Miss Prestwick's Crusade (18 page)

From a gentle salute, the kiss ignited at once into something much more. His mouth ground into hers, and when she pressed against him and made a soft, mewling sound in the back of her throat, a spiral of wanting surged within him that he thought might drive him over the edge of sanity.

Her lips opened beneath his, and he savored the moist, warm sweetness within. Dear God, he had searched all his life for this woman, without even knowing that he was so in need of her. His hands moved along her bade, skimming over the delicate curve of her waist.

The kiss lasted an eternity but ended much too soon. It was ultimately satisfying, yet left him flaming with a desire for more. When she drew back and laid her head for a moment against his shoulder, he fancied he could hear the thundering of her heart mingling with the tumultuous beat of his own.

And at that moment, he knew with heart-stopping certainty that he loved Helen Prestwick and would continue loving her until the day he died.

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Helen pulled away, drawing a long, shaking breath. Throwing her head back, she allowed a glint of laughter to show between narrowed eyes.

"My dear Edward,” she murmured raggedly, “we must stop this."

"Of course,” he replied, then— “Why?"

"Because you are a proper English gentleman and I am a female of unimpeachable respectability."

Even as she spoke these words, her expression grew grave and she drew back even further.

"Helen?"

She gave him no answer but moved to face a window giving out to the park outside. In a moment, she turned back to him. Her eyes were the color of gunmetal. “Edward. I have become very fond of you in a very short time, but—"

"But isn't that a good thing?” Why did he feel this sense of desperation creeping over him. He continued in a light, brittle tone. “Because I am very fond of you, too. In fact, ‘fond’ is a sad understatement. Don't you think—?"

Helen raised her hand. “As you said, you know nothing about me."

"But I thought we agreed—"

"In addition, we are of different worlds. You are closely related to the Earl of Camberwell. My father is in trade— as am I."

Edward took a step toward her. Something was going terribly awry here. It was as though the portrait of a loved one had suddenly become warped and unrecognizable. “Helen, if that is not the most ridiculous— Beside, what about the duke?"

"The duke?” She stared blankly.

"The one several branches up in your family tree."

Helen laughed tightly. “Well, that's the point. He's several branches up—more than several. I daresay many people in England can list a duke or two somewhere in the upper reaches of their past, but at some point, you will agree, the connection no longer possesses any cachet. I don't know why I mentioned the old fellow to your aunt at all, except that she seemed to want one so."

She turned away. “I will leave you now, sir. These alarums and excursions have kept me from my work long enough. No.” Moving stiffly, she lifted her hand to forestall Edward's continuing arguments. “We must leave it at this, Edward. I cannot deny that the embraces we shared were—pleasant."

Pleasant?
Edward could only gape at her in numb disbelief. He was having difficulty understanding her words, as though she spoke in a foreign language. He stared at her blankly but looked into the eyes of a stranger. He had not known those misty gray eyes could take on the aspect of a winter stream.

She moved swiftly toward the door. “However, there can be nothing between us. And that,” she added, in a low, flat voice, “is as I prefer it."

She slipped through the door, keeping her face averted so that he could not see her expression. The door clicked closed behind her with the finality of death.

Pleasant?
The word sounded again in the empty air, reverberating in Edward's skull like a tolling bell. Those kisses that he had thought shattering had been merely a diversion for her? Dear God—it was over! His grand dream of romance had crumbled to ashes before it had begun to flame. His callow vision of a soul mate to live with him and be his love lay in ruins.

He sank into a chair and passed a shaking hand over his eyes.. Lord, how could he have been such a fool? Weaving air dreams like a smitten adolescent. Good God, he had contemplated marriage! He snorted. Her pretty declaration of social unworthiness had obviously been a sop to his ego.

He could not even fault Helen on her behavior. She had done nothing—really—to encourage him in his ludicrous fantasies. It could be considered improper to reciprocate the kisses of a man who was obviously besotted. He had attempted no further liberties, which she might have rejected.

What was he to do now? Helen Prestwick was destined to remain a guest in his house for the foreseeable future. If, as appeared probable, young William was declared the rightful heir to the Camberwell tide, he, Edward, would be packing his bags shortly thereafter and be on his way. He would return to Briarwood. Alone.

Had she really meant what she said? Those words tossed so carelessly, as one would to a well-liked butler who had got above himself? Try as he might, he could find no trace of regret in her speech, nothing that spoke of a glimpse of heaven refused on misguided principle. She had as much as admitted she liked him—found him attractive, even. But love, apparently, did not enter into her picture of their relationship.

For what seemed like hours, he sat motionless in the stilted elegance of the Yellow Salon. Servants whisking into the room from time to time took one look at the master's visage and scurried out again. Patterns of light from the windows slid across the walls. The luncheon gong sounded, unheard.

At last, he rose to his feet He felt stiff and sore as an old man. He had been miserably unsuccessful in his effort to impute some other meaning to her words—to create some other possible reason she could have had for saying them. Blindly, he walked from the room back to his study, where he spent a profitless afternoon, shuffling through without seeing them the papers waiting for him.

Upstairs, Helen crouched in one of the pretty armchairs set around her sitting room. She, too, had sat in a miserable state of immobility for much of the day.
What had she done?
The words droned endlessly in her mind. She had not intended to speak so to Edward. She had turned her face away as soon as she had done so but not in time to avoid his stricken gaze.

Perhaps it was all for the best. She nearly cried aloud at the inanity of the sentiment.

She had made a firm decision not to share another embrace with Edward, knowing at the time it would be a hard resolve to keep. Just how hard, however, she had not realized until he had drawn her to him this morning. She'd been stunningly grateful at his support in the matter of the necklace. There was little doubt in her mind that the pearls would have turned up in her bedchamber, courtesy of Stanford Welladay. But Edward had not allowed Welladay's scheme to hatch. He had apparently not so much as considered the possibility that she had stolen them, his suspicions directed at once to his uncle. She preferred not to dwell on what he might have thought if Artemis had not reported seeing Welladay enter her bedchamber. Would he still have cast around for another explanation for the presence of the necklace tucked under her pillow or in her dressing table drawer?

In any event, it certainly had not been gratitude that made her knees weaken at his touch. She had put her hands up to thrust him away but instead had turned into a molten heap of acquiescence. It was all she could do not to throw herself to the ground and pull him on top of her.

There was no use in denying that she loved Edward Beresford. Why, she wondered dismally, of all the nice men in the world she had met, should she have fallen in love with the one man she could not have? For, surely, once she told him about her “great sin,” as her father had called it, he would turn away from her. If she could have explained it all in the beginning, before the attraction between them had begun to spark, perhaps she could have convinced him of her innocence. But now, if she allowed herself to admit her love for him, he would surely find the inevitable revelation of the blot on her past reason to believe those protestations of love completely false. In any event, she had at least made the point that she was not of his station, and . . . She closed her eyes wearily, unable to bring her jumbled thoughts to a rational conclusion.

All she knew was that in uttering those hurtful words, she had no doubt squelched any affection he might have for her. She knew she had hurt him badly—possibly causing him almost as much pain as she had caused herself—and there would be no more tender embraces or fiery kisses between them.

At last, she rose to her feet and made her way to the attic where she had begun work so many fateful hours ago. Approaching her worktable, she began on the painting before her, without really focusing on the task at hand.

As the time drew near to dress for dinner, Helen knew a craven urge to have something sent to her room. Although, having missed luncheon, she felt quite hollow, she did not think she could force down a bite of food. But how was she to face Edward? What would be his reaction when they met in the drawing room before going in to eat?

She need not have worried. She had timed her entrance to the drawing room, carefully making sure that the other members of the family were there ahead of her—including Edward. He turned at her entrance, nodding and addressing her as courteously as always. The warmth had fled from his gaze, however, leaving his eyes the color of withered leaves.

After a moment's light chatter with the ladies—Lady Camberwell, Artemis and Barney, whom she had not seen all day—Helen looked about her. “But Mr. Welladay does not join us this evening?” she asked casually.

"Why, no, of course not,” replied the dowager. “But did you not know? He left this morning for London.” She laughed breezily. “He does that every now and again, you know. I fear dear Stamford is a city mouse by nature, and he can spend only so many weeks ‘tethered’ in the country before he must ‘take a bolt to the village.’ I expect he will return within a week or two. He does enjoy a sojourn with his old cronies."

Helen murmured appropriate expressions of disappointment at his absence, but she could not but feel a great sense of relief. She shot a look at Edward, but the connection between them had been severed. His only response was a noncommittal glance that told her nothing.

The evening that followed seemed to go on for an eternity. The excellent meal set in front of her tasted like seaweed. Conversation ebbed and flowed about her like a chill breeze. She noted Barney's expression of troubled concern but could not bring herself to break out a smile of reassurance. She also noted that Edward seemed to have little difficulty maintaining his part in the family discussion. She knew a moment of unwarranted pique that he did not appear as destroyed by their estrangement as she.

After dinner, she went to bed early, pleading a headache. When Barney made as though to follow her, she managed a light comment, telling her that, yes, she was just fine, and please not to leave the gathering on her account.

Once in her chambers, she accepted Bingham's ministrations but dismissed her at the earliest opportunity. She did not retire immediately but fell again into the chair in which she had spent so much of the day.

What in the world was she going to do now? She was reasonably sure Edward would not renege on his promise to look into William's claim. She supposed she could manage a civil relationship with Edward for however long it took to prove that claim. For a finite number of weeks she could be pleasant and cool and courteous and nothing more. Then she would leave. Once Edward had also taken his departure, she might return—for the occasional visit.

She pulled herself from the chair and sank into bed. She reflected that she had not seen William all day. She had not been absent from him for this long since his birth and she was struck with guilt. A thread of anger began to twist itself through her mind, as well. Why was she behaving as though she had committed a heinous act? If anyone bad acted in an inappropriate manner, it was Edward. After all, she knew very well it was not the thing for a gentleman to kiss unmarried ladies living—no matter how temporarily— under his protection. Let alone set their pulses to humming and stir them to sinful delight. She was doing Edward a favor by spurning any further attempt at dalliance on his part. When he knew the truth about what she had done— or had been accused of doing—he would want nothing to do with her, and if she took care not to let the relationship run any further on its disastrous course, the final break would not be so painful.

Aware that her reasoning contained what some might call holes, she turned her face into her pillow with a sigh. Such was her state of exhaustion that only a few tears followed the sigh before she fell into a restless sleep.

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The next two weeks passed uneventfully—and every bit as painfully as either Helen or Edward had envisioned. They saw little of each other, their meetings confined to brief encounters at meals or occasional meetings in the corridors, as distant as icebergs circling in an arctic sea.

Edward found that it is possible to keep on living while one's lifeblood trickles out of a jagged hole in one's heart. However, after two weeks of self-exile in the tundra that was life without Helen, he came to a decision.

Shortly after breakfast one morning, he made his way to Helen's attic domain. He found her in the little area she had fashioned as an office, with desk, worktable, chair and cabinets. Before her lay a shaggy pile of papers, which she appeared to be sorting. She looked up, startled, at his entrance, and her eyes widened as she absorbed the identity of her visitor. She rose hastily.

"Edward! That is, good morning, Mr. Beresford."

"And a good morning to you. Miss Prestwick, though I am sorry to hear we are back to Miss and Mr."