Duchess Quartet - A Wild Pursuit Part 12

It was the whisper that did it. The very small trickle of desire that had crept into his veins died on the spot. She was being polite, and she was being brave. Neither emotion did much for Stephen's desire. The desire he had wilted, in all senses of the word. He slid his hand very carefully around her back and pulled her close. She felt rather like a fragile bird, nestled in his arms. Then he rested his chin on her hair and said, "I thought I knew why I was here, but now I'm not sure that I do."

There was silence. Then: "Because we are beginning an affair?"

He couldn't even tell where all that desperation was coming from. From the idea of bedding him? In that case, why on earth was she putting herself through such an ordeal?

He chose his words very carefully. "Generally, when a couple embarks on such a... a relationship, it is because they feel a mutual attraction. I certainly think you are a beautiful woman-"

Helene chimed in with the exquisite manners that accompanied everything she said or did. "You are extremely handsome as well."

"But do you really wish to sleep with me?" He ran a coaxing hand down her arm.

When she finally spoke, it sounded as if she were near tears. "Of course!"

"I've never been so attractive that a woman felt she must bed me," Stephen said teasingly, trying to lighten the atmosphere. It didn't work. He could feel his chest growing damp from her tears. d.a.m.n it, the whole day was a fiasco, from beginning to end.

"I should never have done it," Helene said shakily, wiping tears away as fast as she could. "I simply thought..." Her voice trailed off.

Stephen was struck by a sudden thought. "Did you think to use me to prove adultery?" That would destroy his career in two seconds flat-a notion that didn't seem to bother him as much as it should.

"No," Helene sobbed. "I would never have used you in such a way. I thought we might-we might enjoy-and then I could tell my husband, and-" Her voice trailed off.

They lay there for a while, a lanky English gentleman and a sniffling countess. "I'm sure my face is quite red," Helene said finally.

Her wry tone told Stephen that she had regained control. Her face was indeed all red, and her hair was starting to fall out of its braid into wisps around her face. For some reason, he found it very sweet that she hadn't even known enough about an a.s.signation with a man to loosen her hair.

"Helene," he said gently, "this isn't going to work."

"Why not?"

He blinked and realized her surprise was genuine. "Because you don't truly wish to make love to me," he pointed out.

Helene could have screamed with vexation. How stupid could the man be! If she didn't want to make love to him, would he be in her room? Would she have humiliated herself by appearing in dishabille before a man? Would she have allowed an unclothed man anywhere in her vicinity? "I do wish to make love to you," she managed.

He reached out and rubbed away a tear. "I don't think you do," he said, and there was a sweet look on his face.

A sweet, condescending look.

A whole flood of naughty words-the words she had been taught not to use, and indeed, had never even used in thought-came to Helene's mind. "That's rot," she said. "You're a man. Men always want to make love to women under any circ.u.mstances. Everyone knows that."

Stephen bit his lip, and Helene had a terrible feeling he was trying to keep back a smile. "They generally like to feel that the lady they are with is willing."

"I am willing!" Helene said, hearing her voice rising. "How much more willing can I be?"

He looked embarra.s.sed now. "Perhaps I'm not phrasing this correctly."

"I'm willing!" Helene said. She reached up and wrenched open the b.u.t.tons that ran down the front of her night rail. "Go ahead. Do whatever you wish."

For a moment they both just stared at Helene's b.r.e.a.s.t.s. They were small in comparison to Esme's, but they had a nice jaunty air to them. At least that's what Helene thought until she forced herself to look at Stephen. He looked absolutely mortified. But Helene was starting to enjoy herself. It seemed that she was capable of shocking people!

She wriggled her night rail back over her shoulders so it pooled around her waist. "Now if I remember this whole procedure correctly from my marriage," she said, feeling a slightly hysterical giggle coming, "you should be overcome by l.u.s.t at this point. At least, my husband always was."

Stephen looked almost goggle-eyed. "He was? I mean, of course he was!"

At this point one obviously laughed or cried. Helene chose to laugh. There was only so much humiliation a woman could take in one evening. She folded her hands over the top of the sheet and grinned at Stephen, quite as if they were at a tea party. "I suppose we could have an old-fashioned game of 'you show me, I show you,'" she said. "Or we could simply give it up."

His eyes flew to hers, and the relief in them was palpable.

"I gather that I need more practice before I can induce a man to actually stay in my bed," Helene said. "I have to tell you, Stephen, that it is quite a personal triumph that I lured you into my bedchamber at all."

He reached over and pulled the sheet up above her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, tucking it about her, quite as if he were tucking a child in at night. Then he said, "Now you'll have to explain to me, Helene, exactly why you lured me up here. After all, your husband is not a member of this house party."

Helene swallowed. But he deserved a real explanation. "I want a divorce. But when I asked my husband whether we could simply manufacture the evidence of my adultery, he laughed and said no one in the world would believe that I was adulterous. It has to be a woman's adultery that dissolves a marriage, you know. It's grotesquely unfair, but the letter of the law."

"I agree with you," Stephen said, nodding. "Especially in cases such as yours, there ought to be other provisions. And I'm sure there will be changes to the law, in time. So..."

"So I thought perhaps you and I... we... might..." Helene trailed off and then stiffened her backbone. For goodness' sake! She was half naked in bed with the man; she might as well be frank. "I like you very much," she said, looking into his eyes. "I thought perhaps we might have an affair, but I see now that I was mistaken. There's a great deal I don't understand about bedroom matters."

Stephen pulled her snug against his side again. "There's time."

Helene couldn't help grinning. Here she was in bed, half naked, and snuggled up to a naked man! If only Esme could see her now! Or Rees, for that matter! "It was a lowly impulse," she said, feeling more generous now that the acute sense of humiliation was gone. "I just wanted revenge. Rees laughed when I asked him for the divorce. He says I'm frigid, and no man would ever want me." Her tone had a bitterness that she couldn't hide.

Stephen's arm tightened. "That's cruel nonsense," he said firmly. They sat for a moment, Helene tucked against Stephen's shoulder while he thought about beating Rees G.o.dwin into small pieces.

"Are you absolutely certain that it wouldn't work between us?" she asked.

Stephen looked down at her. "Are you trembling with desire because my arm is around you? Are you secretly wishing that I would push down your sheet and take your breast-"

"No! No, I'm not," she said hastily, tucking the sheet more firmly under her arm. "All right. I accept that

it won't work between the two of us. It's just such a shame, because you are quite perfect, and I'm not sure I have enough... enough bravery to go through this again."

"Ah, but if you truly desired the man in question, it wouldn't take that much bravery."

Helene didn't agree at all, but she bit her tongue.

"It seems to me," Stephen said slowly, "that you're not quite certain that you wish for the affair itself, Helene. You are more interested in the appearance of an affair."

"True. At the heart I'm terribly prudish about marriage. I am married. Or perhaps," she added, rathersadly, "I'm just prudish. That's what Rees would say." "If only your husband could see you now," Stephen said, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Yes, wouldn't that be wonderful? Because I do like you more every moment."

"The feeling is entirely mutual." He gave her a little squeeze. "And there's no one else at this party whom I could even consider inviting to my bedchamber," shecontinued. "There's no hope for it. I shall have to wait until I can return to London, and that won't be forquite a while. I just wish that Rees knew where I am, right now!"

"Invite him," Stephen said, a wicked lilt in his voice.

"Invite him? Invite him where?"

"Here. Invite him to the house. We can make certain that he sees you in a compromising situation."

Helene gasped. "With you?"

"Exactly."

She started to giggle. "It would never work."

"I don't see why not. I've never met your husband. But I don't like what you've told me about him. So

why not fashion a comeuppance for the man?"

"It would be wonderful," Helene breathed, imagining it. All the revenge without having to go through with the unpleasant bits. Could there be anything better? "Unless there's a chance he might grow violent," Stephen said, thinking of various nasty stories he'd read over the years about irate husbands.

"Rees wouldn't bother. Truly. He lives with an opera singer, you know." "I have heard that," Stephen admitted. Helene clutched his arm. "Would you do it, Stephen, really? Would you do it for me? I would be so grateful; I can't even tell you how much."

He looked down at her and laughed, and the joy of it came right from the heart. "Do you know what Ido with my days? I try to win votes. I count votes. I bargain for votes. I beg for votes." "That is very important work." "It doesn't feel important. This feels more important. So, summon the philandering husband!" Stephen said magisterially. "I always wanted to play a part in a romantic comedy. Sheridan, Congreve-here I come!"

Helene broke into laughter and he joined her, two proper, half-clothed members of the English peerage.

Chapter 14.

Because the Library is Not Yet Emptied of Books.

Bea was creeping down the corridor toward the main stairs and library when the laugh rumbled through a door just at her shoulder. She would know that laughter anywhere. There wasn't another man in London with such a lovely, deep voice as Mr. Puritan Fairfax-Lacy himself.

It wasn't that she didn't want Helene and Mr. Fairfax-Lacy to find pleasure in each other. Of course she did. Why, she was instrumental in bringing them together, wasn't she? She headed directly down the stairs, trying to erase all thoughts of what might have brought on the Puritan's delighted peal of laughter. What had Helene done? Did she know as much as Bea did about pleasuring a man? It seemed unlikely.

Probably that was the sort of laughter shared by people who don't know everything, who discover new pleasures together. She couldn't remember laughing while in bed with a man. She mentally revisited the three occasions in question. There had been a good deal of panting and general carrying on... but laughter? No.

The thought made her a little sick, so she walked downstairs even faster. Once in the library she wandered around the shelves, holding her candle up high so she could read the t.i.tles. But it was no use.

The idea of returning to her cold bed was miserable. The idea of pretending to read one of these foolish books was enough to make a woman deranged. Instead she plunked down on a chilly little settee, drew up her feet under her night rail (a delicious, frothy concoction of Belgian lace that was far more beautiful than warm) and tried to think where things had gone wrong in her life.

The world would have said, without hesitation, that it was the moment when Lady Ditcher walked into a drawing room and was paralyzed with horror to see one of the Duke of Wintersall's daughters prostrate in the arms of a gentleman. Not that her arms were a problem, Bea thought moodily to herself. It was the sight of long white thighs and violet silk stockings. That's what had done the trick for Lady Ditcher.

But the truth was that the trouble started long before. Back when she was fifteen and fell in love with the head footman. Never mind the fact that Ned the Footman must have been thirty. She adored him. Alas, she wasn't very subtle about it. Her entire family knew the truth within a day or so. Finally her father sent the overly handsome footman to one of his distant country estates. He didn't really get angry, though, until he discovered she had been writing Ned the Footman letters, one a day, pa.s.sionate, long letters...

That's where she went wrong. With Ned the Footman.

Because Ned rejected her. She offered herself to him, all budding girlhood and thrilled with love, and he said no. And it wasn't to preserve his position, either. Ned the Footman wasn't interested. She could read it on his face. After her father transferred him to the country, he never answered a single letter. With the wisdom of time, she realized Ned may not have been able to read, but honesty compelled her to admit that he wouldn't have wanted to write back. He thought she was tiresome.

Ever since then, she seemed to be chasing one Ned after another... except all the Neds she found were endlessly willing, and therefore endlessly tiresome.

She curled up her toes and rocked back and forth a little. She was certain that she wasn't merely a l.u.s.ty trollop, as her father characterized her. She truly did want all those things other women wanted: a husband, a baby, two babies, love... Real love, not the kind based on b.r.e.a.s.t.s propped up by cotton pads.

You've gone about the wrong way of finding that sort of love, she thought sourly. And it was too late now. It wasn't as if she could let her hair down and put away her rouge, and swear to never utter another profanity. She liked being herself; she truly did. It was just... it was just that being herself was rather lonely sometimes.

"Oh d.a.m.n it all," she said out loud, rubbing her nose hard to stop the tears from coming. "d.a.m.n it all! And d.a.m.n Ned too!"

A slight noise made her look up, and there in the doorway was Mr. Laughing Lover himself, looking tall and broad-shouldered and altogether aristocratic. He could never be a footman. Not even Ned had looked at her with that distant disapproval, that sort of well-bred dismay. Of course, the man was sated by his midnight excursion. That alone would make him invulnerable to her charms, such as they were.

"Ned?" he said, eyebrow raised. "I gather the gentleman has not joined us but remains in your thoughts?"

"Precisely," she said, putting her chin on her knees and pretending very hard that she didn't mind that he had been with Helene. "And how are you, Mr. Fairfax-Lacy? Unable to sleep?"

"Something of the sort," he said, looking as if b.u.t.ter wouldn't melt in his mouth.

Why on earth was he in the library instead of snuggling beside the skinny body of his mistress? Uncharitable thought, she reminded herself. You're the one with a padded bosom. The reminder made her irritable.

"So why are you in the library?" she asked. "I thought you had other fish to fry."

"A vulgar phrase," he said, wandering forward and turning the wick on the Argand lamp. "In fact, I came to see if I could find the book of poetry you gave to Lady G.o.dwin."

"Why, are you having a private reading?" she asked silkily.

The minx was nestled on the settee, little pointed chin resting on her knees. She was curled up like a child, and with her hair down her back, she should have looked like a schoolgirl. It must be the dimple that gave her such a knowing look. That and the way her lips curled up, as if they were inviting kisses.

He walked over to her. "Why on earth did you give Lady G.o.dwin that particular poem to read?"

"Didn't you like it?"

Close up, she didn't look like a child. Her hair was the color of burning coals. It tumbled down her back,

looking as delectable and warm as the rest of her. "You've washed your face," he said. Ignoring the danger signals sent by his rational mind, he crouched down before her so their eyes were on the same level. "Look at that," he said mockingly. "I do believe that your eyebrows are as yellow as a daisy."

"Pinkish, actually," she said. "I absolutely loathe them. And in case you're planning to comment on it, my eyelashes are precisely the same color."

"It is rather odd. Why aren't they the same red as your hair?"

She hugged her knees tighter and wrinkled her nose. "Who knows? One of my sisters has red hair, and she has lovely eyelashes. But mine fade into my skin unless I color them."