn, would never fall far from the tree if he could not govern such wayward desires.
And now, those old emotions were as newly familiar as the bitter taste of blood in his mouth. Perhaps Joan was the solution. A young, compliant bride beneath his bedcovers could ease his infernal needs and give him an heir. But he’d tried that once, had he not? And found himself shackled to an amoral hellcat. But Joan was nothing like Cassandra. Joan would be a faithful wife, a dutiful mother.
Nonetheless, duty and breeding aside, Joan would never warm his bed the way a woman like Helene would. Cam could not help but wonder how many men had enjoyed Helene’s temptations. A woman of such potent emotions could not long remain alone. Could she? How well he remembered her inability to keep her hands off him. In the tilt of her chin, the turn of her wrist, even in the way she moved through a room, Helene exuded more overt femininity—no, sensuality—than most women did when stark naked and tangled in satin sheets.
Ruthlessly, Cam hurled himself into the saddle. He had been too long from home, and there was much work to be done. He would be glad when this nightmarish day was over, and he could retreat into the solitude of his bedchamber with a good book and a goblet of cognac.
Helene always rose early, often before dawn. Moreover, last night she had not slept well. Yesterday’s meeting with Cam had disturbed her far more than she had expected. It was far better to rise, have a quick breakfast, then gather up her things quickly.
It was time to go back to Hampstead, and begin her employment search anew. Ruthlessly, she shoved one last hairpin into her plain chignon, and glanced at her reflection in the mirror.
The eyes which stared back looked honest enough. But Cam undoubtedly believed that she had returned to Chalcote under duplicitous circumstances, an opinion that was not wholly without merit. Helene had had almost a fortnight in which to write to Cam and ask what he would have her do. Yet she had not. Instead, she’d taken it upon herself to come, knowing that their past would be a painful embarrassment to him now.
Cam was now a wealthy nobleman, a widower with a child and at least two fine estates. Moreover, as a result of his marriage, Cam had received a tidy fortune in banking interests. Money that, by all accounts, he had aggressively parlayed into vast wealth. The title had been but icing on an already rich cake. Amongst the ton, according to Nanny’s sources, the Earl of Treyhern was considered an ill-tempered anomaly: ruthless, reclusive, and unfailingly conservative. Had Helene really believed such a man would be pleased to acknowledge their past friendship?
She should not have come to Cheston-on-the-Water. Oh, she’d been bored to tears in town, but in time, she could have found another position. And despite her inward excuses about Nanny’s health, there was Ireland, Scotland, even Brittany, any one of which would have been close enough. But she hadn’t looked in those places, had she?
She had chosen to return to Chalcote. She had wanted to see Cam. She had to accept that horrid truth. Helene shoved her feet into her slippers and headed toward the door. Perhaps there was another, uglier truth to accept. Perhaps she was more like her mother than she had hoped. “Blood will tell,” Nanny had sworn. Well, old saws cut both ways.
Despite a sleepless night, Cam went down to the dining room for his coffee and buttered bread promptly at six o’clock, just as he did every morning of every day. And he choked it down, too, trying to ignore the fact that it tasted like ashes in his mouth, and that his eye sockets felt as if they had been scrubbed out with a brick. Pensively, he stared through the broad Jacobean window that gave onto Chalcote’s front lawn. The murky world beyond lay cold and silent, seemingly frozen in time, eagerly awaiting morning’s life-giving light.
Cam, too, felt edged with the same sort of anticipation. He was conflicted, at once deeply anxious, yet filled with eagerness, a little like a child at Christmas. Not a man given to disorderly emotion of any sort, the earl took great umbrage at such inner turmoil. As he swallowed the last dry crumb, Cam pulled out his watch and glanced at it.
Did Helene take breakfast in her room, or would she come downstairs? He had not thought to inq
uire. Or would Mrs. Naffles have taken care of it? Cam felt utterly bewildered, just as he always did when he thought of Helene. He needed to stop thinking about her, and more importantly, to stay away from her. Worse, he was now required to keep Bentley away from her.
The solution was simple, as he’d known all along. Helene must be sent away. And with a deep measure of regret, that was precisely what he meant to do this morning. Cam had always prided himself on being a man of purpose, one who was certain, swift and uncompromising in his decisions. He wouldn’t be swayed—not that he expected Helene to argue. He would insist she keep the salary advance, and send her back to Hampstead in his own carriage.
His plan thusly decided, he rang for Milford, who slid into the room like a long, thin specter. “Yes, my lord?”
Cam drew a long, unsteady breath. Even his ghoulish butler, whom he could usually ignore, was making him ill at ease today. “Milford, when Miss de Severs has had her breakfast—”
The butler cut him off. “So sorry, my lord. Miss de Severs has already left.”
“Left—?” Cam erupted, jerking from his chair. His empty dishes clattered precariously. “Good God! She cannot possibly have gone so soon—!”
Milford stabbed upward with one bloodless finger. “Left, as in left the dining room. Miss de Severs is, I must say, a remarkably early riser.”
Cam found her in the schoolroom, standing amidst what looked like the aftermath of a windstorm. Apparently, very few of her boxes and trunks had contained clothing, for he now saw that most had been carted up to the schoolroom. Some had already been emptied, as evidenced by a dozen thick, well-worn tomes and a stack of notebooks which were scattered across the desk. Halfway down the long schoolroom table, a crate had been pried open. A wooden flute and small drum sat perched atop the jumble of playthings which spilt from it.
Well! It seemed Helene was unpacking. It was just like her to take the bull by the horns. Folding his arms over his chest, he leaned one shoulder against the frame of the open doorway and stared at her. At first, she did not see him, for she was rummaging in the tattered portmanteau which sat in the floor, her perfect rear end tilted up invitingly. Immediately, Cam felt his physical discomfort of the previous night threaten.
Age had merely enhanced the classic lines of her figure and the fine bones of her face. Today, Helene was dressed in a shade of dark amber. Just as yesterday’s gown of deep purple had not been quite black, the amber of her morning dress was not quite brown. Apparently, Helene danced on the edge of propriety where her wardrobe was concerned. And in some other ways as well, he did not doubt.
Well, that was none of his business, was it? Helene was somewhat past the first blush of youth, and no longer an innocent, though the latter was partly his fault. Of course, his father had cavalierly explained to an enraged Marie Middleton that had her daughter’s ruin not been Cam’s doing, it would soon have been someone else’s, given Helene’s bold nature.
Was that true? Cam’s blood still ran cold at the thought, but he had to believe it was. Otherwise ...
Suddenly, Helene straightened up from the portmanteau, one hand pressed into the small of her back, the other clutching a bedraggled doll. She looked exasperated and pink-cheeked as she puffed upward at an unruly bit of hair which had tumbled down to tease at her nose.
“Unpacking?” he asked softly.
For only the second time in his life, he saw Helene blanch. “Unpacking?” she asked, aghast. “Indeed not! I am repacking. Mr. Larkin or Mr. Stoots must have pried open these crates. To be sure, I did not!”
Helene stared across the room at him, unblinking yet obviously anxious, and Cam was struck by a hailstorm of dissimilar thoughts. The first was that her distress heightened her beauty. The second was that she fully intended to leave. And thirdly, that Helene had still taken it upon herself to remember the names of his footmen.
How very like her. No doubt she already knew that Crane was plagued by a bilious liver, that Stoots gambled a little more than was prudent, and that Emmie, the scullery maid, was hopelessly in love with Shreeves, his groom. Helene, who made friends easily, had always been inappropriately warm.
And as for himself, Cam had broken into a sweat just looking at her. Suddenly the room seemed close, hot, and filled with Helene’s fragrance.
Pulling himself away from the doorframe, he forced himself to smile. “Do not trouble yourself about the open crates. No harm has been done.”
She gave a little half curtsy. “I thank you, my lord. I shall have these remaining things collected in a trice.”
Stepping into the room, Cam tried to draw a deep breath. “You ... you mean to go, then?” He kept his tone light, but something seemed caught in his chest.
“Indeed, yes.” She hesitated, her dark, finely arched brows drawing inward in confusion. “I thought that was your wish.” Cam opened his mouth to reply, but Helene did not pause. “And you are perfectly correct.”
“Correct?” he echoed, his hands on his hips.
Helene bent down to shut the portmanteau and set it upon the worktable. “In truth, I am not as ... as comfortable here as I had hoped I might be.”
“Not comfortable?” Inexplicably, alarm shot through him. “Is your room unsatisfactory? Is there something I can—”
“There is nothing, I thank you,” she interjected, turning toward the desk and beginning to gather up the books that had been uncrated. A box sat nearby, and she dropped the first few into it.
From the corner of her eye, Helene watched Cam advance toward the desk, his expression masked. Nonetheless, she had the impression that he was displeased. But by what? Had he not told her to go? Yet as he came closer, she could feel the strength of some tightly controlled emotion vibrating in the air around him.
Cam halted on the other side of the narrow desk, his hands clasped behind his back. “Miss de Severs, I think I must insist—” He stopped abruptly and swallowed hard. “That is to say—I wish you to remain here. As you said, I must put Ariane’s needs first.”
Helene dropped another book into the box. “But my lord,” she protested despairingly, “you’ve already said my staying would be imprudent. And quite rightly! Your housekeeper, Mrs. Naffles, has recognized me—and inquired after Maman, too! In time, someone may even mention our—”
“Nothing will be mentioned, Miss de Severs,” he coldly interrupted. “No one here knows anything, and if they did, they would not dare speak of it.”
Helene felt a flash of prideful anger. “Nonetheless, my questionable background—”
“—is my business. I do not suffer gossips or mischief-makers amongst my staff.”
“Yes, my lord, but as we discussed—”
“And as for Mrs. Naffles, given my father’s escapades, all else pales by comparison. This household is all but inured to scandal.”
“I ... but you said—”
“Never mind what I said, Miss de Severs,” he snapped. Helene watched his mouth pull into a tight, thin line as he folded his arms across the wide plane of his chest. “Just do the job you’ve been employed to do, and we shall all be well pleased.”
Helene braced her fingertips lightly on the desk, intently studying Cam’s expression. She could feel her face beginning to flood with color. Again, she felt confusion war with humiliation. She was not this man’s dog, to be ordered to go or sit or stay at his whim! Certainly she did not want his charity. As for her reputation, he had been the first to voice his concern about it. And it still hurt.
“My lord, I would have you suffer no embarrassment on my account,” Helene answered stiffly. “I came only because I had agreed to Mr. Brightsmith’s bargain.” She moved as if to turn away from the table.
Swiftly, as if to force her to his will, Cam’s hand came down to cover hers, squeezing her fingers far too hard. “Do not put words into my mouth, Helene,” he answered in a voice that was suddenly low and rough. “I did not say that I was embarrassed by our ... friendship. You will refrain from using that word aga
in.”
Abruptly, Cam lifted his hand away, only to reach into the box and draw out the books. One by one, he began resolutely stacking them atop the desk, as if the matter were resolved. A wicked stubbornness took hold of her then, and Helene moved to grab the books once more.
Cam sprang like a cat, leaning into her, slapping his broad hands on top of the stack, and anchoring it to the desk. “Stop it, Helene,” he said, a little too softly. “Look at me. Look at me, Helene!”
Helene lifted her eyes in a bold challenge, stubbornly locking them with his. “Let go of my books, if you please,” she coldly enunciated. “You are hurting my fingers.”
“I want you to stay,” he demanded.
“Do you indeed?” She lifted her chin a notch higher. “But what of my lax morals? My wicked French blood? And let us not forget that carefree Continental lifestyle I have been living!”
Cam looked at her coldly. “That is your business, Helene. I have not thrown it in your face. I want you to stay.”
His acceptance further angered her. “I am a servant, my lord, not a slave.”
“Damn it, stop parrying words with me, Helene!” Cam hissed through gritted teeth. “I am no longer your biddable swain, to be led about at your whim. It would be unwise to press the issue.”
Helene still grasped the books, her fingers squashed beneath them. She should have pulled away, leaned back from him, but her fingers were trapped beneath the stack. Or so she told herself. Yet Cam would not break his gaze from her own. He looked so different now, far more hardened than she had ever remembered. “I am not parrying with you, sir!” she retorted, dropping her eyes to the stack of books.
As he leaned over her, Cam’s face drew so near that Helene could feel the warmth of his breath as it stirred the wisps of hair around her forehead. And she could smell him, too. Cam, and the heat of his anger, mingled with the sharp, clean scent of shaving soap. In the implacability of his grip, Helene could sense a ruthless energy which she did not recognize. She could feel the intensity of his stare. She did not know this man. And yet, he was so near, she knew that if she looked back up at him now, her forehead would almost certainly brush his chin, and their lips would be far too close.
