by Allison Lane
The door clicked shut. Helen frowned.
Now what? She had no nightgown, no brush, nothing with which to conduct her usual bedtime rituals. Searching her reticule didn’t help. While it contained perfume and extra hairpins, she’d left her comb in her dressing case. Cursing, she laid her gown over the back of a chair, slipped her stays and petticoat beneath its skirt, then removed her stockings. She would have to sleep in her shift.
At least tonight should banish Alex from her head for all time. The cad had invaded her sleep for four years, prompting appallingly lascivious dreams. The cravings they incited were bad enough, but she was disgusted that he could slip past her fury. How could she melt into the arms of her betrayer?
Forget Alex, advised her conscience.
She prayed tonight would make it possible. Rafe exuded the same magnetic masculinity as Alex, so surely he could oust unwanted nighttime visitors.
She was finger-combing her hair preparatory to braiding it when Rafe returned.
“Very nice,” he breathed, just as he’d done after she’d run him down. “I’ve never seen hair that color. Liquid fire.” Moving behind her, he buried his nose in her curls.
Helen froze.
“Relax, my dear,” he purred. “This will feel good. I promise.” Hands slipped seductively down her arms, curving across her stomach. He nibbled the side of her neck, laving each bite with his tongue.
She leaned back, giving him more access. Her fingers stroked the sleeves of his dressing gown, not quite daring to touch the bare wrists only inches away.
His lips grew bolder, demanding surrender. The moment she gave it, he snuffed the lamp, then scooped her onto the bed.
She yelped as pain shot through her head.
“I won’t hurt you, Helen.” He pulled the sheet over them, providing welcome protection.
Helen’s head throbbed where it touched the pillow, so she rolled toward Rafe. And froze.
He was naked.
Rafe forced himself to relax as Helen tentatively inched her hand toward his neck. He wanted nothing more than to bury himself inside her, but it was too soon.
He’d nearly exploded when he’d returned to find her in an almost transparent shift with her arms raised over her head like a Siren. Red-gold curls cascaded in silken waves to her waist. He’d wanted to take her where she stood. Never had he needed a woman this badly.
But she was innocent. He must be slow and gentle. Since looking at her threatened his control, he’d doused the light, confident that she would prefer darkness.
Surprisingly, the dark focused his senses, feeding desire and thickening the air until he couldn’t breathe.
“Touch all you want,” he murmured when she jerked her hand away. He traced the line of her jaw, then trailed down her shoulder and arm. Gossamer-soft skin. Tantalizing fragrance.
Leaning in, he kissed her, then moaned when she hesitantly met his tongue.
Slowly, he reminded himself. Slowly. In and out. Nibble her lips. Ease your fingers toward the fullness of her breasts.
Her hand returned more boldly, scorching his skin as she explored his arm.
Damn, but he was hot. He deepened the kiss, brushing his thumb across a plump nipple.
She arched, gasping.
Passion. Pure passion. It burned as bright as the fire of her hair. Need exploded. He flexed his hips against her thigh, groaning as he slid against her soft skin.
Again she froze.
He fought for control. He had to make this good, stoking her passion until she craved release as much as he. Stroke by patient stroke he fanned the fires, easing her shift aside. Her nipples hardened to his touch. Tremors rippled under her skin. She stifled a moan.
“Let it out, sweetheart,” he murmured. “I love to hear you.”
“Rafe!” she gasped when he drew her breast deep into his mouth. “What—”
“That’s right.” He moaned with her, shifting so she could continue her careful exploration. His hand inched across her stomach toward her mound. “Beautiful.”
As her passion rose, her touch grew bolder. Across his chest, then lower, building his need until he nearly screamed. Lovemaking had never felt this good. Her innocent caress burned hotter than any mistress’s practiced touch. Her response pushed him higher than ever before, for it was wholly genuine.
He fumbled for her core, amazed at his clumsiness. He was far too close to completion. First he must relax her, prepare her for his entry…
She skimmed a finger along his shaft, then clasped it firmly in her hand. Dear God! He arched…
Helen gasped as Rafe thrust against her. He’d been doing wondrous things to her body, touching and kissing until she was panting and nearly incoherent. She explored him in turn, reveling in the differences between them.
He was hard and muscular, covered with silky hairs that raised sparks wherever they brushed against her. Exploring lower, she passed a trim waist and firm buttocks, finally reaching his manhood.
Silk-sheathed iron. How could something so hard feel so soft? So intriguing. So alive.
“God!” he gasped, arching again when she squeezed. “Now— Need— Can’t wait—”
His control snapped for the first time in years. He had to have her. Had to thrust hard and fast and deep…
Desperate, he dragged his thumb over her nubbin.
Helen screamed, digging her nails into his back. He was driving her mad, but it wasn’t enough. She needed more. Much more. Writhing against his hand, she fought for—
His tongue ravaged her mouth as he rolled, thrusting her legs wide.
Her scream changed from passion to pain.
“Helen!” Rafe froze. He hadn’t yet entered her, so how could she hurt? “Helen?”
She didn’t move.
He pulled his hand from under her head. It was wet and sticky.
Horror banished lust. He scrambled to light a candle, then rolled her gently to her side and parted her hair. A huge knot was topped by a jagged gash. Blood oozed where his frenzy had reopened it. Older blood stiffened the surrounding hair. Had she fallen trying to escape?
Covering her with a quilt, he paced the room, cursing. There was every chance that when she woke, she would be appalled to find herself wed to a stranger. Concussion might even erase memory of the wedding.
At the very least, she would be upset. He’d forced her into marriage at a time when she could not think rationally. Would she hate him? Had his impetuous proposal trapped him in the very union he’d feared since he was old enough to understand his mother’s torment?
Cold seeped into his soul. He would never survive such a marriage. He’d seen too much fighting in his youth. There had not been a moment of peace at home. Facing a similar future would drive him mad.
But it was early days to accept failure. He’d sworn to protect her, so that was his immediate duty. How had she been injured?
He tried to remember what she’d said after crashing into him, but he’d been reeling from the brandy, furious at Hillcrest, and engulfed in lust. Nothing else had registered.
Damn! What the devil had he gotten himself into?
Chapter Three
May 21
Rafe awoke to a pounding head and a soft bottom nestled against his morning erection. Unwilling to open his eyes – which he knew from experience would cause pain – he kneaded his mistress’s breast.
“Wake up, Lydia,” he murmured sleepily. “I need your morning remedy.” She made a potion that eased the effects of overindulging.
“Who—? What—?”
Not Lydia. This voice was sultry.
Rafe cracked his lids. The girl had scrambled away and now cowered against the bedpost, a quilt clutched to her chest. Red curls raged wildly over her shoulders.
Memory roared back.
Helen. His wife.
Sitting up unleashed Gentleman Jackson and his corps of pugilists to brawl in his head while Satan’s slaves lashed his stomach into a stormy sea. Sunlight plunged daggers into hi
s eyes. He squeezed his lids together and fell back.
Echoes of his greeting redoubled his misery. He couldn’t have found a worse way to wake Helen if he’d tried. But maybe she hadn’t heard him.
“How is your head?” he asked, again cracking his eyelids.
“Fine.”
She didn’t look fine. Her scramble had turned her face stark white. Terror widened her green eyes. Grabbing the quilt had left him exposed in all his nakedness.
He pulled the sheet to his chest and forced calm over his voice. “Do you remember yesterday?”
“Of course! Don’t you?”
At least her tone was snappish rather than fearful. “You are Helen Thomas, my wife.” That summary was clear enough. “Why didn’t you tell me you’d cracked your skull?”
“It’s only a bump.”
“Hardly. Knocking it made you swoon. You have a concussion, Helen. What happened?”
She shrugged. “It isn’t that bad.”
“Damnation, Helen! You have a knot on your head the size of a rat, topped with a six-inch gash. You need stitches and bed rest.” He scowled, furious at her for being stubborn, furious at himself for drinking so much he couldn’t think straight, and furious at his libido for insisting that sex would return the color to her cheeks and settle his stomach.
It wouldn’t.
She slowly shook her head. “I’m perfectly fine, barring a headache. It is vital that I visit my trustees, but as you pointed out last evening, I must first acquire a decent gown. Neither errand can be postponed – we discussed this in detail over dinner. I must prevent my uncle from interfering further in Audley’s operation. My tenants deserve better.”
Stubborn wench! But he retained enough sense to keep that thought to himself. “I’ll take care of the trustees. I have to go to the City anyway. It’s foolish to risk your health by gallivanting about.”
She raised her chin – just like Hillcrest. “I have no intention of gallivanting. I propose a brief call on the dressmaker followed by an essential visit to my bank. If you have business of your own, I will hire a hackney. Paul can accompany me, I presume?” Her tone was as uncompromising as Hillcrest at his worst.
“I will not allow you to risk—”
“Allow?” She leaned forward to glare at him. “Stop! Take a deep breath, then listen to yourself. I am not your servant. Nor am I your master. We are partners.”
Green eyes bored into his. A flicker of desire cut through his fury. This was not Hillcrest. This was his wife, the woman he must learn to live with if he was to retain his sanity. “My apologies, ma’am,” he mumbled. “Not my best in the morning.”
“Hardly a surprise after—” She stopped to draw in her own deep breath. “I appreciate your offer, Rafe. Under other circumstances I would consider it, but I doubt that you could accomplish anything at my bank without my introduction.”
Rafe bit back another objection. She was right. Any trustee worth his salt would look askance on a stranger arriving out of the blue with claims of marriage. This situation was odd enough without raising speculation that he’d abducted her.
“We’ll go together, but keep the visit short. Announcing our marriage will be enough to forestall your uncle. Detailed business discussions can wait. You belong in bed.” Keeping a firm grip on Satan’s demons, he gingerly slid to the floor and reached for his dressing gown. His stomach turned over but didn’t rebel.
“Who is Lydia?” Helen asked.
He whirled, then swallowed hard. Nothing was going right today. Yesterday’s visit to Hillcrest marked a clear descent into hell. “Someone I used to know. Forgive me. I was still asleep.”
She nodded, though her eyes remained wary.
He tried to reassure her. “We parted company several weeks ago. I didn’t replace her.”
“You needn’t explain. I can hardly expect you to disrupt your life for a stranger.”
“Not a stranger. My wife.” He covered her hand, tracing circles on her palm in an effort to regain lost ground. Her concussion made bedding her impossible at the moment, but a day or two of recovery would give him time to gentle her – he hoped. “Marriage means more than a list of duties, Helen – at least it does to me.”
Skeptical eyes moved from his hand to his face, clashing with his own.
She doesn’t know you, he reminded himself. While that meant she knew nothing of his reputation, it also meant she could judge him solely on his actions, which so far were unworthy of confidence.
Yet her distrust hurt, for it reminded him too much of Hillcrest. Would she also judge without facts? Would she argue every statement he made, as Hillcrest had done with his mother? Granted, she was right about her trustees, but he needed peace and a wife he could trust.
* * * *
As Rafe turned away to dress, Helen cursed herself for asking about Lydia. Perhaps her head was more scrambled than she’d thought. It was the only explanation for her faux pas.
There would be affairs, of course. Rafe’s behavior had marked him as a rake from the first. It was unlikely that he would change. Few did. So she must abandon her dream of finding a loving, faithful husband like her father had been. But that was the least of her concerns.
She had awakened from the most lascivious dream of her life to find that the man in her bed was real, with a more magnificent body than any field hand she’d ever seen and a darkly stubbled chin that increased his aura of delicious danger. Sensuality radiated from him in waves powerful enough to knock her over. To keep from drooling when he rose, baring a straight back that tapered to firm buttocks and muscular thighs, she’d blurted out her question about Lydia.
Stupid. Wives did not acknowledge their husband’s mistresses.
Dear God! She was married. Her head reeled.
Rafe shrugged into his waistcoat and turned back to the bed. “I’ll have to help you dress. The maid is a daily who won’t arrive for a couple of hours.”
Helen nodded but couldn’t pry her fingers from the quilt. She was naked. Now that he was clothed, her condition was even more embarrassing. If his eyes had retained that lascivious gleam, she might have managed, but today they radiated fury. He already regretted their hasty marriage. Or maybe it was her injury.
Last night remained hazy. What had transpired after arriving in Rafe’s rooms was unclear. Which parts were memory and which lingered from her dream? Had he—
“No,” he said, apparently reading her mind. “You passed out when your head hit the pillow. We’ll leave the rest until you’re recovered.” Anger threaded his voice.
Of course, he’s angry. He committed matrimony to bed you, but now he must wait.
At least he hadn’t ravished her unconscious body – a surprise, considering how drunk he’d been.
“Did you fall while escaping from Christchurch?” he asked.
“No. My uncle bashed me with his walking stick. It was how he got me inside.”
“Is he stupid? That is no way to win cooperation.”
“No. He’s desperate and venal. Bribing the vicar eliminated any need for my cooperation. Hand me my shift.”
He stared as if she’d grown an extra head.
“My shift, Rafe,” she snapped. “You do know what a shift is, I presume? You said you’d help me dress.” The shift dangled from the corner of the washstand.
He flung it at her head. “Bribery?” He’d abandoned any hint of charm. “You can’t believe that.”
She gritted her teeth. “I’m not stupid, I don’t exaggerate, and I refuse to be treated like a lack-wit. My uncle is determined to claim my estate, but he knows I would rather die than marry his son, so he made sure he would not need my consent.”
“Why not kill you and claim your estate as next of kin? Bribing vicars is risky.”
“I inherited Audley nine months ago, Rafe. I’m alive today only because killing me will not suffice. If I die, Audley goes to a benevolent society to become a school.” She pulled the quilt over her head so she could wriggle into the
shift, but her heart quailed. Rafe considered murder a viable way to gain a fortune. As did Steven and Dudley and Clara’s husband. Gentleman’s honor was a flexible code often twisted to justify satisfying men’s own desires. Even her father used his oft-proclaimed protection primarily to thwart his despised brother.
“How did he find a vicar willing to break both canon and civil law? Approaching the wrong man would expose his scheme to the world.”
“It wasn’t easy,” she admitted. “I first met my cousin a month ago when he returned from the Peninsula. I refused his hand. If I’d suspected this new plan, I could have escaped sooner.” She pushed the quilt down to her neck and steeled herself to ask for her stays.
“We haven’t time for modesty.” Rafe’s smile sent tingles along her nerves. “Get up, Helen.”
“Can’t you—” She twirled her finger.
Sighing, he turned his back.
Ignoring her headache, she jumped down and pulled her gown on, then slipped her stays in place beneath it, holding them up with her left arm. The gown wasn’t much protection, for it gaped in the back, and the skirt bunched around her arm, but each layer made her feel better.
“I need help with the lacing.”
“I know.” His voice turned seductive, making her nerves tingle. Warm hands burned through the thin shift as he expertly laced her up. No maid could have worked faster. It spoke volumes about his experience.
“Relax,” he murmured. “I can enjoy touching without ravishing you.”
She didn’t trust her voice to respond. By the time he’d fastened her gown, her heart hammered wildly. There was no hiding it, for the kisses he trailed up the side of her neck paused with his lips on her pounding pulse. His breath melted her bones.
A moment later, he calmly straightened. “What about your hair?”
She had to swallow twice before she could speak. “Have you a comb I can borrow?”
“There’s one in my shaving stand. Be careful you don’t open that cut again.”
She touched the bump and flinched.
He lifted her hand away. Gentle fingers probed the wound. “The swelling remains, though not as extensive. There is no bleeding now, but your hair is matted. I was serious about the stitches. Even with care, it will take weeks to heal.”
