Her Husband's Harlot (36 page)

*****

Slightly
out of breath, Helena hurried back toward the ballroom. The wait for the privy had
been excruciating. She hoped Nicholas had not been waiting long. Something had altered
in him tonight, she could feel it. His behavior spoke less of restraint and
entirely of desire. During their dance, the intensity of his focus on her, like
a pirate laying claim to bounty, had made everything else fade; there'd been
nothing but the feel of his body moving with hers.

As
she neared the double-doors leading to the terrace, she collided with a flash
of turquoise moving in the opposition direction.

"
Oof
."
She righted herself. "I beg your par—oh, Marianne, 'tis you. I did not
know you were in attendance tonight ..."

She
trailed off, taking in the paleness of her friend's face and the haunted look
in the normally vibrant green eyes. "Marianne, what is it?"

"Nothing.
I am fine." Marianne's smile was clearly forced. "I am afraid that I
have developed a megrim and need to leave."

"A
megrim? Should you like Harteford and me to accompany you back?" Helena asked, concerned.

"No,
no. I need to rest, that is all."

"Really,
Marianne, you ought to—"

But
it was too late. Marianne had slipped away without another word.

Baffled,
Helena watched her friend disappear into the crowd. What was going on with
Marianne? She would have to call on her tomorrow. But for now, she had her own
matters to attend to. Once outside, she felt a rush of relief to spot Nicholas's
broad back. He stood away from the others, on the farthest side of the veranda
next to a series of hedges. Helena hastened over to him, words of greeting on
her lips. The words died when she heard the voices rising from the other side
of an enormous leafy divide.

"Brazen
bastard, isn't he? Thinks just because he married Northgate's girl he can
trample about in Society." The man's voice boomed, inebriated and indignant.
"Well, I still say blood shows—his mother was a whore, after all, and his
fortune is from
trade
. He positively trails the scent of shop."

"And
that, dear Sir Jacoby, is why he is our own dear
Merchant
Marquess,"
responded a woman with a tinkling laugh.

"I'll
be damned if the bastard isn't eyeing my stables, too, what remains of them,"
the male voice continued viciously. "Circling like a hawk, he is. Last
month, he snatched up my finest greys at Tattersall's—and he didn't pay half
what they're worth, the bloody skinflint. I wager he heard about my misfortune
at the tables through those merchant friends of his. Mark my words, he's no
better than those tradesmen knocking on the door. It is a sorry state indeed,
my dear, when the lower classes don't mind their place."

Helena
heard the sharp, snapping sound at the same time that
Nicholas had whirled around. She had never seen such raw anger, from the molten
obsidian of his eyes to the raised fists that looked ready, nay
eager
,
for a brawl. Punch dripped, blood red, from one of his hands, as shards of
delicate crystal cascaded to the ground. His large powerful figure quivered
like a hound with prey in sight. At first, he did not seem to recognize her.
When he did, his face flamed.

"Nicholas
..." she said, reaching out her hand.

"Eh,
who's there?" A moment later, a portly middle-aged man stumbled from the
other side of the bushes. His ruddy, thickly veined jowls grew even redder when
he saw Nicholas.

"Come
back, Jacoby. I am sure it is nobody ..." A stick-thin woman emerged,
tugging at her sagging bodice. Her small eyes protruded almost comically from
her narrow face.

In
the awful silence that followed, Helena's heartbeat grew louder and louder in
her ears. In the periphery of her vision, she saw other guests circling, drawn
to the hunt and the scent of blood. Murmurs, mocking laughter surrounded them.

"I
say, what are you about, Harteford? Skulking like a common thief," Jacoby
said.

The
woman, cueing in on her lover's strategy, chimed to the offensive. "An invasion
of privacy, that is what I would call it. Most ungentlemanly behavior!"

Nicholas'
gaze swung to Jacoby. His face was expressionless, yet Helena could see the
strain of rigid control. Nicholas' fists bulged at his sides. Despite his
well-tailored evening clothes, he emanated a savage physicality that only a
fool would overlook. Jacoby instinctively inched backward, his throat bobbing
up and down. Nicholas' knuckles expanded and whitened. The quiet seemed to
crackle with tension.

Then
slowly, oh so slowly, Nicholas unclenched his fists.

Nicholas
turned to face the woman, who clutched her hands to her shallow chest. An
ostrich feather drooped limply over her eye. He swept her a mocking bow. His
colorless voice chilled Helena to the core. "Pray do not concern yourself,
madam. As you have said, I am nobody to worry about."

As he
turned to leave, the crowd's jeering whispers grew in volume.
Coward.
Bastard.
What do you expect of the lower classes?
His eyes did not meet his wife's
as he walked past.

Rage,
brilliant and pure, washed over Helena. Red clouded her vision as she regarded
Jacoby and his tittering consort. Without another thought, she crossed over to
them.

"Yes,
well, what is it?" Jacoby demanded uncomfortably. "It's not polite to
stare, young lady. That's what comes of rubbing with the inferior classes.
Would have thought Northgate brought you up to be ..."

He
never had a chance to finish. With a resounding
crack
, Helena's reticule
connected with his jaw. Yelping, Jacoby stumbled backward. Helena dimly heard
the collective gasps of the gathering crowd, but she did not care.
How dare
he malign Nicholas in such a manner? The pompous prig
. She swung her
reticule again. As the beaded silk collided with flesh and bone, she realized
she felt alive: every inch of her astride-riding, tree-climbing, baker's
son-pummeling self burst into song.

The
feeling was so satisfying, so very rewarding, that her arm drew back again of
its own accord. Only to be restrained by an iron grip.

"Enough,
Helena," Nicholas said quietly.

Helena
leveled a withering stare at Jacoby and his lover.
Both backed away from her, their faces immobile with shock. In a voice that
shook with anger, she managed, "Shame on you. Shame on you both."

She
turned to Nicholas and slipped her hand in his. Without a word, he led her
away.

Nicholas
handed Helena up into the carriage. Instead of following, however, he shut the
door behind her and said to the driver, "Take Lady Harteford home. Do not
stop, no matter what she says. I'll be along shortly."

The
driver gave his cap a pull and the reins a snap.

As
the horses started off, the window opened, and Helena's head poked out. "Nicholas?"
she called out anxiously. "Where are you going? Why aren't you coming—"

He
blocked her out. Couldn't bear to face her or the pity in her eyes. The
equipage rounded the corner and disappeared from sight. He began to walk with
no direction in mind. Given that his other option was to return to the ball and
beat the living hell out of Jacoby, it seemed the better course of action. A
gentleman would probably call the bugger out—but he was no gentleman, was he?
He'd killed before, and he had no desire to murder another man, for any reason,
no matter how justifiable. His honor—whatever there was of it—was certainly not
cause enough.

Bloody
fool, how could you have believed you were good enough for her?
    

With
a savage stride, he trudged on. Humiliation ripened within his chest as he
thought of Helena having to defend him in such a way. By the morrow, she'd be a
laughingstock and shunned by the world she came from. They'd be tittering about
her over breakfast, at every fashionable tea and club in town. All because of
him. Because every word Jacoby had said was true: Nicholas was a bastard, a
coward ... and a fool who'd deluded himself into believing that his past could
be left behind. At times he wished his bleeding sire had never acknowledged him
at all. Better to live a bastard's life than to have a tantalizing dream dangled
forever out of his reach.

He
didn't know how long he walked. It seemed he'd been wandering the streets all
his life—St. Giles, Mayfair, the docks, what did it matter? Peace eluded him
everywhere. By the time he climbed the steps to the townhouse several hours
later, he'd at least worn himself out physically. He wanted nothing more than
to fall into his bed and into oblivion. Before he could ring the bell, however,
the door opened. Helena stood there, still in her evening finery.

"Where
have you been?" In a frantic motion, she grabbed his sleeve, and he let
himself be pulled inside. "Don't you know how worried I've been? Sweet
heavens, you didn't even get your coat or hat—you must be freezing!"

He
hadn't felt cold. Hadn't felt much of anything until he'd laid eyes upon her
and all his earlier hopes sliced through him like one of Farraday's scalpels.
Fine, delicate cuts that left no mark and yet could bleed a man to the bone.

"Let's
go to your study," she said decisively. "I'll pour you a brandy and
we'll have Crikstaff bring some warm blankets—"

"I
don't want to do this." His words resonated in the antechamber. They
sounded as flat, as empty as he felt.

"The
drawing room, then—"

He
shook his head. "I mean I can't do this. With you. Not tonight." He
hadn't the energy, the wherewithal to sort out the best course of action. Right
now he needed to get to his bedchamber and bar the door. "Tomorrow,
perhaps."

"
Dash
it all
, we are going to talk now."

Helena's
fierce tone took him aback. Her eyes were spitting fire at him. Had the night's
events sunk in then? Had she finally realized the price of being married to the
ton
's outcast?

A responding
flare of anger lit his insides. He'd tried to warn her, hadn't he? Tried to tell
her this was all a mistake—but she wouldn't listen.

"You
want to talk? Fine," he said and headed to the study. He held the door
open, gave her a mocking bow.

Head
high, looking more like a marchioness than he'd ever seen her, Helena marched
by him. Crikstaff had left the lamps burning low, and the curling flame of the
fireplace and lingering traces of tobacco added to the study's cozy ambiance.
Helena strolled around Nicholas' private domain as if she belonged there. She inspected
the wall of books spanning from floor to ceiling, running her finger along the
spines.

Nicholas
headed in the opposite direction, straight for the tray of spirits. He poured
himself a glass from a crystal decanter before pausing and turning to look at
her.

"Forgive
my manners," he said shortly. "I do not keep sherry in here. Shall I
ring for tea or hot milk?"

"I
am not a child, Nicholas, who needs milk before bedtime. I shall have whatever
you are drinking," Helena said.

He frowned.
"I am drinking whiskey."

"Fine."

Helena
seated herself in one of the wingchairs facing the fireplace. He could not help
but note how the masculine furniture dwarfed her, how small and feminine she
looked against the studded burgundy leather. As he handed her the glass, their
fingers brushed, and he felt the jolt all the way to his toes. Damn her for having
that effect on him. He sprawled into the adjacent armchair. Keeping his gaze
fixed upon leaping flames, he silently drank his whiskey.

He
heard a slight sputter. "Is everything alright?" he said.

"Y-yes."
She coughed again, then muttered, "How on earth can you drink this stuff?"

If
she'd had the occasion to sample blue ruin, the milk of the stews, she wouldn't
have to ask. The mellow tingle of whiskey was nothing compared to the
gut-melting burn of gin. "An acquired taste," he said and tossed back
the rest of the spirits. "But it's not my preference in beverages that we're
here to discuss, is it? You're the one who insisted on talking. So talk."

She
put down her glass. Her hands clasped amidst the folds of her emerald skirts. "I
had hoped we would have a discussion, my lord. About what happened tonight. I
understand that you are upset—"

"I
am not upset," he said curtly. "You forget being issued a cut direct
is hardly a novel occurrence. I deal with this most every day, my lady, and I
can assure you I do not give a damn."

"Then
why did you walk alone for hours? Why are you trying to shut me out?" For
some reason, her soft, reasonable tones irked him further. He had to look away
from the pleading shimmer in her big eyes. "Earlier this evening, you seemed
different. You—you told me you wanted me. Always."

"I
was mistaken." He could not keep the bitterness out of his voice. "Surely
you can see such a relationship is not possible between us."