Her Husband's Harlot (35 page)

Nicholas
blew out a breath. "So it was Bragg, all along. But how did he discover my
connection to Grimes?"

"If
you wish, I can continue my investigation of the matter. I had just begun to
interview my contacts before my men found Bragg here. I can resume—"

"No,
that will not be necessary." Nicholas was not fool enough to look a gift
horse in the mouth. The evidence was all here before him: the stolen goods, the
blackmail note, and a dead man who'd held a grudge. Although he had no
satisfactory answer to how Bragg had come by the knowledge of Grimes' murder,
Nicholas told himself to let it go. It was dangerous to poke a sleeping beast;
he had no wish to awaken the snapping monsters of the past.

Kent
nodded in understanding. "Well, I suppose that is that. The mysteries of
the thefts solved and your would-be blackmailer dead. A sad business, but in
the end justice has prevailed."

Nicholas
wanted to believe him. For an instant, he could see a young man with red hair
and shy eyes. A boy, really, with two left feet and a life ahead. But not any
longer. A future snuffed out as easily as a candle. Was that justice? He was
not at all certain, but Kent's earlier words resonated in his mind.

A
brutal end to a brutal life
.

By
God, life was short and not to be wasted. The past had imprisoned him all these
years; now, at last, he had a chance at freedom. And a future.

Nicholas
took Kent's hand in a firm grasp. "Thank you, Mr. Kent, for all your efforts. The Thames River Police can expect an expression of gratitude from Fines
and Company come Monday morning."

"Thank
you, my lord." Kent jerked his head toward the merchandise. "Would
you like my men to load up your goods?"

"Not
at the moment," Nicholas said. A sudden truth reverberated in his bones. His
chest lightened. "Right now, I have more urgent matters to take care of."

"Oh?
Anything I can be of assistance with?"

Nicholas
was already headed up the stairs. He stopped and turned, grinning. "Not
unless you waltz, Kent. And even then, I would not let you within ten paces of
her."

  "Ah."
For the first time in their acquaintance, Nicholas saw Kent wear a genuine smile. The expression made the police man's thin, worn face appear unaccountably
wistful. "Have a good evening, then, my lord. And please give my regards
to Lady Harteford."

On
the ride to the Hayfield ball, it seemed to Nicholas that his newly acquired
horses moved at the pace of snails. He had purchased the matched greys at
Tattersall's last month; the auctioneer had claimed the animals could outrun
the wind. A half-hearted breeze, more the like. Nicholas rapped on the carriage
ceiling to hasten the driver. He heard a whistle and the snap of the reins. His
booted feet tapped an impatient beat against the floor as he looked out into
the shifting shadows of St. Giles.

As a
boy, he had once carved a boat from driftwood and set it down the river. He had
watched it sail downstream until it became a speck, finally disappearing
altogether. Now, watching the slums flow by, he experienced that same sense of
freedom and finality. The mysterious blackmailer was dead, the thieving ended. The
voice he had heard that night had been Bragg's, not some ghost he had conjured
from the past. Aye, he could hear the resemblance now.

He
told himself his past was laid to rest. Dead and buried and no longer capable
of hurting him. It was time to move on.

When
he arrived at the grand Palladian residence, the place was already ablaze with
the brightest lights of the
ton
. Nicholas handled his hat and coat to
one of the liveried footmen. He paused at the top of the wide marble dais. Scanning
the throng below, he realized that this was his future. He was no longer a
scared boy running the streets or a porter with dirt under his fingernails.

He
was a man, a peer of the realm, with a wife he desired beyond the consciousness
of words. A wife who had trembled with ecstasy in his arms but a few hours
past. If all went according to plan, she would be moaning his name before the
night was out. Now if only he could get past the bloody receiving line, he
could find her and show her that which lay in his heart.

He
chafed at the butler's droning voice. One by one, the guests ahead of him were
announced as they descended the steps to the ballroom. Nicholas looked below
onto the packed dance floor. The glittering morass of color momentarily
disoriented him. Then he saw her, and the world righted. Standing under a bower
of blossoms, Helena held court like an exotic princess. Her rich sable locks
gleamed in ringlets around her laughing face, and the green material of her
gown kissed the lush curves of her body. Her breasts beckoned from a poor
excuse for a bodice: two sweetly rounded scoops of flesh designed to incite a
man's hunger. Nicholas frowned, noticing that he was not the only one to admire
her bosom. The admirers hovering all around her were stealing clandestine
eyefuls.

They
were lusting over
his wife
's breasts.

Pushing
by several guests and the startled butler, he strode down the stairwell. He
heard his title being hastily announced and felt the heat of curious glances as
he cut a straight path to his quarry. He did not give a damn and did not stop
until he had reached Helena's side. He slid a proprietary arm around her waist,
leveling a warning stare at the randy young bucks. Casually, he turned Helena to him and brought her hand to his lips.

"I
trust I have not kept you waiting, my lady," he said, allowing a slight
emphasis to the possessive pronoun.

Helena's
eyes glimmered like a sunlit pond, warmth illuminating the clear depths of
green and brown. She smiled, and unmistakable in her expression was the
gladness, the rightness that calmed his very soul. The other men must have seen
it too, for one by one they buzzed off to more promising territory. Wordlessly,
Nicholas offered his wife his arm and claimed her for a stroll around the dance
floor.

"Good
evening, my lord," Helena said, her voice sounding as if she had recently been
engaged in vigorous activity.

Strange,
he seemed to be having difficulty catching his own breath. "You look very
fine this evening," he managed.

"Thank
you." She cast her eyes demurely downward as they rounded the bend. "For
the compliment ... and for the lovely poem."

 Before
he could reply, they were stopped by a gaggle of ladies. He had to suffer
through dithering nonsense about reticules and slippers before he and his wife
were free to walk again.

"Liked
my ode, did you?" he began in a low, intimate voice, but then he heard
someone call his name. He had to paste on a smile and nod to some bloody
viscount whose name he could never recall. Why couldn't these buggers mind
their own business and let him flirt with his wife in peace? Leaning closer, he
said, "I found myself quite inspired by your—"

"La,
there you are Lady Harteford! Splendid night, isn't it?"

Nicholas
scowled as Helena gave a charming reply.

"Perhaps
we could continue this discussion another time," his wife whispered to him,
her cheeks a charming pink as they picked up the stroll again. "Others are
watching."

"The
ton
can go to hell for all I care. I want to talk now," he said. "I
have many things to say to you, my love, and, after that, many more things I
want to do with you. All night long."

With
her color high and her eyes aglow, she resembled a demure, complacent
marchioness not a whit. Not one bloody whit, praise God. He had not realized
how much he had wanted it so—to have a passionate wife waiting for him, below
the ladylike exterior. Perhaps he had always suspected her ardent nature, even
throughout the months of dry as crumbs courtship. Something about those eyes of
hers, the naughty fullness of her bottom lip ...

"You
seem different, Nicholas," she murmured. "What has changed?"

He
wanted to tell her everything. That he was free and that he loved her. He needed
to beg her forgiveness and ask for another chance to be the kind of husband she
deserved. But at that moment, the orchestra issued a readying note, and he saw another
opportunity. Before Helena could utter another word, Nicholas drew her onto the
dance floor. Other couples followed suit around them. The beginning notes
sounded ... a waltz. Could life be any more perfect? Grinning down at his wife's
bemused expression, he pulled her closer at the waist and led her into the
first steps.

Nicholas
did not dance often; having learned the skill only after succession to the
title, he considered himself a passable partner at best. Yet, as the sweet lush
melody wrapped itself around him, he forgot to be concerned about the proper
steps and positions. He had his wife in his arms, and nothing else mattered. He
spun her, drawing her closer as he did so, so close that her skirts slapped
against his thighs and her bodice brushed against his jacket.

They
moved in flawless unison. Against his palm, her back was soft, yielding. His
hand slid lower, onto the curve of her spine. Provocative, elegant, the
indentation beckoned him to the lush hills just below. He had to focus to
remember the steps. As the music rose in crescendo, he twirled her with
dizzying speed. She clung to him. When her eyes met his, he could see the
laughter there, the shared exhilaration of being alive, together ...

In
love.

He
caught her in another spin, this time bringing her against the burgeoned heat
of him. For a moment, pressing her against his turgid, endless desire for her.

His
lips found her ear.

"I
want you, my love," he whispered. "Always."

Her
eyes were wide as they separated. The other couples, the music, the ball itself
all faded away from his awareness. All that remained for him was the woman in
his arms. The woman he craved more than his next breath.

"Harteford,"
she said.

"Yes?"
He felt an insane urge to kiss her right then and there.

"The
music has stopped."

Belatedly,
Nicholas came to a halt. He saw the other men bowing and the ladies curtsying
in return. Heat tinged his cheekbones, though it did not compare to the
conflagration farther south. Flicking a glance downward, he knew that he needed
to calm himself or risk public embarrassment.

"My
dear, allow me to procure some ratafia for you," he murmured. "Shall
we meet outside on the terrace? I should like to continue our discussion, if it
would suit you."

"Yes,
my lord." His wife's eyes were glowing. "Thank you for the waltz. Apparently,
you dance as well as you write."

He
was going to explode then and there if she did not stop smiling at him like
that. "Outside, in ten minutes," he muttered, ushering her off the
dance floor.

It
took Nicholas several minutes in the cool night air to collect himself. That,
and several subtle adjustments of his trousers. When he once again gained
self-control, he went in search of refreshments. He did not even mind the snubs
and tittering voices; his thoughts centered fully on his wife.

During
the dance, she had moved with him in perfect accord, joined with him beyond
mere physical passion. Exultation quickened his breath. With his past behind
him where it belonged, they had a chance to start afresh. First, he would have
to make amends to her—for his treatment of her, for his ... he swallowed as the
familiar guilt twisted his gut. Could she forgive his acts of infidelity? How
could he have been so bloody stupid as to seek out a whore when the only woman
he'd ever wanted was his own wife?

The
thought crossed his mind to keep his indiscretion to himself. But the idea of
omission struck him as yet another betrayal, and he wanted honesty in their
marriage from this moment forth. Somehow, he'd have to find a way to explain
himself to Helena. To beg her forgiveness and to vow that he would never betray
her again. That, in truth, in his heart, he never had.

His faith
in their love was such that all this seemed possible.

Nicholas
returned to the terrace with warm punch in hand. It was past two o'clock in the
morning, and the crowd had begun to thin. He scanned the wide stone veranda,
but did not see Helena. He noticed that the west side of the balustrade was
obscured by dense hedges, designed no doubt to provide privacy for amorous
pursuits. A smile touched his lips as he considered finding his wife behind
such conveniently placed greenery.

This
time, unlike their wedding night, he would not paw at her like some sex-crazed
beast. No, this time he would take her small gloved hand in his and whisper an
endearment. He would watch her eyes, wait for that welcoming rush of gold
before slowly unbuttoning her glove. He would coax the satin down her tender
skin, exposing her delicate wrist. He would bring her hand to his lips and
press a kiss on the tender underside. A gentle brushing of his lips against her
fluttering pulse, nothing more. A prelude to wooing his wife.

Heart
hammering with anticipation, he strode over to the leafy barrier.