Her Husband's Harlot (31 page)

"There
are certain strengths to be associated with a strong sensibility," Helena said, recalling her recent readings on the matter.  "For example, a natural
empathy for the suffering of others."

Percy
grinned again. "Yes, I do so empathize with the plight of the heroines.
Why, in one novel, the lady is in pursuit of her own true love, a handsome
stable boy wrongly accused of murder who also happens to be a long-lost Count
in disguise. At the same time, she is being haunted by the roving, tortured
ghost of the moors—who may or may not be the hero's half-brother. If only real
life was half as exciting!"

Helena
could not help but smile at the younger girl's spirited charm. At the same
time, she noticed a few censorious glances aimed in their direction from the
gentlemen seated around the fireplace, newspapers in hand.

"I
wonder, Miss Fines," Helena said on impulse, "if you would care to
join me for an ice? I had planned on a visit to Gunter's after this."

"I
would be delighted," Percy said at once. "Let me fetch my maid."

The ride
to Berkeley Square was short, and the driver found a cool spot to park under
the boughs of a maple tree. It was a warm day, so there were many other
carriages parked in the square. Helena sent Will, the groom, into the sweets
shop, and he soon returned with a strawberry ice for Percy and a muscadine ice
for herself. They remained sitting in the open-air carriage eating and
chatting, the combination so delightful that Helena almost forgot the subtly
lurking Runners.

"I
am so glad I ran into you today." Swallowing the last spoonful of her ice,
Percy made a swooning sound. "We were all so taken with you after your
visit, and I despaired at having to wait until Friday to see you again. Have
you decided what you will be wearing? You have the most gorgeous clothes, and I
am sorely in need of some womanly advice."

Helena
blinked, torn between confusion and amusement at the
girl's plea for fashion advice. "I beg your pardon? Is there an event this
Friday?"

"Oh
no, do tell me Nick has not forgotten to inform you!" Percy wailed.

"Inform
me of what, exactly?"

"I
will murder him," Percy said darkly to her herself. Her eyes flew suddenly
to Helena's. "No offense meant, Lady Harteford."

"Since
you are to make a widow out of me, we might as well be on more intimate terms,"
Helena remarked dryly. "We shall be Helena and Percy, if that suits you.
Now, what is this about Friday?"

"It
is only
the
most important event of my entire life," Percy declared.

Helena
hid a smile. The girl's flair for the dramatic was
wasted on anything short of Drury Lane.

"I
have been planning for
ages
. You and Nick left so, er, precipitously after
tea last week that I didn't get a chance to remind you both. So I told Paul to do
so when he went to have lunch with Nick yesterday. But he has forgotten, or
perhaps Nick never conveyed the message to you. Either way, it shall be
cold-blooded murder for both of them."

Helena's
head was spinning. "Percy, you still have not told me what event you are
speaking about."

"My
birthday, of course. Seventeen years of hum-drum existence culminating at long
last in a celebration to end all celebrations. The party is to be at Vauxhall, Helena,
Vauxhall
, can you imagine it ...?" The girl's long lashes fluttered
dreamily. "I have always longed to go, and now I shall. Paul has arranged
everything. He rented two supper boxes for the occasion, and he has issued
invitations to my friends from Mrs. Southbridge's Finishing School. And you and
Nick, of course. My mother and her friends will be chaperoning, and there will
be games and food and ... oh, I simply cannot wait!"

Helena
forced a smile. Inside, her frustration boiled over.
Even if Nicholas was trying to protect her, this was a dashed poor way of doing
it. To bar her from an event hosted by the closest people he had to family ... how
insufferable!
He
was going, wasn't he? If he could take the risk, why
shouldn't she be given at least the option? Or, a malicious voice whispered in
her head, perhaps he had other reasons for wanting to be free of a wife that
evening?

Her hands
balled in her lap. He might have at least discussed the situation with her. Of
course, discussion would have been nigh impossible, given that he had chosen to
absent himself from her life completely in the past week.

"You
will come in spite of the mix-up, won't you, Helena?" Percy looked at her
with pleading, anxious eyes. "I simply cannot enjoy myself if you are not
there. My birthday will be utterly ruined."

Nicholas
might be an ass, but Percy was a dear. Helena made up her mind. She would not
hurt the girl's feelings just because her lord had seen fit to make a
unilateral decision without her knowledge.

"Of
course, I will be there," she said brightly. "I would not miss your
birthday for the world. Now, do tell me about the ensemble you are planning to
wear ..."

Helena
sensed his presence the moment he arrived. She was
sitting near the end of the long table in the supper alcove, chatting with a
friend of Paul Fines. Her back was turned to the entrance of the supper box. One
moment, the air was filled with lively chatter and the strains of the nearby
orchestra—the next, a throbbing stillness filled her ears, as if they had been suddenly
stuffed full of cotton. A tingling sensation swept down her nape, and it was
all she could do to keep her attention on her dinner escort.

She
could feel the intensity of Nicholas' gaze upon her back and knew he had
recognized her instantly. Her heart fluttered like a captive sparrow in her
chest. But she would not turn around and greet her husband as might a besotted
bride. Let him come to her, if he wished to. Instead, she laughed gaily at Mr.
Henderson Reed's witticism—or, more accurately, she assumed his comments were
witty, for she'd quite lost track of the conversation.

Thankfully,
he did not seem to notice. "I say, Lady Harteford, you look most becoming
under the lights," Mr. Reed said. "Like some fairyland princess
beneath a rainbow of stars."

"How
very poetic of you, Mr. Reed," Helena said. "You rival Lord Byron in
your romantic sensibility."

"Kind
of you to say so," Mr. Reed replied with obvious gratification. "He
is a hero of mine."

Helena
thought that rather obvious, given the young man's artfully windswept brown
locks and disheveled style. When Mr. Reed proceeded to bestow upon her one of
his smoldering looks, she hid a smile. He had practiced this look on her on several
occasions throughout the evening, and this attempt ranked among his best. Mr.
Reed was near to her age, three-and-twenty at the most, and possessed all the
burning intensity of a puppy. His good-natured brown eyes did not so much
smolder as emit a hopeful spark. He reminded her a bit of Thomas, actually.

"I
was wondering, Lady Harteford, if you would care to join me on a stroll after
supper?" Mr. Reed asked as he broke a piece of bread. "Vauxhall is
renowned for its ambling paths. The Grand Walk is particularly delightful and
close to it is the Rotunda where many entertainments are shown."

"That
sounds most genial," Helena agreed. She speared up a bit of thinly sliced
ham. The savory meat was a trademark Vauxhall delicacy, but it might have been
sawdust for all she noticed or cared. She had still not looked directly at
Nicholas, but she could feel him advancing in her direction. She could hear the
chairs scraping as guests moved to let him by. Picking up her wineglass, she took
a fortifying sip of the arrack punch. And another.

"Good
evening, my lady."

At
the sound of her husband's deep tones, the sparrow in her chest broke into full
flight. She counted to ten before turning around to face him. Sweet heavens, if
any eyes could smolder, it was Nicholas'. His gaze fairly burned into hers. The
strings of colored lights highlighted the harsh lines of his face and shadowed
the rest, making him look more austere than ever. His jaw might have been hewn
from stone.

She managed
to keep her expression cool, polite as she rose to greet him. She dipped a
shallow curtsy, her skirts brushing against the Grecian-style columns which separated
the narrow supper boxes. "My lord, what a surprise."

"For
me or for you?" Nicholas said.

She
put on a puzzled smile. "Why would you be surprised to see me when you
knew I was to be invited?"

"I
do not recall this event on your list of today's activities," he shot
back.

Then
he looked her up and down, and his expression darkened further. He leaned
closer to her, his subtle, expensive cologne drifting into her nostrils. For
some reason, his scent fueled her irritation—why did he have to smell like the very
essence of virility? Did he plan to seduce women tonight, was
that
why
he had purposefully uninvited his own wife?

"What
about your promise not to get into any trouble?"

"I'm
certain I don't know what you mean," she said.

She
lifted her shoulders in a sign of innocence, knowing full well how that action
jiggled her breasts and accentuated the crevice between them. She had practiced
in front of the looking glass. Her diligence had paid off, too, as Nicholas' eyes
narrowed.

"That
dress is indecent," he said in the same low voice.

"I
know. Is it not splendid?" Helena gave a light laugh and an impudent twirl
to show off the garment. Not that there was much to see. Constructed of ivory-colored
lace, the gown possessed tiny draped sleeves and a deep neckline which bared the
swell of her breasts. The delicate material molded to her curves, parting beneath
her bosom to reveal a simple silk under-skirt. Madame Rousseau had cleverly matched
the silk to her skin tone; from afar, the gown gave the illusion that she was
draped in sensuous lace and little else.

To
accompany the dress, Bessie had coaxed Helena's hair into curls and piled them
high, leaving a few tendrils to frame her face. Diamond-studded pins in the
shape of bumble bees winked from amidst her dark tresses, and a golden ostrich
feather dipped saucily forward. The style drew attention to Helena's eyes; for
this occasion, she had allowed Bessie to darken her lashes and brush glittering
gold powder on her eyelids. As a result, she knew her eyes looked luminous,
almost as brilliant as the diamond-and-pearl choker circling her neck. The
matching bracelet hung from her gloved wrist.

She
knew she had never looked better. She had been waiting all night for her
husband's reaction. She did not have long to wait.

Nicholas
appeared to be gritting his teeth, likely against words unfit for present
company. After a moment of tense silence, he spied the shawl hanging on the
back of her chair. He reached for it and tossed it around her shoulders. She
only raised an eyebrow and smiled, knowing that the shawl would not offer much
in the way of coverage—the golden gauze was entirely translucent.

With
thinned lips, Nicholas began to unbutton his jacket.

"That
will not be necessary," she said.

"You
will catch cold dressed in this manner," he said, shrugging off the
sleeves.

"It
is an unusually balmy night," she said lightly, "and a stroll will
keep the blood flowing. As a matter of fact, I believe I am engaged for a walk—is
that not so, Mr. Reed?"

She
directed the latter part of the sentence to her supper companion, who
apparently had been listening with keen ears. In his eagerness to get to his
feet, he nearly toppled his chair. The two men sized one another. Helena could not help but notice the contrast between the two. Mr. Reed, with his gangly
limbs and easy smiles, possessed the temperament of a good-natured spaniel. Nicholas,
on the other hand, looked as churlish and unapproachable as a jungle cat.

"This
is a friend of Mr. Fines," she said by way of introduction. "Mr.
Reed, this is my husband, Lord Harteford."

The
younger man extended his hand. "Fines has raved about your prowess in the
ring, my lord, and claims you land a mean facer. I should love to spar with you
sometime. But I must warn you: I've got a bit of a reputation as a
neck-or-nothing myself. I have been training with the great Gentleman Jackson
himself, perfecting a left jab to knock the wind out of anyone's sails."

Nicholas'
expression was bland as he took the other man's hand. Mr. Reed's eyes widened,
and his cheerful smile faded. A ruddy color rose upward from the starched tips
of his collar. He tugged at his hand like a small animal caught in a trap.

"I
look forward to meeting you in the ring," Nicholas said, releasing him.

"Yes,
well, we will set a date sometime," Mr. Reed muttered, rubbing his hand. "Lady
Harteford, if you are ready?"

"Of
course," Helena said. She took Mr. Reed's offered arm and smiled sweetly
at her husband. "Enjoy your evening, Harteford."

She attempted
to glide forward on Mr. Reed's arm. Unfortunately, the space between the table
and the wall of columns was quite narrow, and Nicholas made no move to let them
pass. She had to follow Mr. Reed's lead and tilt herself sideways to squeeze by
her husband, who stood, arms crossed, imposing as a statue of an Olympic god.
Her leg accidentally brushed against his thigh; it was harder than marble and
hotter than a thunderbolt. She half expected him to halt her progress—and to
her shame she felt a quiver of anticipation. But he did not stop her. She made
it past, and it took all her willpower to keep her gaze trained forward on her
companion. She would not humiliate herself with a pathetic glance backward.