Her Husband's Harlot (18 page)

The
door slammed behind her.

Helena
did not see Nicholas the next morning in the
breakfast parlor. In gloomy tones, Crikstaff informed her that the master had
received a missive before sunrise and had departed in haste.

"Without
even trying Cook's gooseberry crumpets," the butler added.

To
ward off one of Cook's temperamental displays, Helena took two of the fine
pastries. She fiddled with the buttered rounds and pushed the eggs around her
plate. Her thoughts were a million miles away. All last night she'd tossed in
her bed as her head whirled in confusion, her emotions running a wild gamut
from hope to anger. Nicholas' words replayed, over and over.

Perfect
just as you are
.

No
one had ever said such a thing to her before. At least, not since Thomas, and
he, being an older brother, had never been so eloquent. Mostly, Thomas had
sought to comfort her after her countless scrapes as a child. Whether it was
getting thistle weed tangled in her hair or shattering her mother's favorite
vase, she could count on Thomas to provide an antidote to her tears.
You'll
do
, he'd say in his gruff way. Helena had treasured those rare tokens of
affection.

But
no one had ever called her
perfect
before. Not too plump, too tomboyish,
or too shy—just perfect as she was. It recalled to her mind the first time she'd
met Nicholas. Even then, he had seemed to see through her dowdy dress and
wallflower demeanor to the person beneath. His shadowed gaze had seemed to
penetrate her very essence; she had seen her secret passionate longings
reflected in the dark well of his eyes. Yesterday, when he'd helped her with
the necklace, she'd thought she glimpsed that look again. Desire and
loneliness, melded together.

But
then, when she had dared to embrace him, his demeanor had undergone a complete
turnaround. She felt her cheeks burn, recalling how he'd cut off her attempt to
discuss their marital relations. If he professed to find her attractive, why did
he not wish to ... make love with her? Was he merely lying about her looks to
make her feel better? Or was there something else, something deeper, hidden ...

You
do not know me and never will.

With
a frustrated sigh, she departed the table with breakfast half-finished and
mounted the steps to her sitting room. How was she to understand the blasted
man if he closed her off at every opportunity? Her attempts to initiate an
honest conversation about their relationship had led nowhere, and she was not a
mind-reader, after all. At times, his actions suggested that he might desire
her ... and at others, he seemed intent upon pushing her away. On erecting a
wall between them—for what reason, she could not begin to guess.

'Twas
enough to drive a rational woman mad.

Feeling
a spark of temper, Helena seated herself at her desk. She was not going to be
the only one to work on this marriage. If Nicholas was determined to freeze her
out, so be it. She was
not
going to try to thaw her way to his heart
with nothing but a match in hand. She was tired of all the worrying, of trying
to please him. She was not going to waste another minute on that futile task. She
would stop thinking about him and attend to her routines.

This
strategy worked well for the rest of the morning. With reading spectacles
perched upon her nose, Helena busied herself reviewing the household accounts
and attending to matters of a domestic nature. She planned the next week's menu
and met with both the housekeeper and Crikstaff to discuss their concerns. New
linens were ordered, an extra scullery maid was hired, and the second footman
was given permission to visit his ailing mother in the country.

At half past eleven, Helena removed her spectacles and rubbed her eyes. She had addressed all
pressing matters and, truth be told, thoughts of Nicholas had begun to fray the
edges of her concentration. She felt too restless for the pianoforte, but
perhaps fresh air would do her some good. She was debating between going for a
ride in Hyde Park or calling upon one of the young matrons she had met at the
Misses Berry's weekly salon when she was interrupted by a soft rapping. At her
bidding, the maid entered and presented her with a lavender calling card.

"Lady
Draven to see you, my lady," she said.

Perfect.
A distraction.

Helena
went downstairs and affixed a bright smile on her face. The smile slipped a
notch, however, when Marianne walked in. She had never seen the other in such a
state. Normally, her friend's toilette was immaculate—not a hair out of place,
every stitch and seam in perfect accordance with high fashion.

Today,
however, Marianne wore a non-descript blue walking dress, the kind that
eschewed any particular style and that a countrified lady might wear. Helena
herself had a closetful of such plain gowns. Rather than its usual elaborate
curled coiffure, Marianne's hair hung in a simple braid. Silver blonde wisps
haloed her face.

"Marianne,
how are you?" Helena asked cautiously.

"I
am well, thank you." Marianne seated herself and removed her gloves. Her
foot tapped against the carpet. She ran her gaze listlessly around the room. "I
am simply dying of boredom and thought you might care to join me for a ride."

"Where?"
Helena asked, after a moment's hesitation.

The
old Marianne flashed her wry smile. "Do not concern yourself, dear. I had
nothing more exciting in mind than Hyde Park. We will have to find a quiet
corner, mind you, to avoid the parade of Cits on a Saturday."

"Well,
yes, then," Helena said. "That sounds agreeable."

Soon
thereafter, Marianne's barouche deposited them on a relatively quiet stretch of
the park along the edge of the Serpentine. On the verdant lawn, a trio of
ladies picnicked under the shade of parasols while, under the watchful eye of
the nannies, their progeny tossed crumbs to the ducks. Marianne and Helena
started along the pebbled path that wound alongside the river.

"Lovely
day, is it not?" Marianne said from beneath the brim of her rather large
hat. A breeze ruffled the translucent veil that shielded her face.

Helena
frowned. The Marianne she knew never bothered with
niceties. And she could not help but notice that her friend seemed a trifle
energetic, looking about as if she expected to see someone. "What
is
the matter, Marianne? You do not seem yourself."

"Do
I not?" Marianne's laugh sounded forced. "'Tis merely malaise. Who
would guess that depravity could become tiresome? You must cheer me up, my
dear, with news of your
imbroglio
. How goes it with Harteford?"

Helena
hesitated, but in the end her frustration with her
husband won out. A certain relief came from describing Nicholas'
incomprehensible behavior to Marianne. Perhaps her wise friend could unravel
the mysteries of the male mind.

When
she finished, Marianne said, "It sounds to me that Harteford thinks he is
undeserving of you. Makes sense, I suppose."

Though
she was annoyed at Nicholas, Helena found herself jumping to his defense. "Why
do you say that? Harteford is a catch in every way. He is handsome, successful,
titled—"

"Come,
Helena, you cannot be as naive as all that. Everyone knows your lord is the
product of a brief fling between the former marquess and an opera singer. The
fact that the marquess was married for a short time to said singer, long enough
to make Harteford legitimate, does not change how the
ton
views your
husband. And the fact that he has a profession ..." Marianne shrugged, as
if no further explanation was required. "It would hardly be a surprise if
he harbors insecurities about his position in Society."

Nicholas,
insecure
? 'Twas a bewildering notion, given that she'd always seen him
as so utterly self-possessed. So masculine and powerful.

"Harteford
has mentioned nothing of this," Helena said in disbelief. "Of course
I know about his parentage, but what does it matter? Why, I should think people
would admire him as I do for all he has accomplished on his own merit. And I
cannot recall any snubs or untoward behavior directed at him."

"Love
really is blind, then." Marianne gave her a faint smile. "Given your
lord's status and influence, it's true that the slights are subtle. But they are
there. I have also noticed that your husband tends to avoid the affairs of the
ton
."

"Harteford
is busy. He does not care overly much for social gatherings."

Even
as she spoke, Helena was feverishly reviewing the evidence. If only she had
paid more attention to how others reacted to Nicholas—but she hadn't, because
she'd been too intent on pleasing him. On not letting
him
down in
Society's eyes. Had her own insecurities, those of a perennial wallflower, blinded
her to Nicholas' ostracism?

Thinking
back, on the rare occasion that Nicholas had accompanied her to a society
event, he
had
seemed tense. And perhaps there
had
been
a
few subtle smirks and whispering behind fluttering fans. She had thought
herself the outcast, but could it be that Nicholas—strong, magnificent
Nicholas
—was
an object of ridicule?

"Harteford
may be admitted into the finest drawing rooms because of his title and his connection
to your family, but that is not the same as true acceptance," Marianne
said.

With
prickling remorse, Helena wondered if he had run into those prejudices at the
musicale. The musicale that
she
had insisted he attend when he obviously
had not wished to go. Was that why he had been so angry? And, to top it off,
the scene that Papa had caused ... and she had defended her father's actions as
being those of a gentleman. Her lashes fluttered. Could it truly be that
Nicholas thought he was not good enough for her?

"Oh,
Nicholas, could you be such a fool?" she whispered.

"He
is, after all, a man," Marianne said.

"I
must speak to him at once." Helena stopped abruptly in the middle of the
path. "I must tell him that it is not true, that I care not about his origins
or his past—"

"Since
you are considering the business of honesty, might I suggest you confess your
secrets as well?"

Helena
swallowed. The fear that she kept suppressed, that had been omnipresent since
that night at the Nunnery, bubbled to the surface. What if Nicholas found her
lack of virtue disappointing—or worse yet, an insurmountable barrier to his
affection? Could he love her if she was not the lady he believed her to be? And
could he forgive her for deceiving him?

"I
will tell him eventually," she said in a small voice. "When things
are more settled between the two of us."

"The
longer you put it off, the harder it will be." When Helena gave her a
pleading look, Marianne sighed. "For what it's worth, take my advice.
Whenever and however you choose to reveal the truth, seduce him first. It will improve
his disposition."

"Welcome
home, my lord."

Well
aware of the disapproval lacing Crikstaff's words, Nicholas tossed the butler
his hat and greatcoat and strode into the house. With the furor at the
warehouse, he hadn't been home in three days. He badly needed a bath and a
meal. Perhaps then he might be able to catch a few hours of sleep before
heading back to attend to the crisis. He glanced at the clock in the hallway.
Nearly half past two. He sighed. Ambrose Kent of the Thames River Police was
due to call at three. The man kept time more precisely than a damned Charley.
So much for sleep.

He'd
decided to settle for a quick bath, when he heard the music. Soft and mournful,
the melody wrapped itself around his senses and pulled him toward the drawing
room. The door rested partially ajar, and he could not help himself from peering
inside. Helena sat at the pianoforte, her fingers gliding over the keys. He
could see her profile, the sensuous tilt of her chin as her head moved with the
music. The flawless ivory of her skin was like a cameo juxtaposed against the
blue wall behind her. Her eyes were closed. A dreamy smile shaped her lips as
she lost herself in the beauty she was creating.

He
backed away.

A
floor board creaked.

The
music halted. The next instant, his wife was in the doorway. Based on their
last meeting, he didn't know what to expect from her—anger or coldness, both of
which he fully deserved. Yet her full lips formed a hesitant smile. Her
luminous brown eyes, shot with green and gold, were searching his, and he felt as
if he was drowning in the warmth of a summer pond.

"My
lord, you are home," she said.

It
took him a moment to recover his wits. "Please, do not let me disturb your
practice," he said. "I was on my way upstairs—"

"I
was nearly finished and about to take tea. Won't you join me?"

He
was about to refuse, when his stomach growled.

A
dimple peeped out from his wife's cheek. "I'll take that as a yes."