by Jackie Ivie
He sighed, released her lock of hair, and then the mattress swayed as he moved from it. Helene forced her eyes to watch the wall.
“I have eyes. I can see I’m not the sort you fancy. Pity. That would have made these mornings entertaining.”
Helene’s head snapped around. He was just belting the robe he’d donned. She should be thankful. Relieved. Soothed. She wasn’t. If anything, her skin felt too tight and parts of her thighs were still twitching. She had to disguise it somehow, so she cleared her throat and spoke, doing her best to sound aloof. Cool. Prim. Proper. Exactly as Helene. She should’ve waited. The words trembled, and had a breathless quality.
“These… mornings?”
“Yes, Helene. These mornings. Every morning. It’s part of the act.”
“It is?”
“I have to be the first thing the servants see in your rooms in the morning.”
“Servants?”
“Servants always know the truth, Helene. Remember that when you resort to lies. The servants would be able to spot our act if I didn’t visit your chambers. And we are hopelessly in love, remember? I do hope you’ll give it a better effort than the pathetic attempt last night.”
“Pathetic?”
“You heard me.”
“You, Sir, have no eyes if you don’t think I fooled every last one of them!”
“Look who’s flattering herself. It was late, the candles dim, and Mother made certain the spirits flowed freely.”
“I can’t believe this. I acted the part of a lovesick fool. And I was perfect. And it was one of the most difficult things I’ve had to do.”
He turned around. His robe had an open collar. And he had a lot of chest. And she really had to look at something else. Like the door frame beyond his shoulder. Helene focused on it.
“A stone could’ve acted better. I do hope you’ll put more emotion into it today.”
Her mouth opened. Nothing came out.
“That’s the only way we’ll be rid of each other, remember?”
“I remember.” Her voice croaked but it was there.
“Good.”
Helene took a deep breath, counted to five, and then moved her eyes to his, and started acting.
“I recall our little arrangement perfectly, Gillian.” She put such a husky tone to his name, he flinched. “And the day I can’t fool a batch of aristos is the day the Thames runs dry.”
“Aristos?” He raised his eyebrows. “One would actually think you were in the revolution, Helene, but you forgot the most elementary item.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” For once, it was true.
The Bingham servants, my dear. You’re damned all right. And this time by your own tongue.”
“What?”
Her query coincided with a knock on the door. Gil walked across to open it, and his robe did little to disguise one inch of that masculine frame. The one she’d seen.
Naked. And nothing banished the image!
“Oh. Look darling. Here is your breakfast. I was beginning to lose faith.”
Three maids entered the room, laden with trays. Two of them blushed and bobbed curtsies. The other sent a sly look toward where Helene perched at the headboard, swathed in linens that should’ve been covering the ticking.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Haven’t you figured it out yet, Gillian?”
“I didn’t ask for your company, Bridget, so I’ll thank you in advance to keep it to yourself.”
Lady Bridget laughed and poured herself another shot from Gil’s bottle. “Not that I’m a judge, mind you, being a prime example of wedded acrimony and all that. Why…I’ve not even seen my delightful spouse for...going on five years, wouldn’t you say?”
“More like ten.’
She laughed. “A total mismatch, Gillian.”
“I’ve a bit of experience in that line.”
“No. Not you. You’ve got a perfect match, if I’m not mistaken, yet you act as if you’re looking at her through a fog.” She continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “Not that she’s been easy, mind.”
She wagged her finger at him, and he smiled.
“You’re a bit foxed, aren’t you?” he asked.
“It was my turn. And you’re prevaricating. We’re discussing your problem and how to solve it.”
“Marriage advice? That’s what you’re giving me?”
“Take the girl and make her look at herself. I daresay half your problems would be solved in the time that little exercise takes. Speaking of exercise, where the devil’s your riding companion?”
“Reginald? Probably at Almack’s, awaiting our arrival. Perfect match, indeed. I thought she might be starting to develop a decided tenderness for me this morning. To tell the truth, it frightened the daylights out of me. Don’t laugh. It did. I even insulted her acting ability to get over the moment and felt like a total fool.”
“You, frightened? Why, Gillian, I’m beginning to think there’s rhyme and reason to the universe yet. You don’t know what you’ve got there, lad. It’s a powerful thing.”
“Now I know you’ve had too much. Spare me the lecture. The last thing I want is to be saddled with a wife who fancies herself in love with me.”
“You don’t have to pretend to me, Gillian, dear. I’ve eyes in my head and ages to watch. Pour me a bit more and fetch the girl. She’s a darn sight prettier than your dear old auntie, and her tongue will keep your wits sharp and interest piqued. Admit it, love. She’s not the least bit boring. That’s one thing I remember about dear, old what’s-his-name. He’s a most boring husband.”
Gil looked over the rim of his goblet at her. She was right. Her husband, while sporting passable looks, had a penchant for moors and hounds and writing on his memoirs. He was decidedly boring.
“Dexter is that, all right,” Gil agreed. ‘Whatever possessed you to marry him, anyway?”
“You were too young yet, boy.”
Gil lifted his glass in salute, and then stood. “Make her take a look at herself? You really think she’s worried about her face? It healed ages ago. You can’t tell beyond the slightest droop of her eyelid.”
“She doesn’t know that, Gillian, my love. She had all the mirrors banished from your Grandmama’s, and I’ll bet my bottom shilling she’s avoiding them here, too. Besides which, she’s still using her outstanding defense technique. She can’t possibly tell you her problem when she’s pretending that Brandy doesn’t exist. And here I thought you had the intelligence to sort that out. Face it, lad. She’s a gem. And not that difficult to understand.”
“She’d confound the entire medical community.”
“It would give the buggers something to do with their time, then. Gillian?”
He waited at the door, and she winked.
“Act the Hun, darling. I rather think she liked that.”
He rolled his eyes.
***
Helene looked down at the beautiful, light-green satin dress that had been sewn for her and thought she’d cry her eyes out at the first opportunity. It had been especially difficult to abide Lord Tremayne’s odious presence all day, and now Almack’s!
“I’ve heard of this strange custom you’re attempting, Helene my dear,” Gil said, “but, to be honest…isn’t keeping me waiting over two hours an exceptionally cruel punishment? They don’t make these collars comfortable, you know.”
He looked spectacular, as usual, and if wearing his high, starched cravat was uncomfortable, it didn’t show. He looked impossibly handsome standing at her chamber door, his arms crossed as he appraised her.
“Not to mention Mother,” he added. “There’s a woman who hasn’t wasted her time waiting for your appearance. I believe she’s planned the entire week’s meals, selected a month worth of apparel, and driven the staff mad with her continuous chatter. I sincerely hope you have a good reason for this delay. I’m fairly certain our arrival will be the main event. In which case, an hour would’ve been sufficient for a grand entran
ce.”
“I’m not going.”
“Really? I’m not at all surprised to hear that.”
“You can say I’m ill, that I’ve taken a chill. There’s no reason to act here, My Lord. I’ve already dismissed the maid, as you can see. There’s no audience, servant class or otherwise. Don’t you take another step!”
She should’ve spoken before he reached her.
“Right. You’ve obviously forgotten our arrangement, and I’m deuced tired of reminding you of it. By the by, isn’t there a powder or other concoction we could use on your face?”
He’d reached her, and while the hands on her arms hurt, it was nothing in comparison to his words.
“My...face? You-you’re abusing my time, Lord Tremayne.”
She gave the lie away the moment she moved, turning her left side toward the room’s shadows.
The hands on her arms tightened.
“Lord Tremayne?” he asked. “I’m of a mind to teach you the proper way to address your beloved, and it’s not Lord Tremayne. The proper way to address me is Gil, damn it!”
“But you aren’t partial to Gil-damn-it.”
“I’m not partial to anything you do, Helene, my sweet. I’m heartily sick of the sight of you!”
“There is a God!”
She sighed and looked heavenward, ignoring the pressure on her arms. And he was more than stupid if he thought pain would get him what he wanted. Hard lips slammed against hers, stopping every thought. And then - Heaven help her - her fingers found his jacket lapels, scraping against satin as she clutched it. He groaned and lifted her.
His mouth moved against hers, shoving her lips open to flick his tongue against hers. Oh, my! It was a good thing he was holding her because otherwise, she’d have fallen.
“Goddamn you, Helene.”
He put her on her feet and shoved back, but her fingers didn’t move. His cheeks were flushed becomingly, and the depth and power of each breath told more than his lying tongue. He wasn’t unaffected. It showed.
“I...I suppose you’re attempting to get me to acquiesce, My Lord. And I have to point out, that you’d best look to your own reaction first.”
She thought for a moment, that she finally goaded him into hitting her. And for some reason, the thought hurt more.
“Don’t you ever fall short of words?” he asked in that frightening whisper of his.
“That will be the day, My...Gil.”
He smiled slightly at that, and then it faded. And then she watched him look her over. And then he met her eyes and winked.
“You’ll pass, Helene.”
“Please don’t make me go, Gillian! Please? I’ll do anything!”
“Seems to me I’ve heard that vow before.”
His fingers covered hers, where they still clung to the black satin of his jacket. It wasn’t lover-like. It was to remove her.
“I’ll pretend I love you! I’ll even let you...um. You know. In my room this morning, when you wanted to—uh. Well, when you wanted what you wanted.”
She was trembling, but it wasn’t noticeable. Because he was laughing. She pulled herself up as stiffly as she could.
He was laughing?
“Does that mean you’re going to come willingly, Helene?”
“Please don’t make me, Gil. Please?” Moisture obliterated his face, but she didn’t blink it into existence.
“Tears again? Jesus, Helene, I’ve had a gullet full of your sobs. As for your face, if it doesn’t bother me to pretend I love you while I have to look at it, there’s no reason for such dramatics on your part, is there?”
She slid her hands from beneath his and fussed with the ribbon beneath her bodice before she looked up. He was standing there as if he’d said nothing of importance, with an arm out to escort her.
“So now, you’re ready to attend?”
“Do I…have a choice?”
She stammered. Damn everything. Her teeth wouldn’t stop chattering.
“Of course. We can stay up here while I do whatever I wanted to this morning, or I could haul you downstairs over my shoulder, which should entertain most of the servants. It might give my valet fits over the use of this fine dinner jacket. And let’s not forget what Mother might think of the situation. Of course, she might think we act that way as a normal event, given the state of your bedding this morn.”
“I’ll go! Just don’t say…another word.”
She was in her own personal hell, because the arm under the material of his jacket was finely sculpted, and her fingers told her so.
***
Being ignorant would’ve been better.
No, that was stupid.
Knowing what awaited her at Almack’s would’ve given her a weapon to use sooner. Why…as far as she was concerned, he could’ve bedded half the ladies in London, gambled away several fortunes, and frequented every den of iniquity he wished…as long as she didn’t have to act like she was madly in love with him while he did it. Thinking it wasn’t helping. There was more. And it was worse. Watching him with other women felt…odd. Strange. Her entire body chilled. She couldn’t possibly be jealous. No. She’d commit herself back to bedlam if that were the case.
Helene shouldn’t have worried about the interest shown in their arrival. There wasn’t enough room to circulate properly, let alone garner reactions at her presence. The place was stiflingly crowded. She didn’t know that Almack’s was the place where an ingenue must be seen, but as far as Helene was concerned, it was sadly impersonal — until she made her bow before the dowager’s bench. And then it became very personal.
“I believe you’re the one with ties to Miss Helen Bingham?” one of the matrons asked.
“Pray, don’t tell anyone,” Helene replied.
The woman looked shocked for a moment, and then she laughed aloud, which must be a surprising event, as much attention as it mustered.
“Priceless, Tremayne,” the woman said. “You’ve my congratulations. Enjoy the dancing.”
“Charmed, Lades. As always. Helene?” Gil dipped a bow and moved them away, although, if he hadn’t been there, she’d have never made headway.
“Dancing?” she asked. “What kind of dancing can anyone do in here?”
She managed to ask the question as she was jostled against Gil. Maybe that was why he held her tightly about the waist. The crowd.
“Your kind of dancing, of course.”
“In that case, I’m in luck, no?”
“Just don’t get lost. Christ, you’d think they’d find a way to air out the room. It’s so hot, I’m sweating like a stuck pig.”
“Your romantic comments turn my head.” She waved to Reginald, who gestured them over.
“Reg!” Gil said. “I’ve been cursing you most of the day. I don’t suppose your ears have been burning? Well, lean over. Give me a fair shot at them, old boy, and they will.”
“He’s uncommonly civilized this evening, Helene. You’re to be congratulated.” Reg took her hand and pressed his lips to her knuckles.
“More’s the pity, I suppose, My Lord. Not that I enjoy his barbarism, but he is rather good at it, isn’t he? And we all have to be good at something.”
The arm around her tightened, threatening her breathing, but she smiled shyly at Reg and ignored it. The marquis winked again and stood as tall as he could to look over her at Gil.
“I don’t believe I’ll ever forgive you, Gillian,” Reg said.
‘There’s dancing starting, Reg. I’ll gladly give over my promised dance, if that’s the case. Of course…you should’ve worn boots. She has a penchant for tromping toes, you know.”
She giggled.
“And just look, darling. We’re in luck. We’ll be able to hit the floor after all.”
He negotiated them through more doors, where so many elegantly clad couples facing each other in the room, Helene couldn’t count them if she stayed all eve.
“Gil...um. They’re not waltzing.”
Indeed, as soon as the music
started, several circles started spiraling, making her dizzy. Perhaps that was due more to how her stomach fell. She couldn’t possibly dance with Gillian. The steps were much too complicated.
“Of course not, and if you mention that particular dance again, we might even be asked to leave.”
“Asked to leave?”
“Ignore him, My Lady,” Reg said. “He’s talking fustian, and he knows it. What you see is the quadrille. The waltz is still considered too fast for this establishment.”
“Then why’d you teach it to me, Gil?”
He wasn’t listening. She tipped her head upward and repeated the question.
“Teach you what, pray tell? How to foul up a perfectly good melody?”
“Of all the—. Look. I may have to act like I adore you, Monsieur, but—”
“Would you rather dance, love?”
He cheated again, lifting her slightly to whisper it at her ear. The instant shiver coursing from his breath touching her skin titillated and yet excited. And that terrified her. And she had to make it stop. She said the first thing that came into her head, without one bit of thinking it through. And she said it flippantly.
“They’re your toes.”
His eyes met hers. And then he looked away, over the dancers.
“Very good. You’ll hold the line, Reg?”
Helene longed to snatch her own tongue out for challenging him. Holding back did nothing to stop him, but then he halted. She didn’t have to look far to see why. The woman whispering into his other ear was so fantastic Helene wasn’t the only person staring. If she hadn’t learned to control herself better, she would’ve been open-mouthed, too.
Once she’d thought Gil deserved a goddess for his wife, and here one was. Dressed in a charcoal-shaded gown, almost opaque enough to see through. Helene had been wrong. This woman exceeded even Helene’s imagination.
“Ah. Signora Simone del Casta. May I introduce…?”
Gil may have finished the introductions, but the vivid black of the signora’s eyes pinned her like a worm. Helene couldn’t hear anything above the sound of roaring water in her ears.
Aren’t Spaniards supposed to be dark?
This woman was the opposite. She had golden hair, and unlike the current fashion, she hadn’t dressed it atop her head. Instead, her mass of honey-colored hair was loose and flowing down her back, at least to her waist.
