by Ava Stone
She hastily turned away when tears sprang to her eyes. Hélène would not show weakness in front of Stanwick, or he would never accept that women did not need to be coddled. It was bad enough she had fainted in front of him. Why she was crying, she had no idea.
“I wish to act. Until everyone can accept my desires, I have no reason to remain in London or marry.”
“Very well,” he said after a long silence.
Hélène didn’t turn but sensed when he stood. Her skin prickled as he drew near. It was much safer with him across the room.
His hands slid about her waist and, with the slightest pressure, turned her to face him. Hélène looked up into his dark eyes, wishing she could understand the emotions reflected within. Before she could say anything, he lowered his mouth to hers, kissing her with a tenderness that made her heart ache. His mouth was gone too soon, and she looked up at him again. Did she read sadness within the depths?
“It was an honor to know you, Lady Hélène.” He stepped back and bowed. “I hope everything you wish for is yours.”
With that, he turned on his heel and quit the room. Hélène sank down into a chair at the side of the fireplace and watched him walk out of her life, part of her heart going with him.
Hélène put a fist against her mouth to keep from calling out after him, asking him to stay, but to do so would only encourage the impossible.
Each time she rejected his offer and he left, she hurt more. Why?
She glanced down at the table. A purse that hadn’t been there before sat in the middle. She lifted it and opened the clasp and pulled out the parchment.
I wish you well in Milan. I believe I will miss you very much. It was signed by Stanwick. Hélène tipped the purse and dumped the notes out. He had returned her winnings.
Why wasn’t she happy?
This would be the last night Dagger’s would be open until after Twelfth Night. Only a few patrons sat at the many tables, and they were drinking, not gambling. After paying the employees, Stanwick wouldn’t make a profit tonight. He’d expected it to be this way. However, he hadn’t expected Acker and Bentley to be occupying one of the tables. They had wives and a large family. Their presence was rather suspicious.
Stanwick remained across the room, sipping his brandy, determined not to walk over. It had been two days since he visited with Hélène, and he knew he would first inquire about her health before anything else. Stanwick didn’t want them thinking he was smitten.
It was difficult enough to no longer fool himself. He wasn’t going to make others aware that he had somehow developed deep feelings for a lady he barely knew. One does not fall in love in a week. It was impossible, yet his gut insisted he was wrong. Why else was it physically painful to think of her in Milan and never seeing her again? He had never ached for a woman, at least not in a way that wasn’t purely sexual. He did want her beneath him, but also beside him, living in his home, sharing his life.
Damn and blast. He thrust his fingers through his hair, turned from the others, and had the barkeep refill his glass. It was best she was leaving. Once she was gone, he could continue with the life he already planned for himself. He’d made a pact not three weeks ago, and he wasn’t about the break it so soon. The others would never let him forget it.
When he turned again, Acker and Bentley were studying him. Acker had a half smile and looked a bit amused. Bentley held a more serious look in his eye, as if determining Stanwick’s worth. Had Hélène changed her mind about marrying him, or were they determined to force the issue regardless of the lady’s wishes?
Stanwick sipped from his drink. He was not going to go over there.
The two men shared a look and rose from their seats. Stanwick groaned into his glass when they walked towards him instead of the door, carrying their half-full glasses.
“You gave Hélène her winnings?” Bentley demanded when he stopped before Stanwick.
“They were hers.”
“Do you know what she intends to do with the money?”
Stanwick nodded. He wasn’t going to tell them if they didn’t already know.
“You think it is proper for a young lady to return to another country and live alone?” Acker asked casually.
“No, but it isn’t as if I have control over her. She can do as she pleases.”
“Except here, apparently,” Acker added.
That was her family’s fault, Stanwick thought. If Bentley would allow her to continue acting, no matter the potential scandal, Hélène wouldn’t need to return to Milan.
She wouldn’t be leaving him.
Acker tipped back his glass and drained the contents setting it down with a thud. “We will see you after Twelfth Night. Have a happy Christmas.”
Bentley didn’t finish his drink, but set the glass down on the counter.
Stanwick nodded. How did they know he was closing? He hadn’t announced it yet. Usually he put a sign on the door when the decision was made. His customers were used to seeing it this time of year.
“We need to get an early start,” Bentley added.
Stanwick jerked his head to look at him. Start for where?
“The entire family is going to Yorkshire for Christmas,” Bentley explained.
“Why Yorkshire?” Wasn’t Bentley’s estate in northeast Kent?
“My sister-in-law’s grandfather lives in Yorkshire and demands the entire family home, which extends to her in-laws, apparently.”
Stanwick had forgotten that the youngest had married a Whitton. “Happy Christmas to both of you, and safe travels.”
The two studied him for a moment before they nodded and left Dagger’s. Stanwick suspected they wanted to say more to him but either changed their minds or assumed they could not change his. It wasn’t his mind that needed to be changed, but Hélène’s.
As the door closed behind the two, the other customers began to leave as well. Within an hour, his business was empty except for the employees, and it wasn’t even midnight. Yes, it was time to close down until next year.
“Come back and clean up tomorrow,” He called to his employees. “I will pay you then.”
They grinned and nodded. It was rare they were through with their duties so early, and he suspected many of them were looking forward to returning home to a wife, ladylove, or spending their time with friends at other establishments.
He bolted the entrance once the last was gone and checked that the back door was also locked. Stanwick turned down lamps and blew out candles as he made his way towards his office still carrying his glass of brandy.
It was strangely eerie. Stanwick settled back in his chair and sipped the warm, rich liquid. A small fire danced in the grate and would soon die out. A small bit of light reflected off the fire iron. It no longer looked as fearsome as it had when he’d first returned from Arrington’s funeral. He couldn’t imagine Hélène being so distraught she would hit anyone with it.
A smile pulled at his lips. No, she would challenge them with swords.
The thought of Hélène combined with the brandy warmed him from within. She was remarkable. Stanwick couldn’t imagine her crumbling or hiding if things turned out badly. She would move forward and see her way through any situation. He admired that in her. Such a woman wouldn’t feel the need to bash her husband’s head with a fire iron. A woman like Hélène would simply walk away or make the man suffer in other ways, like denying the husband her bed.
And though Stanwick had only kissed her, he very much wanted to share a bed with her. Once he got the chance, he would not be in any hurry to leave.
He leaned back in his chair, tipping it so it rested on the back legs. What had she said? “What harm is there in a lady being an actress or a ballerina, or anything she wishes. We have brains and can think. We have talents we wish to explore. Yet if you ask a gentleman, we are only capable of running a house, shopping, gossiping, and producing children. If I were forced to endure such a life I might very well go mad.”
Is that why so many wom
en were reduced to madness or melancholy? Were gentlemen truly the cause?
He righted his chair, and the legs came down with a thud. His heart began to beat hard in his chest.
Why had he been such a bloody fool?
Hélène waited for the others, dressed for travel and sipping a cup of warm chocolate. Servants were loading trunks, and it was barely light out. Bentley and Eleanor would arrive soon, and they would all pile into coaches and begin their journey to Yorkshire.
A weight of loneliness settled around Hélène. She ached and wanted someone of her own. Her brothers and sisters were happy with their chosen spouses. Hélène envied the loving looks that passed between couples, eyes lit with love when a spouse walked in a room, discreet touches at the small of a back or arm, grasping of a hand, and sometimes an embrace.
She hadn’t noticed so much before she had met Stanwick. Had he not kissed and held her, she might not notice now. Unfortunately, Hélène was all too aware that the small actions she witnessed evidenced a deeper intimacy. Not only what was strictly physical, but emotional as well.
Would she find love?
That wasn’t the correct question. Would she find love again? She was already half in love with Stanwick and knew any further time in his presence would only make her love him more. How could she feel so strongly about a man she had known so short a time? Yet it was certainly the case.
There were enough plays that spoke of no rules governing the heart. She had thought the words were simply romantic fiction. She knew the truth now. Unless she gave up the theatre, she would never see him again.
Hélène straightened. Could she do that for him? Was it worth the risk? Would she be miserable in the end, waiting for him to come home late at night, waiting for him to wake after sleeping half of the day? Would she be less lonely than she is now?
Her heart pounded and pulse raced. Was it worth the risk?
Stanwick bolted up in bed and glanced around. The sun was barely up. What if Hélène didn’t come back to London? What if she sailed to Milan from a port further north? She could sail from anywhere.
He jumped out of bed, not bothering to ring for his valet, and set to dressing for the day. He had to see her before she left. Bentley said they were getting an early start. How early? What if they had gone already?
He shoved his feet into his boots, pulled the jacket over this waistcoat and stopped before the mirror. Dark stubble shadowed his jaw, but he didn’t have time to shave—not if he was to get to Hélène in time. Hastily he brushed through his hair and then rushed from his chamber, running down the stairs, taking them two at a time. He paused when he reached the street. The only people out this early were servants. He hurried back towards the mews to have his horse saddled.
A bleary eyed lad with rumpled hair readied his horse. Stanwick tossed him an extra quid for disturbing the lad’s sleep. Thankfully, there weren’t many hackneys or carriages out. Stanwick was able to navigate the streets quickly. As he rounded the corner to the street where Hélène lived, he blew out a breath. Two coaches waited before her house. She hadn’t left him yet.
As he neared, he jumped from the mount, tossed the reins to a footman, and raced up the stairs. The door opened as he reached it, and he stopped. Inside the foyer stood Acker, his wife, Bentley and his wife, and Hélène. Everyone else disappeared when his eyes lit on her. His pulse calmed and his erratic heart returned to a normal rhythm. He could breathe again.
She glanced up, and a smile lit her face.
What was Stanwick doing here? Hélène thought to never see him again. Just the sight of him answered the questions that had plagued her earlier. She would give up her desire to act if given the chance to be his wife.
Why had she foolishly insisted she continue to act?
Because it was familiar, or was it simply stubbornness because Bentley told her she couldn’t? What would being an actress achieve in the end? She would still be alone and most likely grow old as a spinster. Besides, it wasn’t as if she had to be part of Society either. Stanwick wasn’t, and even when he inherited the title, Hélène doubted he would change. She admired that about him. He did as he pleased, thumbing his nose at Society. How could she not respect him? How could she not love him?
Stanwick stepped inside the foyer and bowed. “Lady Hélène, might I have a word with you?”
She glanced at Bentley and the others. They said nothing. Her heart hammered in her chest. Was he here to propose again? She hadn’t seen him in two days, and this was certainly not a proper time to call. Not that she cared. All that mattered was that Stanwick was here and wished to speak with her. “This way.” She turned and entered the small parlor off the foyer. The room was only used for greeting guests or for short visits.
Stanwick followed and started to close the door behind him. A hand grasped the edge holding it open.
“We will allow you privacy, but the door remains open,” Bentley said.
Stanwick grumbled something under this breath that Hélène didn’t quite hear, but he did walk further in to the room, stopping before her.
At first he said nothing, simply stared down at her. Hélène took a deep, shaky breath and waited.
Should she speak first? But what if he hadn’t come here about marriage but something else entirely? Not that she could imagine what it would be.
She blinked up at him and waited, trying to remember to breathe.
Stanwick cleared his throat and took her hands in his. “I’ve been a bloody fool.”
Hélène couldn’t help herself and smiled. He was so serious and the least foolish person she knew.
“There are many reasons I did not wish to marry, most of which I have shared with you.” He cleared his throat again. “Another was because of fear.”
The smile slipped. Was Stanwick afraid of a broken heart?
“My mother, as you know, died because she was not strong enough to continue without my father.”
She nodded.
“And earlier this month, I attended a funeral of a friend.”
Sadness clouded his eyes. Hélène raised a hand to his cheek. She had not put on her traveling gloves, and the stubble was sharp and coarse against the palm of her hand.
“His wife had gone mad and killed him with a fire iron.”
“Goodness.”
“I thought it was because he had kept a mistress.” He brought his hand up to cradle hers against his cheek. “I thought if a husband did not properly take care of his wife, shield her from the difficulties of the world, she would either go mad, suffer from hysteria, or simply give up.”
Hélène lifted an eyebrow and studied him. Perhaps he was a bit foolish after all.
“You’ve made me realize it is the opposite.”
He placed his hands at either side of her face, leaned in, and kissed her. It was one more of affection and unlike the others he had given her. How many ways were there to kiss?
“I understand now.” He smiled, and her heart skipped a beat. “I don’t want to take your passion away from you any more than I would have allowed my uncle to dictate my future.” He kissed her again. “I would be honored if you would become my wife, and I promise to see you perform as often as I can.”
Tears sprang to her eyes, and Hélène grinned up at him.
“I don’t know how it happened, Hélène, but I am in love with you, and will do everything in my power to make you happy.”
Tears slid down her cheeks, but Hélène didn’t swipe them away. “I love you, too,” she whispered.
“You’ll marry me?”
“Yes.”
Their noses were nearly touching, both laughing when Stanwick pulled her close and lowered his mouth to hers. It was a kiss of love, and she never wanted it to end.
“Am I to assume there’ll be a wedding?”
They pulled away from each other to find Bentley, Acker, and their wives standing just inside the door. How long had they been there?
“Yes,” Hélène and Stanwick answered at
the same time.
“Then we shall see that it is done,” Bentley smiled. “We will wait while you prepare for the trip, Stanwick, but do make it quick.”
“Trip?” He looked to Hélène and back to Bentley.
“You’ll be coming with us so you can be married right away.”
It was happening too fast. Hélène didn’t want Stanwick to be rushed. As much as she didn’t want to wait, she would understand if he did.
“I don’t have a license and wish to have my brother at my side.”
“I doubt there will be difficulty in obtaining the license since we will be visiting the Duke of Danby,” Bentley assured him. “Fetch your brother.”
Hélène glanced up at Stanwick. Would he balk at the orders? She didn’t want him to feel rushed.
Slowly, he grinned. “Allow me an hour.”
Hélène breathed a sigh of relief.
“I’ll give you two.”
Stanwick turned to Hélène and took her hands in his. “This is better than I had anticipated.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “You will be mine before Christmas,” he whispered. “I can’t think of a more perfect present.”
Jane Charles is a Historical Romance author who also writes Inspirational Historical romance under the name of Amy De Trempe and lives in Central Illinois.
As a child Jane would more likely be found outside with a baseball than a book in her hand. In fact, Jane hated reading until she was sixteen. Her passion for reading came about quite by accident when out of boredom on vacation she borrowed her older sister’s historical romance. She fell in love somewhere between Florida and Illinois and her love for reading never died.
