“You’ll kill me before you’re done,” he grated out.
“At least you’ll die smiling.”
Her eyelids fluttered in bliss at the slow glide away. When he slid inside again, she rose to meet him, bringing him deeper.
Helena’s wordless encouragement broke some last bastion of his will. He began to move with inexorable purpose. She thrilled to his male power. His breath escaped in soft grunts, and his muscles turned hard and hot as granite under a noonday sun.
With luxuriant enjoyment, she ran her hands down his long back to his firm buttocks. How she loved West’s possession. She felt like the only woman in the world.
Astonishingly, as he pursued that relentless rhythm, a now familiar response fermented in the pit of her stomach. The sensation spread, flooding her with heat. By the time his control frayed, she trembled on the verge.
He surged up hard and fast. The tendons on his neck stood out in relief. His grip on her hips turned unyielding. On a great groan, he plunged one last time.
She dived into the fire, closing hard around him. This response was deeper and purer than the first time. As she crashed out of the mundane world into the brilliance of the sun, West stayed with her. Her fingernails scored his shoulders, and she arched toward him in shaking, incoherent delight.
“Damn it, Hel,” he bit out.
As she quivered in helpless rapture, he held her beneath him. Then with another rasping groan, he wrenched out, and pumped his seed onto her naked belly.
Chapter Seven
West rolled off Helena and slumped facedown in the tangled sheets. He gasped for air. She’d been the answer to a dream—better than a dream. Damn it, he’d come so close to spilling himself inside her. He’d never taken the act right to the edge like that before. Withdrawing had nearly killed him.
The magic of Helena.
“West?” she asked in a threadbare voice beside him.
“Nggrrr,” he managed. If she expected a coherent conversation after that thunderous ride, she overestimated his stamina.
“West, talk to me.”
God help him, the woman really wanted a chat. When at last he managed to shift, he was surprised he didn’t creak. He’d given her everything he had. He never wanted to move again.
Exhaustion weighted his limbs, but the need to care for her forced him from the bed. He stoked the fire before crossing to the washstand. The water in the jug was still blessedly warm. He cleaned himself off, then splashed fresh water into the bowl, collected a cloth, and returned to the bed.
Helena lay splayed against the pillows like a naked odalisque. In recent years, she’d always been elegant and self-possessed. Seeing her like this, disheveled, flushed with passion, thick black hair spread about her and showing an endearing and previously unnoticed tendency to curl, made him feel she let him in on a wonderful secret.
“Come here.” He piled the pillows behind her and helped her sit up.
When he began to wipe away the sticky mess, she caught his wrist. “Thank you.”
“It’s the least a gentleman can do.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
He met her gaze. She looked tired and replete. “So now you know there’s nothing wrong with you?”
It still boggled the mind that Crewe hadn’t been able to satisfy his wife. She was desire incarnate.
“You know, some people say I have a sharp tongue, and a few brave souls accuse me of intellectual arrogance.”
He wrung out the cloth and stroked between her legs. Her lack of self-consciousness was unexpected and gratifying. “Brave to the point of foolhardy.” His amusement faded. “You’re the kind of woman a man longs for all his life. Passionate. Responsive. Generous. Beautiful.”
“West, you wax poetic.”
The sardonic response didn’t rattle him. The change from sweetness to irony meant she was afraid. Right now, his Helena scrambled to restore damaged defenses.
He’d let her do that. Because no defense could keep him out, not when he’d been deep inside her and touched her soul.
“Don’t I just?” He set the bowl on the floor and slid into bed beside her. “Move over.”
“Are you staying?”
“You said you wanted to talk. And as always, I’m your humble servant.”
“Not so humble.”
How true. They were both proud creatures. If they weren’t, they’d have found their way back to each other before this. “No, not so humble. Shall I stay?”
“Yes, please.” With beguiling eagerness, she curled up beside him.
He pulled the covers up. Now he wasn’t mad to possess this woman within the next minute, the air was cold on his bare skin. Helena had whipped him into a frenzy where nothing else mattered. He could hardly wait for her to do it again.
When she leaned her head on his shoulder, his embrace firmed. Generally he didn’t linger to cuddle and confide. But his gut knotted in denial at the thought of leaving this bed. “Comfortable?”
“Oh, yes.” She tipped her face up. “By the way, I was thanking you for something else entirely.”
He smiled. “Gad, what an obliging fellow I must be, if you have so much to thank me for.”
She arched her eyebrows, but didn’t squash his pretensions. “If you want to corner me into marrying you, a pregnancy is a powerful bargaining chip.”
West shrugged. “I don’t need to cheat to win.”
She tensed without moving away. “So you’re still committed to that nonsensical proposal?”
After what they’d just done, nonsensical was the last thing he’d call making Helena his wife. “We settled on an affair.”
“While we’re here.”
“Until you choose to end it.” He dipped his head to kiss her shoulder. She smelled delectable. Warm, sated woman. “Let’s not quarrel.”
Surprisingly, she didn’t disagree. If what they’d done had changed him—and he was still discovering how much—it seemed to have changed her, too.
She relaxed and rubbed her cheek against his shoulder. The artless, affectionate gesture set his heart stuttering in a way that should worry him. But he was too damned pleased with life to seek out trouble.
“Precautions were unnecessary.”
Some women tracked the weeks to work out the safest times for a tumble. Given Helena hadn’t taken a lover since Crewe, he hadn’t expected her to bother. “I’ve never trusted the counting method.”
She shook her head. “Nothing so complicated. My best guess is I’m barren. There was never any sign that I’d conceived with Crewe.”
“You forbade him your bed.”
“After a year or so. He was attentive at the beginning—however many other women he pursued at the same time.”
“I’d kill him for you if I could.”
Her gaze was puzzled. “You sound like you mean that.”
“Believe me, lovely, I do.”
She stretched up to kiss him. A contact without heat, steeped in friendship. Odd that it should shake him as deeply as those voracious kisses when he’d been inside her.
“Thank you.” With a sigh, she settled back against him. “I’m sorry I spent all these years blaming you. It was childish. My disastrous marriage is my fault.”
West sat up abruptly, dislodging her from his chest. “You were a naïve girl, just seventeen, and Crewe set out to snare you.”
She looked troubled, lying upon the pillows and staring up at him from fathomless black eyes. “I should have been clever enough to see what he was.”
“At that stage, few people did. In his younger days, he did his best to hide his vices. I’d known him longer than you, and I assumed like most of us, he sowed a few wild oats before settling down. And he could be damned charming when he wanted something. You didn’t stand a chance. You’ve stopped blaming me for what happened. It’s time to stop blaming yourself.”
He watched her consider his statement without accepting it. By God, before they left Woodley, he’d convince her to f
orgive herself, or die trying. “I have a suspicion about Crewe.”
Her lips twitched. “I had lots of suspicions about Crewe. Most of which unfortunately proved true.”
“For a man who scattered his seed far and wide, I never heard he fathered a bastard.”
“Oh? Perhaps he was careful.”
Not bloody likely. “Perhaps he was sterile.”
A faint line appeared between her marked black brows. “The opium and brandy can’t have helped.”
West shrugged and lay down, sliding his arm around her. “It’s purely a theory. But if you’re embarking on a life of sin, don’t rely too much on past history.”
“A life of sin?”
He smiled at her. “Obviously I’d like you to sin with me alone.”
Her lips flattened in disapproval. “That would be like getting married.”
“Perish the thought.”
A surprisingly peaceful silence fell as she snuggled against him. What a night it had been—and a million miles from what he’d expected. He hadn’t been sure he’d manage to steal a kiss, and now they were lovers.
“Are you tired?” she murmured after a long while. She inched one hand under the sheet and across his belly.
West, who had lapsed into a pleasant reverie, went on instant alert. “Are you?”
Her black eyes sparked with devilry. She looked like the spirited girl, not the self-contained and acerbic widow he’d known in London. “We’re only here another week. Time’s a-wasting.”
With one powerful movement, he rolled over her, staring down into a face alight with laughter and desire. “I’ve acquired an imperious mistress.”
Her hands ran up his chest and linked behind his neck. “Aren’t you lucky?”
“Aren’t I just?” His cock hardened and nudged between her legs. One part of him wasn’t sleepy at all.
She kissed him, her mouth hot and eager. While his tongue swept between her lips, he toyed with her nipple. She tilted her hips in brazen invitation.
Sizzling sensual pleasure beckoned. West wasn’t a man to say no.
Chapter Eight
When Helena wandered downstairs the next day, it was close to noon. She made her way to the morning room where Caro and Fenella sat gossiping over tea.
West’s theory that her fellow Dashing Widows were too spellbound to notice much else around them was borne out. Helena was a notorious early riser—most days in London she rode in Hyde Park at dawn—but neither of her friends questioned her tardy appearance.
Helena fell upon the tea table with enthusiasm. A night of debauchery played havoc with a polite appetite.
“That’s a pretty dress,” Fenella said from the couch near the fire. As usual, she had her embroidery on her lap. “I haven’t seen it before.”
With a self-conscious gesture, Helena’s hand strayed to the high lace neckline. She’d bought the yellow and white gown last season, but had decided she didn’t like its Elizabethan collar. She had no idea why her maid had packed it. But when she’d looked in her mirror this morning and seen the marks of West’s teeth, she’d decided this dress was her latest favorite. “It’s new.”
“More demure than you usually wear,” Caro said from the sofa.
Helena’s cheeks heated. Making a great show of filling her cup, she avoided her friends’ eyes. “I feel like a change of style. Would either of you like tea?”
“I’ll ring for more,” Caro said. “That’s been sitting there for half an hour.”
While Caro summoned a footman and arranged more refreshments, Helena sought a seat in the room’s darkest corner. Luckily it was a typical February day, gray, wet, miserable. Gloomy. Despite copious amounts of Milk of Roses, her face was still pink with whisker burn. Tonight, she’d make sure that West shaved before he came to her, however exciting his beard had felt rasping against her skin.
Tonight…
How odd it felt to anticipate a meeting with a lover. And what a lover. She shivered to recall the way his mouth had explored every inch of her. From her toes to her eyebrows and everything—everything!—in between. She shifted on her brocade chair and stifled a gasp of discomfort. Today her body ached in so many unfamiliar places.
“Amy’s back the day after tomorrow,” Caro said, returning to her place without looking at Helena, which was a good thing. She feared she looked completely besotted.
The woeful fact was that she felt completely besotted. She put it down to discovering sexual fulfillment so late in life. But right now, her logical world was awash with butterflies and unicorns and rainbows.
“I’ve never met her,” Fen said. “She lives here most of the time, doesn’t she?”
“Yes,” Helena said. “She does a jolly good job of running the place. She might be only seventeen, but she’s quite the expert on modern farming. The rest of the family arrives the day before the wedding.”
Heaven help her, she’d better get a grip on her reactions before her younger sister turned up. Her two oldest sisters, Mary and Sally, would be too busy managing their broods of children to pay her much heed. But Amy had the sharpest eyes in England—and the least discretion. It was lucky she was staying with Sally right now, or Helena’s fall from grace would no longer be a secret.
“It’s a pity Robert couldn’t be here, too,” Caro said. “He’s mapping some obscure corner of the South American coast and couldn’t get leave.”
“I haven’t met him either,” Fen said.
“He stayed with Helena last year in London, when he’d just come back from New South Wales. He’s frightfully handsome and gallant and naval.”
“Oh, I’m sure he sets hearts fluttering.”
Helena smiled. “Ladies are swooning between here and Sydney, and every port in between.”
“I hope this weather doesn’t worsen before the wedding,” Fen said as the butler brought in a laden tray. “Travel’s so difficult if there’s heavy snow.”
“All the Nashes are punishing riders,” Caro said, as Fen rose to serve the tea. “Silas’s sisters would push through a blizzard to be here.”
It was true. The Nashes had big brains and famous stables. As Helena sipped a fresh cup of tea, she’d gathered enough composure to ask after West without sounding like a complete nitwit. “Where are the gentlemen?”
“Silas’s horse was favoring its right foreleg this morning,” Caro said, setting her cup into its saucer. “They’re in the stables seeing to the problem.”
“Silas and West are. Anthony’s just gone along for show,” Fen said serenely, wandering back to her couch with a full cup. “The poor darling doesn’t know one end of a horse from another.”
“But he could out-sail the other two with his hands tied behind his back,” Helena said. In recent weeks, she’d become very fond of Anthony Townsend. She admired both his acumen and his lack of artifice. And his devotion to Fenella, who had emerged from long grief to find happiness with him.
“I’m sure a prime whip like Fen appreciates a man who lets her take the reins,” Caro said. “If she married an arrogant brute like West, he’d never let her drive.”
“He’s not an arrogant brute,” Helena said, then dipped her head in mortification.
A resonant silence fell.
“You’ve changed your tune.” Caro cast her a quizzical glance. “He’s always set your back up. I’ve never been sure why. I think he’s utterly charming.”
So charming that before she fell in love with Silas, Caro had considered taking West as a lover. With an audible clink, Helena returned her cup to its saucer. She knew she was absurd—Caro was mad about Silas—but the idea of West kissing her friend made Helena want to shoot her.
Telling herself to settle down, she affected an airy tone. “He’s back from Russia with some of the stuffing knocked out of him. As a result, he’s more bearable than usual.”
Bravo. That was much more like her.
“I’m worried about this fever,” Fen said, sipping her tea with a thoughtful frown. “Anthony
says he’s seen agues like this in the East, and they can recur for years.”
“This sounds a very odd diplomatic mission,” Caro said. “Away for months, and traipsing all over Russia.”
“Anthony says Russia’s a strange place,” Fen said.
“And of course if Anthony says it, it must be true,” Helena said slyly.
When Fen blushed, she looked like a pretty sixteen-year-old. “I’m sorry. I must sound addled. Love turns the brain to custard.”
Lust had a similar effect, Helena could now confirm.
“So true,” Caro said. “The other day, I was walking in the woods, and I started thinking about Silas. I got completely lost.”
The reminiscent light in Caro’s eyes hinted there was more to the story. Since they’d found love, Helena had noted the changes in her friends. But today she was hypersensitive to the female satisfaction pervading the room.
“It’s a large estate,” Helena said.
“I got as far as the Grecian temple before Silas found me.”
Ideal for a private rendezvous. When she’d been a giddy girl, Helena and West had often met there.
“We’re hardly Dashing Widows anymore,” Fenella said with a smile. “Perhaps we should rechristen ourselves the dreamy ladies.”
Helena expected someone to mention the one unattached Dashing Widow, but Caro started to describe her forthcoming voyage to China instead. Helen let the chatter wash over her, while she wallowed in wanton memories.
Last night, West had answered so many of her questions.
Was she unnatural? Not with the right lover.
What fueled the light in her friends’ eyes? She now had a fair idea.
Tonight West would come to her bed again. And perhaps this time, he wouldn’t leave her unsettled, as well as supremely satisfied.
Because every answer she’d received had raised a hundred questions. And all of them disturbed her. How could a physical act conjure such a profound emotional effect? She knew it was mere imagination, but when West thrust deep inside her, she’d felt like they united into a single being.
Winning Lord West Page 7
