Her Husband's Harlot (24 page)

He
had humiliated her, cut her to the bone with his rejection.

She
was
not
going to waste one more thought on him.

She
cleared her throat. "Will the Tillycots recover, do you think?"

"Who
is to know?" Miss Lavinia shrugged at the same time as Miss Matilda did. "'
Cards
and dice
—
the ultimate vice
,' as they say. By the by, have you heard
about the recent debates in Parliament concerning the penalties for debtors?
There are efforts to reform the current laws, met with fierce opposition, of
course, by the Tories ..."

Helena
spent the next hour engrossed in discussion. The
Havershams deserved their reputations as having the most well-informed minds in
the
ton
. The self-proclaimed bluestockings conversed with facility on
all manner of topics, ranging from penal law reforms to Wollstonecraft's
masterpiece. They had just begun to debate the merits of sensibility versus
reason when Helena felt a light tap on her shoulder. She turned around in her
seat.

Marianne,
resplendent in a silver gauze gown striped with blue, gave her an amused look. "So
this is where you have been hiding, Lady Harteford."

Helena
introduced the tongue-tied Havershams to Marianne, who smiled and complimented
them on their matching gowns. The sisters flushed with pleasure.

"Of
course, our dresses are humble compared to yours," Miss Lavinia said
diffidently.

"Do
you like it? I would be happy to introduce you to my modiste."

"You
would?" Miss Lavinia's pale lips trembled.

"Of
course. I will let Madame Rousseau know to expect you both. Now, come, Lady
Harteford, won't you join me for a promenade?"

"I
would like that," Helena said. "Miss Lavinia? Miss Matilda?"

"Oh
no, we'll stay here," Miss Lavinia said, her eyes bright with excitement.

As Helena departed with Marianne, she heard the Havershams exclaim at once, "Madame
Rousseau!"

"That
was kind of you," Helena said, smiling. "I do believe you have made
the Havershams' evening."

"It
was little enough." Marianne yawned delicately behind her fan, a
confection of silver silk iridescent with sequins. "Lord, the Frasers
throw a crashing bore of a party."

"Do
you think so?" Helena looked around the ballroom. The theme appeared to be
Grecian Garden, with plaster pillars and statues placed to resemble ancient
ruins. Garlands of pink and white flowers hung from the high ceiling and draped
over the tables. "I thought it rather charming."

Marianne
fluttered her fan. "If you say so."

They
strolled along the perimeter of the ballroom, stopping to chat with
acquaintances. Helena cast surreptitious glances at her friend. Marianne
appeared recovered from the malaise of several days ago. Once again her
stunning self, she sparkled as she conversed, her wit drawing admiring laughs
from those around her. But Helena thought she noticed a certain feverishness
beneath her friend's gaiety and strain underlying her light repartee. Notes of
music began to play, and Marianne became besieged by eager dance partners. To
Helena's surprise and gratification, a number of gentlemen approached her as
well.

"Our
dance cards are full," Marianne informed the suitors in a laughing voice,
and taking Helena's arm, she led her away from the disappointed faces and
toward the terrace.

Once
outside, Helena could not hide her astonishment. "I have never before had
so many invitations to dance!"

Marianne
smiled. "Well, you are quite transformed, my dear. 'Twas a stroke of
genius for Madame Rousseau to layer matching tulle over that indigo satin. And
to pair the gold necklace and eardrops—an inspired choice. You look positively
pagan tonight."

"Thank
you." Helena paused. "I have been meaning to ask you ... is
everything quite alright, Marianne?"

"Whatever
do you mean, dearest?"

"Is
there something troubling you?" Helena blurted. "Something that
caused your recent malaise? Because I should like to help, if I can."

Marianne's
lips parted, but she said nothing.

Seeing
the ripple of uncertainty that passed over her friend's exquisite features, Helen
forged on. "You've rarely spoken about your ... your marriage. I know you
are much wiser than I, but if there is anything at all I can do, Marianne—if
there is any pain or grief that I might help ease ..." Helena gave her a
rueful smile. "Lord knows you've heard enough about
my
troubles."

"Pain
or grief?" Marianne echoed. She laughed, then, a sound like glass
breaking. "Oh, dearest, I think not. At least, not in the way you mean."

"In
any way, then," Helena said earnestly. "You can confide in me. Please
know that you can."

Marianne's
smile seemed a little sad. "I do know it. And I treasure our friendship
all the more. Perhaps one day, Helena."

"Because
you do not think me ready and able to help?"

"No,"
Marianne said, her voice hollow. "Because I do not think myself ready."

Hearing
both an admission and a warning in those words, Helena let the matter drop. She
could only hope that Marianne would one day choose to unload the burdens of her
heart. When that time came, she would be there for her friend. They walked to
the edge of the terrace, looking out into the shadowy gardens. The chirping of
night crickets filled the silence.

At
length, Marianne said, "What are you going to do next?" She didn't
need to clarify what she meant.

"What
is there
to
do?" Helena gave her friend a bitter smile. "When
Papa gives me leave, I will return to Hampshire. There I shall rusticate for
the rest of my life."

"Come
now, that is doing it a bit brown, is it not? Though I know things are at sixes
and sevens with Harteford, I cannot help but think your husband's behavior is
out of character. He's not acting at all like I expected." Marianne
frowned. "Are you certain the two of you have discussed matters
thoroughly?"

"I
tried, Marianne! I told him I didn't care about his past, I tried to be a loving
wife, I even tried to ..." Unable to disclose Nicholas' humiliating
rejection of her person, even to her best friend, Helena clamped her lips. "I
did everything in my power to seduce him, and it all came to naught."

"Did
you tell him about that night at the Nunnery?"

Helena
huffed out a breath. "I couldn't. He more or less implied that he had no
interest in ... a passionate marriage. He—he said a man doesn't want a strumpet
for a wife, so I was not about to humiliate myself further by confessing what I
had done."

"Horse
feathers." Marianne snorted. "There must be something else Harteford
is not telling you."

"Well,
I cannot read his mind, can I?" Helena said acidly. "And frankly I'm
tired of trying.
Sick
and tired, as point of fact."

"'Tis
understandable, of course."

"I
don't know what he wants—I don't think
he
knows what he wants."

"An
unfortunate male characteristic," Marianne agreed.

"Furthermore,"
Helena fumed, her hands fisting upon the stone balustrade, "even if I
wished to speak to him again—which I empathically do
not
—it would be
easier to get an audience with Prinny than with my dashed husband. Do you know
I have not seen him
once
since he ordered me out of his life?"

"I
wonder what he is up to," Marianne mused.

For
some reason, that comment fed Helena's ire further. "Well, it's none of my
business, is it? If he wants to get shot in St. Giles, that is up to him. If he
wants to work himself to an early grave at that blasted warehouse of his, it
has nothing to do with me. He thinks to rid himself of me like a ... an old
shoe—"

"There
must be a reason, dear—"

"To
hell with his reasons!" Helena burst out. "Nicholas is like everyone
in my life. Mama, Papa ... no matter what I do, how hard I try, I cannot please
them. I thought it would be different with Nicholas, but I was just a fool,
wasn't I? Deceiving myself, thinking I could win his affection. And this is how
he responds—by slapping an annulment in my face." Anger bubbled over,
scalding her insides.  "If I was a man, I'd call him out!"

A measured
silence. Marianne raised one delicate blonde eyebrow. "Would you?"

Helena
felt the weight of her ear-bobs as she nodded vehemently. "Pistols at
dawn."

"How
I adore that passionate streak in you! Even as a girl, you were always a hoyden
beneath those starchy pinafores your mama made you wear." When Helena
grimaced, Marianne gave a throaty chuckle. "You do realize, don't you, dear,
that battles need not be waged with pesky things like pistols? There are ways far
cleverer—and neater—to exact revenge."

"What
do you mean?"

Emerald
eyes narrowed in a considering manner. "Tell me, do you wish to teach your
lord a lesson? Have him admit he was wrong about not wanting you?"

The
notion definitely had its appeal. Her head tilting, Helena said doubtfully, "In
what manner could I do so? There's no talking to the man: he's as stubborn as a
mule and as like as one to apologize. Besides, he won't even see me—"

"Oh,
I wouldn't worry too much about those details. All I need to know is this: are
you prepared to show Harteford the error of his ways? Make him regret the
abysmal fashion in which he has treated you?"

An
image of Nicholas materialized before Helena's eyes. Her lord, upon bended
knee. Begging her forgiveness, pleading with her to take him back. She'd send him
packing ... wouldn't she?

She
gulped. "Yes."

"Then,
my dearest, leave the rest to me."

Nicholas eyed Kent, wondering how much he could hide from the other man. Across the desk, Kent sat with his
shoulders in a habitual hunch as he relayed the progress on the warehouse
looting and attempted murder. The police man's eyes stood out in his gaunt
face; like twin lamps, those eyes seemed capable of piercing into the darkest
recesses of human nature. Nicholas felt a cold stirring at his nape. He would
not like to be a criminal skewered on the opposite end of that gaze. As it was,
he felt uneasy, wondering at the details Kent might be picking up on.

For one, Nicholas knew he must look
rumpled. He had slept in the office for an entire week now, and his appearance
showed the effects. His hair had grown shaggy and his eyes shadowed from the
sleepless nights upon the couch. Wrinkled and mismatched, his clothes obviously
lacked the caring touch of a valet. And he had cut himself shaving twice this
week, so there were nicks on his jaw to complement the healing red scar upon
his temple.

All in all, he was certain he looked
as he felt: weary, frustrated, hunted.

During the days, the constant
hub-bub of the warehouse provided a temporary distraction. He had been almost
thankful for the skirmish with the excise officers over duties for the imported
rum and the usual wrangling with merchants over their insolvent accounts.
Still, his temper had become downright nasty this week. The porters took one
look at his scowling demeanor and scurried out of his path. Yesterday, he had
nearly bit Jibotts' head off for interrupting him at his desk. He supposed he
owed the steward a raise for putting up with his fiendish moods.

Worst of all were the nights. Alone
on the knobby couch, he relived the scene in the drawing room, the moment of
delirious joy when he'd almost let himself seduce his wife. The feel of her,
soft and yielding beneath him, her luscious lips parted beneath his, her
breathy pleas
—
and his cock burgeoned with
helpless yearning. His entire being craved to surge into her, to take her so
deeply he'd shoot himself inside her womb. In the loneliest hours of twilight,
he was tortured with images of little girls with hair of burnished oak and a
dark-haired boy or two with their mother's hazel eyes and hopefully her
temperament as well. A house full of rollicking children. A real home.

Aye, there was a dream. Only it was
destined to remain just that: a dream, not reality, because at this moment a
team of well-paid barristers was strategizing on how to secure him an
annulment. And because, as of now, Helena hated him. He had made certain of
that.

Bloody hell, how has it come to
this?

His eyes closed briefly.

"Is the wound still bothering
you, my lord?"

From across the desk, Kent
scrutinized him.

Nicholas forced himself to focus. "It
is nothing. So, from what I gather thus far, the bottom line is that you
believe Bragg responsible for the shooting. Your man Caster scared him off
before he could finish the deed, and now Bragg is in hiding, likely somewhere
in St. Giles."

Kent nodded. "We are closing in
on his trail. Yesterday, one of my men discovered his sleeping place in the
bowels of a flash-house. We have reason to believe that he will return this
evening. When he does, we will have him."

"I commend you on your
persistence," Nicholas said, "but there is one problem."