Tempting the Bride

by Sherry Thomas

  He was jittery on the return trip—the last time he’d left her for an appreciable amount of time, she’d recovered a solid block of her memory. Walking into Fitz’s house filled him with both anticipation and unease.

  The time had probably come to tell her the entire truth. Her life was no longer in danger; her mind was as robust as it had ever been; it would be a discourtesy to continue to keep her in the dark.

  She was not in her bed when he entered her room, but sitting before the vanity, frowning at the reflection in the mirror. On her head she wore one of the close-fitting turbans Millie’s maid had fashioned for her, this one made from an auburn silk that rather matched the color of her eyebrows.

  “I’m back,” he said.

  She turned her head and regarded him severely. His heart leaped up his throat. What had she remembered now?

  “Is it because I am bald that you haven’t kissed me?” she demanded.

  “What?” He goggled at her, astounded that she could even conceive of such a thing. “Of course not.”

  “Then why haven’t you proceeded to that demonstration yet? It has been almost a week since you offered me one.”

  “Because—you have been unwell and I don’t wish to rush you.”

  His reply was not dishonest, but he was still reflexively shying away from the greater truth.

  “You can’t rush me—I won’t allow you to rush me,” she said, her tone haughty. “But you do owe me that demonstration. A man who dares tell me that I enjoy kissing him had better be ready with the proof.”

  Her hand reached up and felt around the edge of the turban. The gesture, in sharp contrast to the imperiousness of her words, was quite tentative. It dawned on him that she was genuinely concerned that her lack of hair was somehow responsible for his lack of aggression.

  “My dear Helena, I assure you, you are just as pretty without your hair.”

  She pulled her lips tight. “Liar.”

  He approached her and, in one quick gesture, yanked the turban from her head.

  “Give it back!” she cried. One of her hands covered the top of her head; the other grabbed at the turban.

  He took her by the shoulders and turned her toward the mirror. “Look at yourself.”

  She dropped her hand from her head but kept her gaze firmly averted. “I look like a prisoner.”

  “I know conventional ideas of femininity demand the presence of hair—a great deal of it, preferably. But set aside your preconceptions. Don’t judge your appearance on what it is not, but on what it is.”

  She glanced at the mirror and grimaced.

  “You are beautiful as you are,” he murmured. “I don’t think I’ve ever noticed the shape of your cheekbones, the sweep of your eyebrows, or the fullness of your lips as well as I do now.”

  He cupped her chin, his thumb pressing into the center of her bottom lip. Their gaze met in the mirror. Her lips parted; her breath caressed the top of his hand.

  His heart pounded: She wanted to kiss him. Not because he’d blackmailed her, not because they had to in order to convince Mrs. Monteth, but because she wanted to feel his lips against hers, his tongue in her mouth.

  He meant to do it properly, start slow and soft, and only gradually build toward the wildness that had always characterized their kisses. But the moment he touched his lips to hers, she locked one arm behind his neck, and all thoughts of leisure and gentleness leaped out the window.

  He devoured her. And she, her tongue mobile and eager, devoured him in return. He pulled her out of her chair and pushed her against the edge of the vanity. She grabbed his hair and moaned, a sound of stark hunger—and it was all he could do not to push up her nightgown and sink into her then and there.

  He pulled back before he could become further aroused. They stared at each other for a moment, panting.

  “Is this what always happens when we kiss?” she asked, licking her kiss-swollen lips.

  He had to clench his hands so as to not fall upon her again. “Precisely.”

  She took a few more agitated breaths, then grinned. “You are right. I do like it very, very well.”

  CHAPTER 10

  It was rather late the next afternoon when Hastings’s carriage pulled up to his town house. Venetia had decided to throw a celebratory family picnic. Society had deserted London for the country, and they enjoyed an open-air feast in an uncluttered park on Venetia’s best tartan blankets, drinking toasts to Venetia’s baby and Helena’s return to health.

  Hastings and Helena alighted from the carriage. She set her hand on his elbow. “So this is what a great deal of new money buys.”

  “Among other things.” His grandfather had been a mere country lawyer. His uncle, however, had accumulated vast wealth via the manufacture of industrial machinery. “I know you do not mind the fragrance of new money, as you yourself are in a commercial endeavor.”

  “Indeed not. I like money very well. It is the means to independence and authority.”

  As she had no recollection of his staff, he assembled them again to welcome her home.

  “Thank you,” she murmured, once the servants had dispersed to their usual stations.

  The closer they grew, the more he dreaded the eventual return of her memory. Yet in the shadow of this very fear, a seed of hope was germinating. “It is my pleasure and privilege to pave the way for you, madam.”

  “Ah, this is not fair,” she teased. “A man with the voice of a siren shouldn’t also possess the honeyed tongue of a Casanova.”

  Compliments—he couldn’t get enough of her compliments. “What can I say? God was in a generous mood the day He made me.”

  She snorted good-naturedly. “But let it be noted He ran out of modesty before it was your turn.”

  “Let those who have faults be modest, and let me be an unabashed paean to His power and glory.”

  She laughed. “Blasphemy.”

  “You like it,” he murmured.

  She cast him a long, lingering look. “Will we stand about all day or will you eventually show me to my rooms?”

  His heart thumped—this time not about the possibly imminent return of her memory. “Let us proceed upstairs, then.”

  She lowered her voice. “Couldn’t you have said that without sounding blatantly suggestive?”

  “Couldn’t you have heard my innocent words without twisting them into a blatant suggestion?” he whispered back.

  She shook her head, grinning. The sight of her, delighted and companionable, was a dart in his heart. Millie was right: He should have admitted his true sentiments years ago. Then he wouldn’t be in such a state, dreading that his happiness would be ripped from him in the next minute.

  They climbed the steps arm in arm. Before the door of her apartment, he swung her up into his arms. Almost as if she’d been expecting the gesture, she laced her hands behind his neck and turned her face into his jacket. “Hmm, I like how you smell.”

  “How do I smell?” he asked, setting her down.

  “Of tweed, leather-bound books, and a hint of tobacco. Like someone you aren’t—an old-fashioned country squire, perhaps.”

  Her hands slowly slid down his sleeves, rather obviously feeling the musculature of his arms.

  “By the way,” he murmured, “in case you haven’t noticed, I am also perfectly built.”

  She tapped his jaw. “Cheeky.”

  Her eyes brimmed with fondness. His heart stopped: This was how he’d always hoped she’d look upon him someday.

  Bibliophile that she was, she headed in the direction of the bookshelves. “Go into the bedroom first,” he requested.

  She turned around. “Did the good Lord also forget subtlety when He made you?”

  “No, He didn’t. But He certainly gave you a dirty mind, my dear. I want you to see the bedroom, not use it.”

  “Is it exceptionally pretty?”

  He inhaled. “I think so.”

  She opened the door. “So even if I don’t like it, I must shower complimen
ts upon…”

  Her voice trailed off. Her face lifted and her head swiveled slowly, taking in the panorama that had taken him years to complete, through many a frustrated Season, when reaching her had seemed no more feasible than holding starlight in his hands.

  “Did you commission this?” she asked, her voice awed—reverent, almost.

  His heart fell back into place. “I painted it myself.”

  “It’s stunning. Breathtaking.” She turned around. “For me?”

  “Of course.”

  She approached one of the walls, the one with the view of the distant river, and touched her finger to a line of washing strung between two walls. “My goodness, did you paint these from the etchings I brought back from Tuscany? I recognize so many details.”

  “Now you remember.”

  When he’d visited Hampton House, not infrequently would he see her in her room, poring over old photographs, or standing before those prints from Italy, as if she were once again walking under the Tuscan sky, with her mother by her side.

  “Did I not remember earlier?”

  “No.”

  “Have the etchings been lost?”

  “No, but you haven’t visited the house in years. And even when you did, I doubt you took time to study the etchings. One stops paying attention to that which has been around a long, long time.”

  He, too, had been around a long, long time.

  She bent her head for a moment, as if deep in thought. Then she closed the distance between them and traced a finger over one of his brows. “It was utterly inexcusable on my part to not have recognized it earlier. Rest assured it is no reflection on your art, but only a terrible statement of my inattentiveness.”

  He’d asked himself many times, in pique and in despair, why he loved this one infuriatingly unreceptive woman. He could not remember now why he’d ever doubted. “You like the murals, then?”

  “Yes.” She broke away to admire them again. “I love them. I have never seen anything so beautiful.”

  He watched her hand glide gently over the world he’d painstakingly created for her. “Then that’s all that matters.”

  Helena could not quite understand the pinched sensation in her chest.

  She enjoyed the sight, the sound, the smell, and the feel of her husband. She enjoyed his company. And she enjoyed being the object of his affection. Why then was she not beaming broadly? Why did she feel as close to tears as she did to laughter?

  “Would you like to see the books you’ve published?” asked Hastings.

  “You have them here?”

  “Of course.”

  So many of her questions were answered with “of course,” as if the alternative were unthinkable. As if this were the only possible path for him to have taken in life. As if she were his only possible path.

  They walked down the stairs arm in arm, with her glancing at him every other second. The sight of his spectacular profile only caused her feelings to grow more unruly, a chaos of fierce, sweet pain.

  His study was everything a study ought to be: bookshelves reaching to the ceiling along every wall, a comfortable corner set up for reading, and a pervasive fragrance of leather binding and book dust.

  He took out a key from a large desk before the windows and opened a cabinet, the doors of which had been inset with panes of frosted glass. The cabinet contained some forty, forty-five volumes.

  An indescribable joy overtook her—this was her life’s work—until she began to examine the spines for the titles.

  “The books on the bottom are the vanity projects that you charge to publish,” he explained. “The books in the middle are those you publish primarily for their commercial appeal. And those on top are the ones you felt driven to bring out.”

  “Oh good,” she said, relieved. “All these spiritualist manuals in the middle, I was beginning to fear I’d taken a fancy to séances. Do they sell well?”

  “According to you, they do.”

  She inspected the books on the top shelf. The ones having to do with helping women obtain employment and education she certainly endorsed, but some of the other titles baffled her. “Are you sure these haven’t been misplaced? I am driven to produce volumes of history on East Anglia? Or did I develop an all-encompassing love of that region at some point during my forgotten years?”

  “No, but you did become a great friend to the author of these works.”

  There was a tightness to his voice. She glanced at him curiously, then pulled out one of the volumes. Few expenses had been spared in the production. The volume was bound in fine leather, the title gilt-embossed, the pages edged in gold.

  “A.G.F. Martin.” She read the name of the author. “I don’t remember him—assuming it is a he.”

  At the sound of a carriage coming to a stop before the house, he walked to the window and looked out. “Mr. Martin was a classmate of mine at Christ Church. I introduced the two of you—brought him to Henley Park when Fitz and his wife gave their first country house party.”

  He did sound odd. She glanced at him. “You don’t like him?”

  He recoiled, as if something unspeakably gruesome took place on the street outside.

  “What’s the matter?”

  He breathed heavily, as if he’d been running from a gang of murdering thieves. “We have a caller.”

  Had the accepted hours for visiting changed so much during her absence of memory? “It’s late. We are not obliged to receive this caller, are we?”

  His expression was quite wild, but his words rang with certainty. “We are. Or you are, at least. He is your author and your friend.”

  A footman entered. “Mr. Andrew Martin to see you, Lady Hastings. Are you at home to him?”

  She looked at her husband. “The same Mr. A.G.F. Martin?”

  He turned to the footman. “You may show Mr. Martin here in five minutes.”

  “Why make him wait that long?”

  His answer was another kiss—this time one that would have made for a proper first kiss. It felt like speaking, almost, to kiss this way, syllables turned into contact of lips. The movement of his lips and tongue said that he adored and cherished her, that he could kiss her like this forever and never stop.

  But he did stop. He rubbed her lips with his thumb and sucked in a breath when she licked the pad of his thumb.

  “Let’s tell Mr. Martin to come back tomorrow,” she whispered. “I’m not interested in receiving anyone except you.”

  “I wish I could.” He set his hands on either side of her head, careful not to hold her too tight. “Whatever happens, remember that I love you. That I have always loved you.”

  And with that, he turned on his heel and left. Helena was completely nonplussed—she had no idea she was meant to receive this Mr. Martin by herself.

  Why?

  The man who walked in a minute later was an agreeable-looking fellow, with an air of scholarship to him—and an air of timidity. He seemed just as surprised as she at the absence of her husband.

  “H— I mean, Lady Hastings, how do you do?”

  “I am very well, thank you. And you, Mr. Martin? Won’t you have a seat?”

  He sat down gingerly, stealing glances toward the door as if expecting Hastings to return any moment. Only after a minute of awkward silence did he clear his throat and turn his full attention to her. “Are you well, H—Lady Hastings?”

  She relaxed slightly—this man might not be the most graceful of conversationalists, but she sensed in him a sincerity and much goodwill—at least toward her. “Yes, I am, thank you very much. Although I am sorry to inform you that I have lost a great deal of memories and therefore do not know who you are, except what my husband has told me—that I am your publisher and that he introduced us to each other years ago at my brother’s place in the country.”

  Tiny beads of perspiration appeared on Mr. Martin’s face. “You—you lost your memories?”

  “As a result of my accident. Apparently I ran into oncoming traffic and receive
d a hard knock to my head.”

  He pulled out a neatly folded, snow white handkerchief and dabbed at his upper lip. “You mean to say I am a stranger to you?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  She thought she’d made herself perfectly clear from the beginning, but he stilled all the same. His handkerchief hovered in midair, like the white flag held up by a surrender party. “I…I see.”

  “Please feel free to tell me anything I need to know. Lord Hastings assured me that I delighted in publishing your books, so I am certain whatever you tell me would be quite welcome.”

  Mr. Martin swallowed. “There is—there is not much to tell. I’d always wanted to write histories. When you started your publishing firm, you encouraged—compelled me, I might say—to hand over my manuscripts. The books have been very well received and I am exceedingly grateful to you.”

  “That is wonderful to hear. I am glad I’ve been able to be of assistance to one of Lord Hastings’s friends.”

  Mr. Martin looked down. He reached for the cup of tea that had been brought for him. She was startled to see that his hand shook.

  “I apologize,” she said immediately. “My husband did mention that you were also a dear friend to me. How remiss of me to think of you only as his friend.”

  “No, no, if anyone should apologize, it is I. I believe you were coming after me the day of your accident—probably concerning a matter having to do with my latest manuscript.” He laughed a little, not from mirth but from what seemed to be a great and growing uneasiness. “I’m quite despondent to be the cause of so much trouble.”

  That could explain some of his discomfort, if he thought himself the culprit in her accident. She felt sorry for him, but she also felt as if she’d rehearsed for one play, but had been thrust onstage in the middle of another. “How can I blame you for my own inattention while crossing the street? And you must not blame yourself, either.”

  He raised his face. “That is perhaps easier said than done.”

  She realized that he shared her coloring, though his was less intense—reddish brown hair and hazel eyes. “I’m alive and hale—and really not terribly bothered about what I cannot remember.”