Winning Lord West

by Anna Campbell

  And Silas had headed toward her room without asking where West was.

  She frowned. “How did you know we’d reached an…understanding?”

  Which was a mealy-mouthed way to describe their transcendent hours together. She didn’t pursue the head over heels remark. Her feelings were too confused right now for her to mount a suitable defense.

  Caro rolled her eyes. “Where do I start? I know we’re both distracted, but we’re not blind. You and West were so busy, trying not to look at each other. I saw the marks on your neck the other morning, despite that stylish high collar. And the two of you came in yesterday afternoon looking distinctly heavy-eyed, you naughty pair. Not to mention that for the last few days, your acid wit has verged on sweet. Not a sarcastic remark to be heard.”

  Helena shifted uncomfortably. “How revolting.”

  “I think it’s lovely,” Fenella said.

  “You would,” Caro said, casting her an unimpressed glance.

  Helena spread her hands. “Why didn’t you say something? Fen’s the soul of delicacy, but discretion isn’t your way.”

  Caro was unoffended. “Because if we did, you’d dig in your heels, and do your best to ruin everything out of sheer contrariness.”

  Helena scowled at her closest friends. “You make me sound blindly obstinate.”

  “When you’re always the soul of reason,” Caro said, taking a fair stab at sarcasm herself.

  “So now your secret’s out, what do you plan to do?” Fen asked. “Has he proposed?”

  “You’ve got marriage on the brain. West and I are taking a few days to scratch a mutual itch, then we go back to being mostly polite strangers.”

  “If you say so,” Fen said.

  “Really,” Helena said.

  “That seems sensible,” Caro said.

  “I mean it.”

  Fenella returned to her embroidery. “Helena, nobody’s arguing with you.”

  Helena made a disgruntled sound and leaned back in her chair. “I have this awful feeling you’re both trying to manage me.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it, Hel. You’re more than capable of steering your own life,” Caro said cheerfully. “You don’t need us.”

  “That’s right.” She winced as she heard the unnecessary emphasis she gave the words.

  So did Caro. Her lips curved into a smirk.

  Helena’s scowl deepened. “Don’t you dare laugh at me, Caroline Beaumont.”

  “I wouldn’t be so bold.” Her smirk became a giggle.

  “Caro,” Helena said in a warning tone.

  Caro returned her cup to its saucer. “It’s just…” She took a breath to steady her voice. It didn’t make a noticeable difference. “I know West is frightfully ill, and it’s been a dreadful night, and you’re worried sick about him, but…” Another gurgle of laughter escaped. “But I can’t help seeing Lord West staggering out of the shadows, wearing only a sheet. It was like…like Caesar’s ghost had come to haunt the house.”

  She went off into whoops, and Fen started to laugh, too. Helena glowered at them. How could they laugh when West was so sick?

  Then she recalled that odd moment, horrendous at the time, now strangely comic. She remembered West’s clever, but unlikely claim that he was sleepwalking. And she burst into laughter herself.

  ***

  The morning of Caro and Silas’s wedding dawned bright with sunshine, as if even nature blessed this union. As West dressed, he glanced out the window at the pristine beauty of fields and hills. It had snowed, and pure sparkling white changed the Nash estate from a familiar landscape into the setting for a fairy tale.

  As soon as he regained his senses, he’d sent for his valet from London. The man fussed around him now, smoothing out any wrinkles bold enough to mar the perfection of his dark blue coat and cream silk waistcoat.

  This bout of fever had been bad, and chafing at the inactivity, he’d spent most of the last four days in bed. He’d managed to make it downstairs to dinner the last two nights, but the effort had exhausted him.

  Enforced rest had left him with far too much time to think. And the thoughts hadn’t been congenial. At times, he’d wished he was still out of his head.

  West had always enjoyed rude good health. When he’d first contracted this damned malady, he’d assumed it would prove a brief inconvenience, then become an unpleasant memory.

  That, it turned out, had been optimistic ignorance. For six months now, he’d suffered regular bouts of appalling physical misery. After this latest attack, he couldn’t avoid the bleak fact that his illness had become a permanent part of his life.

  And he loathed it.

  “Am I discommoding your lordship?” Cooper asked nervously, straightening West’s snowy white cuffs.

  Distracted from gloomy musings, West glanced at the valet. “No. Why?”

  “You looked rather fierce, sir.”

  West’s thoughts had trended toward grimness since he’d collapsed into Anthony Townsend’s arms, wearing nothing but a sheet. “No. I’m fine.”

  Except he wasn’t.

  As he stood before the mirror, his legs wobbled, and he felt alarmingly lightheaded. But damn it, he’d get through this wedding ceremony, or he might as well put a bullet through his brain.

  ***

  The ancient village church was packed, and a crowd formed outside, despite the snow. Lining the pews were local friends, privileged villagers, and various Nashes who had arrived over the last few days. Silas was well loved, and everyone was delighted that he and his bride were so devoted.

  West and Silas had driven up in an open carriage. Silas claimed he wanted to arrive in style, but West knew it was to save him from making the short walk. He’d wanted to snarl at his friend that he wasn’t a bloody invalid. Until he admitted the unpalatable truth that even such an easy stroll was beyond him.

  Now they stood at the altar while the last of the congregation found their places. Fen and Anthony came in. The first time he’d seen them together, they’d seemed an incongruous couple. Delicate Fenella and her rough, gruff shipping magnate.

  Now West was convinced she couldn’t have found anyone better. She looked lovely in a pink velvet gown trimmed with swansdown. She’d always been pretty, but love transformed her to radiant beauty.

  Accompanying them were two half-grown boys. The fair one he recognized as Fenella’s son Brandon, while the dark one had such a look of his uncle that he must be Carey Townsend, Anthony’s ward.

  Reluctantly his gaze moved past Fen and Anthony to where Helena paused in the doorway to speak to an elderly cousin. Every muscle tightened in forbidden longing.

  Helena. His joy. His torment. His obsession. The impossible fate.

  Since his illness, he’d seen little of her. Deliberately.

  She’d dared propriety to visit his sickroom, but he’d ensured they weren’t alone. He’d sensed her increasing frustration, but he didn’t yet trust himself to do the right thing. At least when she had him cornered in a bedroom.

  As soon as he could hold a pen, he’d asked the reliably discreet Cooper to deliver a note. The message had promised a discussion after the wedding. Once the house emptied of all those hawk-eyed relatives, and West had the strength to say what he must. For her sake.

  The note had prompted an immediate visit. He should have known it would. But he’d pretended to be asleep, and she’d retreated in defeat. She’d tried again, of course. His Helena wasn’t one to accept the first setback. But the guests filling the house hampered her movements, and the doctor had insisted on constant nursing for West while he recovered.

  These stratagems only put off the evil hour. He’d have to talk to her soon. It was unfair to leave her dangling.

  Although a clever creature like Helena must already know something had changed.

  West was determined to meet her in a public place, with no chance of laying his hands on her. Because if he did, every scruple would fly out the window. When Helena was within reach, he didn’t trus
t his ability to master his baser urges.

  Today or tomorrow, he’d set her free. Despite all her claims to emotional detachment, he knew she wouldn’t thank him now. However, he was sure she’d thank him in time.

  Poor comfort, but all he could muster at this moment.

  With her usual eye-catching saunter, Helena moved into the body of the church. In all this crowd, he saw only her. And damn it, if she didn’t instantly look over the sea of heads toward him. Despite everything, heat blasted him.

  Heat. Sorrow. And something else that he forbade a name.

  Before he made an ass of himself, he broke the connection and turned to stare at the flower-bedecked altar. Silas’s greenhouses had come up trumps again.

  But the image of Helena, tall, elegant and somehow tragically alone, despite her clamorous family about her, remained burned on his eyes. She wore crimson, and her shining hair was bundled up beneath an absurd confection of feathers and ribbons and pearls.

  “What the devil is the matter with you?” Silas growled out of the side of his mouth. “I will not have my groomsman looking like a bilious seagull.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “A bilious seagull?”

  “Yes. The beaky nose makes the resemblance unmistakable.” Silas released a hiss of exasperation. “Damn it, it’s my wedding. Try and act like it’s a jolly occasion. Your problems with my dashed troublesome sister will keep.”

  Silas had a point. “Sorry, old man.”

  But Silas had fallen silent, transfixed by what he saw at the church door. The organist started to play as West turned. Silas’s pretty tawny-haired sister Amy stepped forward, wearing a fashionable light blue gown. Caro followed a few paces behind.

  West caught his breath. Caro had always been lovely, but today she dazzled. She wore a gown of rich gold silk, and her deep brown hair was braided in a crown around her head. She carried a bouquet of spring flowers. Lily of the valley, snowdrops and violets, twined about with ivy to symbolize fidelity. Befitting a woman of her originality, no man walked by her side. She gave herself to Silas with an independent will and a loving heart.

  She looked proud and happy, and transfigured by love. As if the angels agreed, the sun chose that moment to stream through the stained glass window and bathe her in brilliant light.

  “You’re a lucky man, old son,” he said to Silas.

  “More than I deserve.” Silas smiled at his bride. She smiled back, and misery stabbed West. He didn’t resent his friend’s good fortune, but he knew that he’d never look across a crowded church to see the woman he wanted walking toward him.

  With a rustle, the congregation rose. The vicar stepped forward with the prayer book in his hands. West packed away his selfish concerns to watch his best friend pledge himself to the woman he loved.

  Chapter Thirteen

  In the commotion after the ceremony, Helena lost track of West. Which was something of a miracle, given she’d been burningly conscious of him from the moment she entered the church. Her heart had slammed to a stop at the sight of him waiting at the altar, tall and handsome in his blue coat.

  Tall and handsome, and drawn and tired. Today he appeared ten years older than the man she’d seduced in the summerhouse.

  Despite his best attempts to avoid looking at her—honestly, he must know the game was up when it came to hiding their liaison—a thread of fire had connected them. But as Silas and Caro left for Woodley Park in a barouche garlanded with ribbons and hothouse flowers, she glanced around the rice-strewn churchyard and realized that West had disappeared.

  Fear stirred. He’d been so ill. Had he collapsed somewhere, and in all the hullabaloo, nobody noticed?

  Berating herself, she retreated from the thinning crowd—Silas had laid on a celebration for the villagers at the tavern, while his friends and family walked back to the house for the wedding breakfast.

  One last check of the area. No West.

  She started her hunt in the church, but only saw the vicar’s wife collecting hymn books. Helena shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. Without the press of warm bodies, the old stone building was cold.

  Where on earth was West? Had he slipped away to the house ahead of everyone else? After the ceremony, carriages had driven the old and infirm up to the breakfast. But she couldn’t see West, no matter how ill, admitting that he fell into that category.

  She emerged into the day, blinking at the glare of sun on snow. The villagers had cleared the road, and the area in front of the church, but white blanketed everything else.

  What a perfect winter day for a perfect winter wedding. Caro and Silas’s transparent happiness had brought a tear to even unsentimental Helena Wade’s eye. Her brother and his bride deserved every ounce of their joy.

  Helena made her way around the church, thankful anew for the villagers’ hard work. Her fur-lined half-boots were a stylish take on seasonal footwear, but they weren’t up to wading through snow. She shaded her eyes and looked over the graves—although why West would choose to wander among tombstones today of all days, she couldn’t imagine.

  Still no sign of him. He must have left without her noticing. Which seemed dashed odd.

  Nettled and still worried, she turned to retrace her steps, and caught sight of a pair of long—and familiar—legs. They extended across the entrance to the stone porch outside the vestry.

  Propelled by a mixture of relief and concern, she hurried forward. “West? Aren’t you well?”

  During the ceremony, he’d looked pale and serious. She suspected iron will alone had kept him standing.

  “Helena.” He didn’t look up as she appeared in the doorway. “My day is complete.”

  She flinched as foreboding settled heavy in her stomach. The words might be flattering. His tone was not. He sounded like the drawling, sardonic rake she’d so disliked in London.

  He’d removed his hat and set it on the bench beside him. She bit back the urge to insist he put it on against the cold. The last thing he’d want was her fussing about his health.

  “Are you all right?” Needing the support, she set a shaky hand on the stone archway. His closed expression deterred her from touching him.

  His illness might explain this cool reception, she supposed. Although she couldn’t help feeling something more personal lay behind his reserve.

  He concentrated on the flagstoned floor. “Of course I am.”

  She set a hand on her hip. “Then why are you brooding in here?”

  “Just catching my breath. You go ahead. I’ll be there soon.”

  She struggled to hide how his dismissal stung. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

  At last, he lifted his eyes. The green was flat as she’d never seen it. “Yes, I have.”

  She was surprised at the ready admission. Surprised, puzzled—and hurt. “Why?”

  Impatience lengthened the lips that had kissed her into a frenzy. “Because there’s something I need to say. And I don’t want to spoil Silas’s wedding for you.”

  She stiffened her spine and raised her chin. “Well, that’s damned considerate of you.”

  He shook his glossy head. As if anchoring himself in place, he hooked his gloved hands over the edge of the oak bench. “We need privacy, and no likelihood of interruption.”

  Worse and worse. Sick apprehension knotted her stomach. The last time he’d wanted privacy and no interruptions, he’d sent her to paradise and back. The contrast with today was chilling.

  She clutched trembling hands together at her waist, before deliberately separating them and lowering them to her sides. His distant attitude scraped tattered holes in her heart, but she was a fighter, not a helpless victim. “Don’t leave me hanging.”

  A muscle flickered in his lean cheek. “The vicar’s still inside the church, and we’re expected at the house. I’m due to make a speech, if you recall.”

  She set her jaw and marched into the small space, despite West’s silent warning to keep out. “The vicar and his wife left a few minutes ago. You
don’t have to do your speech until the end of the breakfast. And you’re not weaseling out of telling me what’s going on, even if we sit here until Christmas.”

  He sighed again. “People will talk.”

  “Let them.” With legs that felt like string, she sank onto the narrow bench opposite West. It was colder in his dank hideout than it was outside in the sun. “What’s wrong?”

  He smiled with grudging fondness—and a regret that sliced at her like a razor. “Always ready to rush in where angels fear to tread.”

  She didn’t smile back—after all, he hadn’t given her much of a smile in the first place. “Are you angry because our friends now know we’re…involved?”

  “No. Although that doesn’t mean I want the whole bloody county knowing our business.”

  She leaned back on the clammy medieval stone. She didn’t understand what was happening. Which was strange when she and West had shared such an uncanny connection.

  But whatever troubled him, he needed to know that the game had changed.

  “West, I will marry you.”

  Whatever reaction she expected, it wasn’t the one she got. For a blistering instant, he stared at her in absolute horror. Then he tipped his head against the wall and laughed.

  His sour amusement bounced around the stone walls like mistuned bells. Devastated, angry, bewildered, Helena surged to her feet and glared at him. Her hands formed fists at her sides, although she knew she couldn’t thump a man only hours out of his sickbed.

  “What the devil is wrong with you?”

  He stopped laughing and leveled cold eyes upon her. Shocked, distraught, she stumbled back onto the bench.

  His lips twisted. “Do any two people in history have worse timing than you and me?”

  That didn’t sound good. That didn’t sound good at all.

  Dread colder than the snow outside oozed down her spine. “What do you mean?” she asked in a reedy voice.

  The humor, however bitter, drained from his face. He looked weary and desolate.