Her Husband's Harlot (27 page)

Yet
there was no sign that he'd discovered her true identity. After a few
heartbeats, he lifted his hand from her mouth and unwound his cravat. Her eyes
widened when she realized what he intended.

"I
won't hurt you. I give you my word,
mademoiselle
." The shadows
limned the foreboding austerity of his countenance. "I'll pay you extra
for the favor, but I need you to stay quiet. To allow me to do as I wish.
Please."

She
could hardly breathe. Why was her silence so important to him? What was he after?
In a flash, it occurred to her Nicholas had never asked anything of her before.
What were his needs ... his desires? If only the blasted man had tried talking
to her instead of running away time after time. Yet, she thought with growing
unease and anticipation, was it her he was running from ... or something else? What
secrets did her husband hide?

What
would she do to discover them?

"May
I?" he asked quietly.

She
looked at the length of linen between his hands and to his hard face again. All
of the sudden, her anger and hurt gave way to burning curiosity. Intuitively,
she knew she might never again have a chance to know what lay within her
husband's soul. To know
him
, just once, as she'd always wished to.
Swallowing, she nodded.

He
helped her to sitting and, after a moment's hesitation, slipped the cravat over
her mouth. The spicy, masculine scent of the material filled her nostrils, and
her nerves tingled with shocking excitement.

"Is
that too tight?" he asked hoarsely.

She
shook her head.

His
gaze returned to her breasts. Instead of touching her there, however, he turned
her onto her hands and knees. A deep flush spread beneath the surface of her
skin as he peeled away her flimsy costume, leaving her utterly bare and in a
most lascivious pose.  She heard the sound of clothing being shed and then he
was on the bed next to her, in naked, sinewy glory. Her blood thickened to
honey at the sight of his powerfully broad chest with its dusting of dark hair,
the lean rippling of his abdomen, and lower ... ah, yes.

He
was every bit as magnificent as she remembered.

Desire
pooled in her belly, and she discovered she retained the capacity for
embarrassment after all when moisture seeped onto her thigh. On instinct, she
shifted on her knees, trying to close her legs together to hide the mortifying
trickle.

"No,
my love," he whispered, moving behind her. "Don't try to hide your desire
from me. It pleases me that you want me. I have wanted to have you this way for
so long."

He
had been fantasizing about the whore, then? Helena felt her heart clench with
pain even as confusing pleasure jolted through her system. For he was touching
her, praising her as he did so.

"You've
a pretty pussy," he husked. "Soft and wet and sweet, just as I knew
it would be. Just as I imagined, from the first time I saw you, sitting alone at
that ball."

Helena's
eyes widened as his words sunk in. She turned her head back to look at him,
only to have her spine melt as his fingers found her knot. Her head collapsed
onto the mattress, her breath puffing against the cravat as he thumbed her in
delirious circles.

"Beautiful,"
he growled. "I like you with your arse up for me. Wanton and sweet, all at
once. That's it, my love, work your beautiful cunt against me—"

Head
spinning, she could do nothing but obey. She rode shamelessly against his hand.
He was fingering her pearl and delving into her channel at the same time. His
desire for her emerged in half-utterances, snippets of tortured fantasy.

"Don't
care that I'm not good enough ... I want to fuck you ... in the carriage ... on
that new bloody couch in the drawing room ... hell, on your goddamn piano ...
you'd like that wouldn't you?"

Her
cheek pressed against the mattress. She felt as if she was drowning in waves of
wondrous confusion. Sensations crashed over her, too many, too intense to take
in. A wild sob caught in her throat. The crisis hit her, a barrage of pleasure-sparks
that lit her from inside out. Tremors shook her body, and before they had subsided,
she felt the thick, hard heat of him pushing inside her. His cock stretched her
utterly; he lunged, pushing her breath out against the cloth binding.

"Tonight
you're mine." She felt the vise of his fingers holding her hips in place
as he withdrew and slammed inside again. The bliss of impact drew a whimper
from her lips. "I won't let him stand between us ... not him, not the
past, nothing ..." He groaned as if in anguish. "God, you're so
tight. So perfect ..."

Dimly,
she realized that questions should be forming in her mind, yet her husband's
cock was drilling away the capacity for thought. He was pounding into her,
harder, deeper, her breasts swaying from the power of each thrust. Suddenly, he
nudged a place deep and exquisite. Her vision blurred; a dam burst open within
her. She heard her own muffled scream as she spent again, her pussy clenching
on his shaft, the pleasure almost too much to bear.

"
Helena,
my love
."

His
guttural cry rang in her ears, and she felt him wrench out, felt the molten splatter
against the curve of her spine. For several moments, she lay still, listening
to his harsh breaths, absorbing the heat of his body lying collapsed atop her.
There was a tugging against her cheek; the cravat loosened, fell away. Large
hands turned her gently onto her back and pulled a sheet to cover her trembling
nakedness.

"I
didn't hurt you, did I?" Nicholas asked gruffly.

In
the flickering dimness, she saw with shock the raw sheen in his eyes and the
tell-tale moisture that glittered on his dark lashes. In all the times she had
imagined this scenario—of her triumph, his defeat—she had never pictured him thus.
Had never known this side of Nicholas existed. In this moment, he was not
arrogant or omnipotent or indifferent.

He
was hurting ... exposed.

Vulnerable.

As if
catching wind of her thoughts, he sat up and turned away to sit at the edge of
the bed. She had to bite back a gasp. His
back
... it was marred with
old scars. Even in the quasi-darkness she could discern the raised and jagged
lines that flexed as he scrubbed his hands over his face. Tension hung in the
air, so thick and palpable that she could feel it clogging her own lungs. She
was choked by horror, by helpless fury. What had happened to him? Who had hurt
him so?

Still
not facing her, he said, "Ironic, isn't it? Pretending a whore is my wife."
He gave a harsh laugh, and, even in her shocked state, she could hear the guilt
and self-loathing in his voice. "But better than the alternative. I'd
rather be skinned alive than let her know what I'm capable of. The bastard I
truly am."

Pulse
thrumming, she saw that he had his forearms resting upon his thighs. He was staring
at his hands in disgust. What was he seeing? What had he done?

She
released a shaky breath. "
Monsieur?
"

"It's
for her own good," he said, his voice eerie and distant. "I can't
explain it to her, but I'm doing what is best. So help me God, what I must do now
that he's found me."

Who
was
he
? The bounder who had given Nicholas the scars?

 She
wet her lips and tried to summon the courage to tell Nicholas who she was. To
demand to know what was going on. Yet as she watched, his hands curled to fists,
and she knew he was battling whatever demons lived inside him. His chest rose
and fell in uneven surges. The raw weight of the moment pressed upon her: she
was filled with stunning, bewildering remorse.

What
had she been thinking, to trick him this way? To deceive him into exposing the tattered
skin of his secrets? How would he react now, if she was to reveal her true
identity?

Forgive
me, Nicholas. I didn't know. Yet how could I, when you never told me?

He aimed
a glance back at her. His mouth twisted when he caught her looking at his back.
"Ugly, aren't they? That's what happens when a boy lets himself be whipped
like a mongrel. And worse." The humiliation in his eyes made her want to
weep. "Yet another thing I'll take to my grave rather than let my wife
see." He halted, his voice sharpening with sudden apprehension. "You don't
understand a word I'm saying, do you?"

Head
reeling, she did not know how to respond. How could she admit who she was now? So
she blurted instead, "
Monsieur?
"

Relief
eased the lines around his mouth. "As I said, 'tis just as well."

Rising,
he went to collect his discarded clothes and began to dress with the
single-minded purpose of a man who could not get out of there soon enough. When
he was finished, he was once more his impassive self, with not a trace of
emotion in his dark eyes. He'd closed himself off the way a valet packed a
traveling case. Snap and shut.

If
nothing else, this convinced her she had made the right choice for now. For if
she was to confront him, he would only block her out, as he'd been doing all
along. Given her duplicity, she wouldn't blame him, either. Her earlier
frustration, her righteous anger gave way to more poignant emotion. 

"Thank
you,
mademoiselle
." He deposited a bank note on the table. Bowing,
he said in gruff tones, "This will be our last meeting. Do not contact me
again."

When
his broad shoulders disappeared through the door, she let the hot push of tears
spill over. She'd been going about things all wrong, she realized. She'd
thought he didn't want her, didn't find her desirable enough. But now she was
beginning to understand that what separated them was not lack of desire ... but
trust.

'Twas
not a problem to be solved by a harlot.

Trust
in a marriage had to be earned.

By
husband ... and by wife.

Three
days later, Helena found herself before a row of tidy terraced houses in
Bloomsbury. Though it lacked the grandeur of Mayfair, the neighborhood was
nevertheless well maintained, with freshly painted buildings and small cheerful
gardens. The sound of children playing could be heard on the street. The smell
of laundry being washed and freshly baked bread wafted on the cool breeze. Home
to the increasingly prosperous middling sort, the area possessed an air of
comfortable charm.

As
she climbed the front step of the large corner house, a carriage pulled up.

Just
in time
, she thought with a nervous
flutter.

Several
clipped footsteps later, and she was confronted by her irate-looking husband.

"What
the hell do you think you're doing?" he said.

"Good
afternoon, Harteford," she said pleasantly. "I see you got my note.
How lovely that could join me in paying a call on Mrs. Fines."

"I'm
not joining you on anything. We are leaving this instant—"

Smiling
sweetly, she rang the bell.

The
door was opened almost immediately by a wizened maidservant in a mobcap. To
Helena's astonishment, the tiny woman took one look at Nicholas and began to
scold him.

"Well,
it's high time you showed your face in these parts, young man." The maid
crossed her arms over her non-existent bosom. "And where have you been all
this time?"

Clearly
trying to rein in his temper, Nicholas said shortly, "I've been busy,
Lisbett. My apologies. But unfortunately there's been a change in plans, and my
wife and I won't be staying after—"

"Hello,
Lisbett. I am Lady Harteford." Peering around her husband, Helena gave the
maid a bright smile. "'Tis very nice to meet you, and of course we will be
staying. I have been looking forward to this visit for some time."

Lisbett
bobbed at the knees. "Pleased to meet you, your ladyship." To Nicholas,
she admonished, "Well, don't keep your lady on the doorstep, you scoundrel.
You don't need another lesson from Lisbett in manners, do you? For I'll be glad
to teach you—marquess or no, you're still a young whippersnapper to me."

A
muscle ticked in Nicholas' jaw. An ominous sign. But to Helena's relief, he stepped
aside, and she wasted no time in slipping past him and into the house. Inside,
the foyer was spacious, marked by a polished walnut table topped with a vase of
roses.

"I'll
let Mrs. Fines know you've arrived," Lisbett said. "Then I'm off to
fetch the rolls from the oven—you still remember my buns, don't you, my boy? I
made your favorites especially."

Nicholas'
expression softened as he regarded the old woman. "Apricot, of course.
Thank you, Lisbett." To Helena's surprise, he bent to kiss her cheek.

"Oh,
off with you, you charmer," Lisbett said, blushing.

A
soft voice drifted into the room. "Nicholas, is that you?"

Anna
Fines appeared from the hallway, her eyes eager behind her small rounded
spectacles. She was a lady of comfortable years, with a maternal quality about
her, from her rosy rounded cheeks to the downy faded curls peeping from under a
lace cap. She stopped short at the sight of Helena and made an awkward curtsy. "M-my
lady."