by Allison Lane
Harris nodded and left him to his search.
The closing door unleashed a tidal wave of grief. Every inch of the study was dear – the chairs flanking the fire where he’d discussed everything from money to manners, Alquist’s favorite walking stick propped in the corner, books, maps, a painting of Alston Place. Much of what he knew about the world he’d learned in this room. It was hard to believe he would never see Alquist again.
Tears burned his eyes. Alquist House was the only real home he’d known – the perpetual war at Hillcrest was hardly welcoming.
Unable to blink away his grief, he laid his head down and sobbed. How could he go on alone? He couldn’t count on his aunt. She’d been too shattered to speak to him. Could Helen ever fill even part of the void?
Minutes passed before he pulled his tattered control in place and set to work. A quick search turned up no instructions. The notes weren’t much help, either.
Audit A bks.
H to wed – why no word? Formsby must have mentioned Helen’s supposed betrothal.
Send R to A. Probably Rhodes. If the ‘R’ stood for Rafe, Alquist would have said something at White’s. Apparently he’d decided to conduct his own inquiry in addition to Formsby’s audit.
Inv S and D. A reminder to invite Sharpton and Diggery for cards. His friends had returned to London the day after his death.
The others confirmed Alquist’s concern about Sir Steven and his determination to protect Helen – a course that might have cost him his life. Rafe hoped the papers Lady Alquist had taken to the country would contain more information. Or perhaps Rhodes would know something. Alquist might have found information that could hold Steven at bay.
In the meantime, Helen needed jewelry. It was time to show the world that he could properly support a wife. The best jeweler was Rundel and Bridge, which lay on the way to his solicitor’s office.
Her half-mourning made the errand easy. He emerged from the shop with two boxes tucked into his pocket. One contained a stunning necklace of carved jet with matching eardrops. The other held pearls. He would return for the emeralds that matched her eyes another day.
* * * *
Helen woke to find Rafe sitting on the bed, his hand sliding seductively up and down her arm. His touch recalled those incendiary kisses in his carriage. She shivered.
“You should not have pressed so hard today,” he said, sounding concerned. “I can’t believe how pale you look. It’s time to send for a doctor.”
“No.” She forced a smile when he frowned. “The day was wearying, but I feel much stronger now that I’ve slept. I always look pale because my hair is so red.” She reached back to touch her bump, then added, “The swelling is much reduced.”
“Let me see.” He helped her sit, then slid behind her to examine the wound, curving his legs around her hips. “You’re right. It’s improving, with no sign of fresh bleeding, but I wish you would see a doctor. Head wounds are tricky, and I’m not exaggerating your pallor. You are several shades lighter than when we met.”
“And will likely remain so for several days. Mother always swore I looked at death’s door after even minor injuries. It was especially bad the time I fell from an apple tree. Even Papa looked at me askance – and his coloring was as odd as mine, so he was accustomed to it.” She realized she was babbling, which wasn’t like her, but Rafe’s touch scrambled her wits worse than Steven’s blow. His hands had drifted down to massage her shoulders.
She glanced back, meeting eyes silver with heat.
“Relax, sweetheart,” he murmured. “I enjoy touching you.”
“And I enjoy your touch.” She smiled when the words brightened his eyes even more. His fingers slipped beneath the neck of her gown.
Rafe clamped down on desire. The gentling process was progressing at lightning speed, but it was too soon for intimacy. Her face remained white even as her breathing quickened in response to his caress. Lines at the corner of her eyes spoke of continuing pain, and she’d flinched when he’d touched her head.
He should not have kissed her in the carriage, for it left him frustrated. As long as she remained injured, his purpose would best be served by keeping her aroused. But to retain his sanity, he must do so without promising his own libido satisfaction. So he lightened his touch, sliding his fingers down her arm to tease her wrists – and brush her breasts as he passed.
She instinctively arched, then leaned against him, baring her throat to his lips.
He couldn’t resist.
“I retrieved your trunk,” he murmured to divert his thoughts from the bottom nestled against his groin.
“Steven’s gone, then?”
“From Hanover Square. Anything of value is gone, but your clothes are intact.”
She turned her head to nibble his ear. “I didn’t bring much – a few guineas and some trinkets. But I’m grateful for the clothes. Napping in this gown has done it no good at all. I should change for dinner.”
“True.” Since she couldn’t reach the fastenings, his fingers jumped into action, opening the ties to bare her shoulders. His lips followed, drawing her gasp. Her lack of a maid gave him opportunities gentlemen rarely saw – and tested his control to the limit. “Paul should return with food shortly,” he managed huskily, mostly to himself. His hands slid her gown lower.
She arched against him, wiggling until he nearly exploded. “The gray should be wearable. It crushes less than the others.” The breathlessness with which she uttered the words raised his temperature another notch.
He had to move before his control snapped. Her innocent ardor was too tempting. Was it an act to bind him? But he dismissed the idea. She lacked the experience for such a scheme.
Extricating himself, he lifted her from the bed, letting her slide slowly down his body in a long, agonizing caress. Torture.
He added to the torture by prolonging the undressing process, touching every inch of flesh he could reach, from the upper half of her breasts to her long, long legs. By the time he settled the new gown in place, they were panting as if they’d raced to Kensington and back – on foot – and he could barely string two words together.
His hands shook as he fastened the gown. Leaving her to comb her hair, he fetched the boxes, then practiced deep breathing until he had his libido back under control.
“For you, my sweet,” he murmured, hooking the jet necklace around her elegant neck. Her perfume made his senses reel.
“It’s beautiful.” Her eyes sparkled greener than ever as she fingered the carving, meeting his gaze in the mirror. “Thank you, Rafe. I’ve never seen anything so exquisite.”
“Then thank me properly.” Leaning forward, he kissed her.
With a moan, she twisted, throwing her arms around his neck as she sucked his tongue deep into her mouth. She was the fastest learner he’d ever met. In twenty-four hours she’d gone from novice to a Siren capable of bringing him to his knees.
He stifled the thought, gasping, “I’ve pearls, too,” as he nibbled his way to her ear.
“You’ve been busy.” Her hands threaded his hair as she blatantly rubbed against him.
Need exploded so fast he was untying her gown before he realized it. She rubbed harder in a long caress that nearly blew the top off his head. Her thighs cradled his shaft. As his hands cupped her bottom to lift her against him, she moaned, driving every coherent thought from his mind. In an instant he was on the brink of completion.
He was turning toward the bed when Paul rapped on the door. “Dinner, sir.”
Damnation! What the devil was he doing? He’d successfully incited her passion. Losing control of his own would negate that victory.
“We’ll finish this when you are recovered,” he managed, reluctantly doing up her ties.
“I certainly hope so,” she murmured, then blushed.
Sucking in a deep breath, he led her to dinner. At least she no longer resembled a corpse.
Helen was grateful for his silence. She could barely form a coherent th
ought as she took her place at the table. Every time Rafe touched her, she went up in flames. Yet he retained complete mastery of himself – just as Alex had always done. It didn’t seem fair that men could remain emotionally aloof.
Rafe was becoming more of an enigma with every passing hour. His public and private selves might be two different people for all they had in common. On a personal level, he was hot one minute, aloof the next, with too many secrets lurking behind his eyes. Was he trying to win her trust, emotionally as well as materially? Unlike Clara’s husband, Rafe must convince her to share her inheritance before he could act against her.
Yet he couldn’t be that devious. Surely she could not melt into his arms if he were a ruthless schemer. Or was she willfully blind? Confirming the worst would condemn her for reckless stupidity. Wedding a stranger was bad enough for anyone, but her responsibilities made it worse. What would her father say if he could see her now? After all his warnings…
Chapter Six
May 22
Alice Pauling arranged bits of ham and eggs to form a chessboard on her plate, ignoring her father’s monologue. Today’s subject was her wedding – as if she cared how many people attended or what Cook served. Her only goal was to escape Paulus Grange. She was tired of being told what to do and think every moment of the day.
Being an obedient daughter was boring. Pauling hated excitement, so he refused to visit London, forbade novels, and demanded that she avoid Sir David’s daughters, who had acquired appalling ideas at school. And God forbid that he discover she’d read Mary Wollstonecraft’s treatise on the rights of women. He expected her to embrace his own puritanical views.
Settling her betrothal in childhood had increased his stodginess. Why should he introduce her to society when Rafe could do it later? He had everything he needed at home. Not once had he considered her needs.
Lord Pauling swallowed an enormous bite of ham, chased it down with half a tankard of ale, and continued arranging her future. “You will live here, of course.”
“Yes, Father.” It was easier to agree, for he never listened to her anyway. But she had no intention of staying at Paulus Grange. Rafe would hardly abandon London’s excitement for a dreary life in the country. She would enter society at last.
“See that Mrs. Dorsey removes the partition in the drawing room.”
“Yes, Father.”
“The dressmaker will arrive at two to discuss your new gowns.”
Alice bit back a sigh. He’d been like this since Rafe had signed the marriage contract a week earlier. How could she survive until the wedding?
She crumbled toast over the ham and eggs.
The next three weeks would pass, just as the previous twenty years had passed. And then she would be free – except for Rafe. But she doubted that Rafe would pay her much heed. He wasn’t a tyrant, and despite her father’s assurances, she did not believe he impatiently awaited their marriage. If he loved her, he would have claimed her years ago.
“Eat your breakfast,” ordered Lord Pauling. “You must keep up your strength. I can’t supervise everything.”
“Of course.” She raised a bite of ham to her mouth.
“That’s my girl.” He smiled, then buried his nose in the Times.
Alice transferred the ham to her napkin. She hated ham, but Pauling insisted on it for breakfast, allowing no other meat on the table. His preferences were all that mattered.
A twinge of conscience replaced her irritation with a frown. His health was obviously deteriorating, despite his protestations to the contrary. The doctor’s face had been grave after his last visit. Pauling’s fainting spells must be more serious than he let on.
He’d abandoned wearing boots last year because he could no longer pull them over swollen feet. His hands weren’t much better. And his eyes seemed yellow. But it was the spells that terrified her. If he stood up quickly, he passed out. It reportedly took his valet half an hour to get him out of bed by gradually elevating him with pillows – which might explain his insistence that she and Rafe stay at the Grange. Maybe he needed a nurse.
Shuddering, she picked up the Morning Post. Its society page was her only contact with Rafe. Hillcrest might find his scandals appalling, but she envied him his freedom. He enjoyed such an interesting life.
Her eyes skimmed, seeking the name that had been noticeably absent for a fortnight.
The Season was in full swing. Yesterday had seen a balloon ascension in Green Park. Lady Jersey had hosted a grand ball. Lord Charles Meriweather announced his betrothal to Lady Edith Chanson.
She was so used to seeking Mr. R— T— that she nearly overlooked the announcement.
Married – the honorable Mr. Rafael Edward Thomas, heir to Viscount Hillcrest, Hillcrest Manor, Surrey, to Miss Helen Elizabeth St. James, spinster, Audley Court, Somerset, on May 20, in London.
Alice’s heart jammed her throat. “Papa,” she quavered. “Rafe’s married.”
“What?” He shook his head. “That’s preposterous.”
“No. Look.” She handed him the paper, pointing to the announcement.
“That traitor!” He surged to his feet, blanched to a sickly gray, then dropped like a stone.
“Papa!” She flew to his side, cursing his illness. Shaking and slapping didn’t revive him.
“Briggs!” she shouted at the butler. “Send for the doctor! Where’s Walden?” she added. The valet should know what to do. She hoped.
Leaning closer, she tried again. “Wake up, Papa!” Her vinaigrette had no effect. Nor did propping his feet on a chair. Why had the doctor insisted on secrecy?
Tears rolled down her cheeks. This was the worst spell yet, and she was helpless.
* * * *
Rafe glared at his wife.
“I am perfectly fine!” she snapped, raising her chin.
Gnashing his teeth at her intransigence, he cursed himself for a fool. He should be more careful what he wished for. As he’d feared, a wife with a backbone was a headache. She argued every suggestion and made no bones about wanting to be in charge.
Just like Mother.
“No!”
“Yes,” she insisted.
Only then did he realized he’d spoken aloud. Again he cursed.
The argument had raged since breakfast. He should have insisted that she see a doctor yesterday. Her head had to be worse than she was admitting. She’d slept badly, tossing, turning, and whimpering in pain. Yet she had again refused help. Nothing he’d said had swayed her from leaving for Hampshire, forty-five miles away.
His breath escaped in a frustrated sigh. A husband had the right to force obedience, yet he couldn’t bring himself to do it. That was Hillcrest’s way. So he had to rely on logic.
“Please speak with Dr. McClarren,” he begged, pulling her against him when the carriage bounced, draining the color from her face. They had just passed the Hyde Park tollgate, so calling on the doctor was still possible. “He’s Scottish trained and very competent. He won’t do anything nasty like bleed you. If he says you are fine, I’ll cease pressing.”
“You’d believe him, but not me.” She recoiled from his side. “It’s my head, Rafe. My memory is intact. There is no sign of nausea or blurred vision or any other symptom of concussion. I slept poorly only because I’d napped for three hours in the afternoon.”
“Pain stabs your head with every jolt, your eyes are fuzzy, and your cheeks are far paler than is fashionable.”
Helen sighed, wondering why she was attracted to him. Her sleep had been plagued with erotic dreams and passionate memories. Yet every time she’d awakened, moaning with desire, Rafe had been hugging the edge of the bed as if he hated the thought of touching her. Now he seemed determined to bend her to his will.
She met his gaze. “Yes, my head hurts. Bruises don’t clear up in a trice, and arguing is making it worse. But speaking with Lady Alquist is more important than a headache. Once she sets your mind at rest, we can proceed to Audley.” And form a partnership – she hoped.
Rafe lowered his voice. “There is no need for you to accompany me, Helen. Go back to bed. I’ll ride down to Hampshire and be back before you know it. Two days. Three at most. By then, your head will be fine and the journey to Audley easier.”
“Rafe—” She laid a hand on his arm, trying to break through his stubbornness. “You still don’t fully comprehend the danger. Steven is not a gentleman. He is an obsessed bully who cares nothing about society’s rules or expectations. Throwing him out yesterday will turn him vengeful – he is not a man who ignores grievances. I don’t want to stay in town alone.”
Rafe’s jaw dropped as he finally recognized her fear. Damn but he was blind. “Then we’ll go to Hampshire tomorrow.”
“No. We cannot afford to wait. Though I am convinced Alquist’s death was an accident, I may be wrong, so the sooner we see Lady Alquist, the better. Would you stay in bed just because you hit your head?”
“That’s different.”
“No, it isn’t. I am not fragile. Nor am I sheltered, weak, or flighty. This trip is necessary, so stop fussing. Tell me about Lady Alquist. Though we’ve met, I don’t know her well.”
He gave up in defeat. “Lady Alquist was my mother’s younger sister. I met her for the first time after Mother’s death.”
“At the funeral?”
“No. Hillcrest had cut all ties with Mother’s family.”
She straightened, staring. “What did they do to draw such censure?”
“Nothing. It was his way of punishing Mother.” He pulled her against his side, not wanting to discuss Hillcrest. “When we finally met, she was avid for news of Mother, as she’d received no letters in several years – Hillcrest again; he controlled the estate’s post.”
“He sounds like Steven – intercepting mail, forcing obedience to his will.”
“Probably.” He shook his head. “Once she satisfied herself about Mother, she insisted that I make my bows to her friends – she is so well regarded in town that she can make or break someone’s Season. Her support prevented my ostracism after the Berkeley Square incident.”
“You swore that tale is exaggerated.”
