The Next Best Bride (21 page)

She flipped through her sketches, surprised to see how many she had done of him. Ros would have accused her of mooning after her husband like a lovestruck schoolgirl. But, she told herself firmly, no longer.

One sketch caught her eye. She propped it on the easel, imagining the colors she would use to capture the scene. Rand on horseback, racing full out.

That was how she would paint him, she decided. Not the traditional stately, controlled portrait of a man on the back of a powerful beast. No. A man and beast, wild and paired in a leap over a stile. Hell-bent for the thrill and damn the consequences.

He would love it.

He might not love her, but he would love her painting. She was certain of it.

Chapter Sixteen

Rand listened to the bustle as the music room became home to Helena's art studio. There was a distinct note of joy there. He had hear her humming softly to herself. The arrival of the art supplies he had ordered for her in London had been excellently timed. He was forgiven.

He had bruised her heart unmercifully yesterday and he had been treated to as unfriendly a setback as Ros would have given him for a careless transgression. He had thought the twins completely different, but there was plenty of Ros's steel in Helena's spine. The set of her shoulders as he approached her this morning had offered no clue how she would choose to greet him. Cold and punishing, as she had been at dinner last night. Lost and heartsore, as on the path. But no, she had matched his light tone with seeming ease.

He had seen that same smile, and that same glitter in the eyes, when her sister had been faced with a particularly inebriated and inept card cheat. His wife meant him to pay for his carelessness, but not too much. No doubt her heart still ached from the mashing he had given it. But she, and her heart, would recover. Be stronger, perhaps. She would adjust to his terms, despite her desire for love and a true family instead of what he offered.

The one wrinkle in the fabric of his future was her request that he not attempt to see she achieved her own release when he made love to her. Absurd. To refuse the pleasure her body craved because he would not spout lies about love and devotion?

His every instinct rebelled against the idea of taking his pleasure while she remained like an unfinished canvas beneath him. He remembered vividly her expression when she.... Why would she ask such a thing? To protect her heart, she would deny herself unnecessarily. And in denying herself, she would deny him.

He glanced at the door to the new studio. Perhaps his gift had changed her mind on the matter? Or at least softened her to hear his argument? All he need do was show her that what she asked for was unnecessary. Unreasonable. Surely, he could find a way around his agreement. Perhaps he could show her that sex and love could be divorced quite successfully.

He would not break his promise, he decided. But he would find a way to bend it. She, and her future lovers, would appreciate his efforts in the end. He pressed his lips into a grimace. The abstract thought of his wife making love to another man inexplicably gave him indigestion.

He found her preparing a large canvas which sat upon her easel. Or rather, he found her staring mesmerized at the blank canvas as if she could see a finished painting upon it.

She jumped a foot when he said quietly, "Are you ready for me, yet?"

Slowly, an awareness that she was no longer alone grew in her eyes. She smiled in apology for her preoccupied trance as she realized that he waited for an answer to his question. "Not yet."

He glanced around the room, chaotic still. A room in the midst of transition: half discarded music room, half disorganized art studio. She had ordered the drapes taken down, he saw. The windows were bare and the light shone in at will. The room looked very different from the days when his mother lived here and played the piano. And her harp. Soon Helena would transform it. Perhaps exorcize the ghosts, as well.

A breeze from a wide open window caressed his cheek. "I might be cold in here without my clothes."

She glanced at him as if uncertain of his response as she said firmly, "You needn't undress for me this time."

"No?"

"I thought my first effort would be along these lines." She showed him the sketch she wished to base her oil upon. There was a hint of mischief in her eye when she added, "As you can see, it would be entirely impractical for you to sit the saddle without proper clothing."

"I suppose," he agreed reluctantly.

"I'm certain the servants, as well as any guests we may have, will thank us in the end," she said encouragingly. "And this will make a magnificent portrait...if my skill proves sufficient for the subject."

He studied the sketch she had propped on the easel. He did not recognize the reckless devil on horseback. "Do I really look like that when I take a gate?"

She considered him for a moment and then nodded. "And when you take a woman, too, my lord." She blushed to the roots. But she did not look away.

"I look quite capable," he said inanely. How the devil did she imagine he could control himself around her when she spoke words that inflamed him instantly? "Anyone seeing this might mistake me for a man of consequence."

"Though headstrong." She smiled. Hesitantly, she added, "I thought perhaps, instead of hanging it in the entry here, we could give the oil to your grandfather, if it turns out well enough."

The idea of a portrait of him in the marquess's possession gave him a chill. "Even it were poorly done, it would be too good for the old man."

"Rand."

"Helena, you are new to this family. I have my reasons for what I do."

"Isn't it time to make amends with him? You are not an irresponsible young man anymore."

He had married a reformer, Rand realized. First she wanted him to love her. Now to be responsible. "Who says I am not irresponsible?"

"You forget, you showed me the difference between an irresponsible lover and one who cares for his partner's pleasure." She lifted her sketchpad and thumbed through sketch after sketch of him. "You saw my love of drawing and consented to let me draw you."

He watched in somewhat horrified fascination as the sketches revealed the way she saw him. In all of her drawings he seemed ... whole. "You see what you wish to see. I think you were wise to ask me to pull back. Your heart will get you into trouble."

She raised her head and gazed at him steadily. "I see you. With my eyes and with my heart."

Determined to nip her talk of hearts in the bud, he said unkindly, "Did you see your lover as clearly?"

She flushed. "I did not sketch him but once."

His curiosity rose. She had sketched the cad, had she? "May I see?"

"No." She pressed her lips together and her eyes dared him to insist.

He paced the music room restlessly. "Secrets. We all have them." He stopped before her, tilted her head up and kissed her lips lightly. "Maybe I don't want my grandfather to see me as a man who has finally outgrown his irresponsible habits and deserves respect."

Helena watched her husband retreat from her common sense suggestion about gifting the portrait as if it were poison. Could he not see that his own behavior kept his grandfather at odds with him? Even the servants spoke of it.

As she wondered, Marie came timidly into the room. "Would you be wishing to dress for dinner, now, milady?"

Rand moved toward the door like a man freed from imprisonment. He said sharply, "Yes, go. We do not want to keep his lordship waiting. We might confirm his belief that I haven't the sense to feed myself or my wife."

The maid lost all color in her face and shrank away from him as he passed, though he took no note of her. Frustrated, Helena saw that the sun had long since begun to wane. She shook her head. She found it much too easy to lose track of time when she worked. As well as when she was in her husband's company. She smiled at the still ashen maid. "Thank you, Marie."

She swallowed her frustration with her husband's stubborn pride as she took a final moment to contemplate the prepared canvas. Was she a fool to hope that she could make Rand's grandfather see the good in his grandson?

Perhaps she might broach the subject with the marquess tonight, about the subject for her oil painting. He could hardly object to such a gift, even if he considered her execution execrable.

She sighed, hurrying to prepare for the coming contentious dinner. There must be a way to bridge the gap between the two men. She could not bear a decade or more of these meals.

Rand was his usual charming and lighthearted self on the short carriage ride over to the main house. She wondered where he stored his anger? No doubt the sharpness of his wit only displayed a thin edge of all that seethed within him. What else but anger and frustration could drive a man to marry a woman he hardly knew in order to make a child he didn't want?

That question fueled her through dinner. Watching the overbearing marquess browbeat the incorrigible earl. Watching the smiling, laughing, twinkling eyed Rand tease the footmen and the serving maid. Watching him drinking the brandy until his eyes were glowing from more than good humor.

What secrets haunted her husband that made him certain he could not love? She had given her word not to fall in love with him. But she had promised nothing about not searching for a way to help him live with his secrets without turning to the fleeting pleasures of gambling, and drink. And bedroom games.

She suggested they walk home after dinner, hoping that the fresh air would clear his head. She thought it less likely he would remember and keep his promise to her if he were in his cups. No matter that she thought he was wrong to believe he could not love, she did not want this angry, charming, love-forsworn man to sweep her over the edge of pleasure tonight.

As if he sensed she had a hidden reason for the walk, he kissed her lightly on the lips. "Do you worry that I am too far into my cups to act the stud tonight."

"The night is pleasant." She turned away from his kisses. Gazed up at the sky. "The stars are bright in the sky."

He circled his arms around her waist and pulled her close to him, resting his chin on her head lightly. "That is no answer to my question."

"You are the one who made the foolish wager, my lord. What matter to me if you do not visit me tonight?"

"I want it to matter." His hands moved to cup her breasts, his touch warm through her gown.

"Why? You do not want love."

"No."

"Then why does it matter if I am content to be your brood mare or to fall asleep alone, as you, my husband, please?"

"Because I want
you
pleased."

She asked softly, "Have you thought that I would prefer not to be pleased by a thing which will soon be taken away from me?"

"What?" He tried to turn her to look at him.

She refused to turn toward him. She could not see his face and still have the courage to speak her heart. "When you have performed your stud duties successfully, you will be gone from here."

His caressing hands stopped their movement. "But I am here now. That is what matters. The now. Not the future."

"I do not mean to complain. I merely wish you to see that, for me, there is no gain in learning what this pleasure is. In coming to accept it. To expect it. To desire it. And then have it taken away."

His hands dropped away from her and his voice was cold. "You are free to find new partners."

New partners. Lovers. Like William. Or worse, because she would know the words of love held no future. "I will not."

"Why not?"

"I find I much prefer to be within the rules of propriety, rather than outside them."

"Ros would not—"

"I am not Ros." No. Ros had been sensible enough to refuse the marriage. To look into the future. She turned to face him. "I have always known I did not have her courage, her spirit. But marriage to you has shown me that truth in a way I had not expected. I should have had the courage to reveal my secret to the duke, because I fear I have broken my promise to you."

"You have kept your vows well enough," he said, with a frown of confusion.

"Too well, I confess. I have fallen in love with you, and I see no remedy for the situation we are in unless you find a way to love me in return."

His expression revealed nothing, a sure sign she had shocked him senseless. "You do not. You have mistaken lust for love."

"And what if I have not mistaken my own feelings for you? What then?"

His voice was harsh when he answered. "Then I wish I had forced Ros to the altar."

White hot anger consumed her. "You never could have. I am the weaker of the pair of us. And both you and she knew it." Helena wished she had been stronger. "I hate you both." But the words burned away her anger and left her cold. She didn't hate either of them. They had been true to themselves. She was the one who had betrayed herself into this marriage.

"Hate?" He jerked, as if she had struck him. "Since you are stuck with me until I am conveniently dispatched by a duel over the fall of a card — or perhaps a riding accident when I am in my cups — you would be better served to turn that hate into a fine disdain. Much like that my grandfather has demonstrated."

Pain twisted up inside her. Apparently her husband could reject both her love and her hate. She changed the subject. "Why do you dislike your grandfather so?"

He raised a brow and stared at her a moment, as if he might not deign to answer. "Better to ask why he dislikes me?"

"He is your grandfather. He wishes you to make him proud. He does not dislike you." Helena was not absolutely certain of that. But the marquess spoke fondly of him at times. Fondly of when he was a child, at least. "He only wants you to shoulder your responsibilities and not go gambling your fortune away. Or fathering a bastard a year."

Belatedly, she noticed he was angry, at last. She had never seen him angry before, she realized. His eyes glinted icy green. His lips were pressed to a thin line. His nostrils flared. "You have no cause to care if I father a bastard a day, as long as I get a legitimate son upon you."