Her Husband's Harlot (29 page)

Her
words fell like a hammer upon his heart. Blows of pleasure-pain that made it
difficult to catch his breath. "What?" he choked out.

"Oh,
Nicholas," she said, with a sad smile. "There's nothing wrong with
your hearing, is there? Perhaps you don't want to know it, but that is the
truth. I love you, and I shan't give you up without a fight."

There
it was: everything he'd ever wanted to hear from her.

Don't
give into temptation, you selfish bastard. You have no right. You have to
protect her.

Seized
with panic, he shook his head. "You don't know what you're saying. You don't
even
know
me—"

"Don't
I?" She began to walk ahead, determined little strides that forced him to
lengthen his own. "I know more than you think, Nicholas. I know your
mother was an opera singer, for instance, and that your legitimacy was not
declared until quite recently. I can only surmise that you lived as a bastard
in the time intervening and that that could not have been easy."

Not
easy
? There was an understatement. His
head was spinning—too many emotions crowding in. "You have no bloody idea
what my life was like. You couldn't begin to understand," he bit out.

"Try
me." She shot him a challenging glance. "Instead of hiding or running
away, just share something with me, this once."

Don't
do it. Don't give in
—

"Or
perhaps you're the one who is afraid?"

His
temper snapped. "You want to hear a story? Fine. But let me warn you, this
one is nothing like the ones you heard over tea." When she continued to
regard him with complete equanimity, he said tersely, "It was the day I
met Jeremiah at the docks."

"Go
on," she said.

"It's
a charming tale. Late one night, Jeremiah was headed home when I approached
him."

"Asking
for work?" she prompted, as he knew she would.

"With
a bludger." Seeing the furrow between her delicate brows, he smiled with
grim satisfaction. "Don't know what that is, do you? Let me explain. 'Tis
a common enough weapon in the stews. You take a piece of cloth, you see, and
wrap it around whatever can do a man injury—rocks, wood. Discarded horse shoes,
now, they work especially well. Whatever you can get your hands on, you tie it
up and to a stick. So it can be swung like this, see?"

Her
eyes followed the menacing motion of his hands. He saw the flexing of her
fragile throat. "Y-yes. I believe I understand now."

"I
came at Jeremiah that night, figuring him for another soft pig on the docks. An
easy mark. I thought to nab myself a fine pocket-watch or a purse full of mint.
Didn't matter much how I got it—with blood or without," he said
matter-of-factly.

"What
happened?"

Nicholas
smiled wryly. "Blood
was
shed that night—only it wasn't Jeremiah's.
Tough old dog. Had me down on the dock, didn't he, the wicked end of his walking
stick pointed at my throat." He could still feel the cold steel, the
numbness that had come over him as he'd faced his demise. After the weeks spent
running from his crime, dodging the street gangs and other criminals, death had
seemed like deliverance.

"Did
he hurt you?" she gasped.

"No."

"What
happened then? What did Jeremiah do?"

Nicholas
exhaled. "He just ... spoke to me. He said,
A man is what he makes of
himself, boy. I don't know you from Adam, but I sure as hell know you can do
better than this.
"

Unexpected
heat prickled his eyelids; all these years, and the gratitude, nay
love
,
he felt for his mentor had not faded a whit. Instead of death that night, he'd found
a miracle: a new beginning.

"Jeremiah
told me to find him at his warehouse when I was ready to live better. I had
little to lose, so I went to him the next day. He found me a place to stay, saw
to it that I had clean clothes and decent meals. He also gave me a position
with his dock crew working long hours, hard hours, but they were honest ones.
It took me five years to work my way up out of the water and into the office.
After several promotions, I eventually spent two years overseeing our
operations in the West Indies. I returned when Jeremiah fell ill, and that was
when he proposed the partnership."

"How
I admire you." His wife's soft voice stirred him out of his reverie. He
was startled to realize how much he'd revealed, and yet more startled by Helena's
response. Her gloved hand rested gently upon his arm. "You have come from
adversity and made something of yourself. You have garnered great success on
your own merit. That is a claim few men can make."

"You
astonish me," he was forced to say.

"I
do?"

"You
do realize that my
success
as you describe it is that I have a
profession. I work for a living." He enunciated each word as if she did
not understand its meaning. "In the view of the
ton
, that is regarded
as a disgrace rather than an accomplishment."

His
wife regarded him with inscrutable eyes. "And you think I care what the
ton
thinks?"

"You
are a lady," he said. "Of course you do."

"Then
perhaps
you
don't know
me
as well as you think," she said.

*****

This
is working
. Helena had to hide a
giddy smile at her lord's befuddled expression.
I am finally getting to know
him
—
the real him. Yet if trust and honesty are to grow between us, he
has to know a thing or two about me, as well.

Drawing
a breath for courage, she said, "It might surprise you to know that I,
myself, have done things that would shock the
ton
," she said.

This
drew a rare smile from her husband. His white teeth flashed against his swarthy
skin. "Have you now?"

Helena
nodded, a trifle light-headed at his nearness. He was
standing very close to her, so close that she could make out the subtle
striping on his grey waistcoat. She could smell his unique scent, sandalwood
and lemon soap and ... potent male. She breathed him in before continuing.

"My
parents despaired of my ever becoming a proper lady," she said, deciding
it best to let him down gently. "When I was a girl, they used to send me
to bed without supper for all the scrapes I got into."

"Their
tactics worked. You are, after all, a paragon of ladylike virtue."

"That
is
not
me!" At Nicholas' lifted brow, Helena flushed. What would it
take for him to see her as she was? Not perfect. Far from. Recalling what
Marianne had said about men not wishing to bed paragons, she said anxiously, "What
I mean to say is there is more to me than decorum.
Much
more."

"Indeed."

Bristling
at Nicholas' indulgent tone, Helena said, "When I went riding with my
brother Thomas, I would ride astride once we got out of view of the main house."

When
Nicholas looked unimpressed, she added, "With breeches on, I could beat
Thomas up a tree."

Still
no response.

"I
once knocked the baker's son to the ground for making fun of my freckles,"
she said out of desperation. "His nose was bloodied. I may have given him
a bruise or two as well."

"I
do not see any evidence of freckles," her husband commented.

"They
faded after my mother added a milk-and-vinegar wash to my daily ablutions."
Glumly, Helena tugged at a spring bloom. The petals drifted into her palm.
Obviously, Nicholas preferred to view her in a certain fashion, and nothing she
said was going to deter him. If he could not assimilate her childish antics
with his vision of her, what would he do when she revealed her more recent, and
certainly more serious, transgressions?

By
the by, my love, I also dressed like a harlot and seduced you at a bawdy house
.

Or
perhaps a more roundabout approach:
Do you know I speak fluent French,
Nicholas? "J'adore le cock", for instance
—
might that ring a
bell?

Thinking
of the possible ramifications to such confessions, she shivered. Trust was a
tricky business, after all. Best to proceed with caution and take small steps.

Very
small steps.

"Are
you cold?"

Warm
fingers lifted her chin. Nicholas was studying her, his grey eyes tender with
concern.

"No,"
she whispered.

Afraid
to lose his touch, she closed her eyes and dared to lean her cheek against his
hand. She felt him hesitate. Then his knuckles trailed along her cheek.

"Do
you ... do you still think me a paragon?" she asked, her breath hitching.

There
was a stilted silence. When he spoke, his voice was deep and husky. Ragged at
the edges. "Ah, Helena, God help me, but I think you very sweet."

Her
eyelashes quivered as he continued to stroke her softly, bringing a flush of
heat to her skin. She looked at his lips, remembering the heat and texture of
them upon her breasts. The way they had whispered delightfully wicked desires
only three nights ago—fantasies that had rendered her hot and damp with
longing. Her gaze travelled upward, and she found herself dissolving in pools
of passionate darkness.

"Nicholas."
Her head tipped back in invitation.

At
the sound of his name, Nicholas made a noise deep in his throat and covered her
mouth with his own. The kiss began softly, gently, like the whisper of dragonfly
wings. She absorbed his warmth like a sun-starved flower. Yet even as his touch
dazzled her senses, she was aware that he was holding back. Restraining himself
... because of his past? Because of some misguided notion that he was not good
enough for her? Didn't he know that he was everything she wanted? If words
would not convince him of her passionate love, then perhaps actions would.

Whispering
his name, she parted her lips, and the flavor of the kiss changed completely.
She heard a guttural sound and then she was invaded, filled with the masculine
essence of him. His tongue thrust against hers and delved—demanding, claiming,
leaving no doubt that he belonged there. Not that she had any doubt to begin
with. Moaning, she twined her tongue with his. She threaded her fingers into
his hair, yearning to feel him closer. Needing to feel the hard length of him
pressed against her, deep inside her ...

"Nick,
Mama wants to know if you will stay for supper—"

The
cheerful voice fell like a guillotine in the spring garden. Helena was thrust
aside so quickly that her head spun. She steadied herself upon a hedge. When
her senses recovered sufficiently, she saw Percy standing there, with eyes big
as dinner plates. Those blue orbs blinked back and forth between her and
Nicholas, who looked far more composed than she felt.

"Thank
you, Percy," Nicholas said, his tone polite, "but no, we won't be
staying."

At
least there was an edge of unevenness to his breath.

"I
didn't mean to interrupt ... I'm so ... oh, bloody hell." Percy's face was
redder than the roses. Kicking at a pebble with her slipper, she muttered, "I'll,
er, let Mama know." She dashed off.

Helena
turned to Nicholas. The joking rejoinder dissolved on her tongue when she saw
the strain lining his rugged features. Heaving a sigh, she crossed her arms
beneath her bosom. "For heaven's sake, must we do this again? I know what
you're thinking, and the answer is no."

"Do
what again?" His brows came together. "And what do you mean,
no
?"

"You
were about to try to order me out of your life again, weren't you?" When
he answered with a speaking look, she said in dulcet tones, "Your jaw
gives you away. It looks hard as rocks when you're about to say something disagreeable.
Well, whatever solution you are about to propose this time—living separate
lives, getting an annulment or a dashed divorce—the answer is
no
."

He
just stared at her. Good. Let him know that she was serious. She lifted her
chin and returned him look for look.

After
a moment, his lips quirked. "I suppose you do know me better than I
realize."

Seizing
the moment, she said steadily, "I love you, Nicholas. And you cannot deny
that you feel at least something for me after the last ti—I mean, after the
kiss we just shared." Dear heavens, she'd barely caught the slip! She
rushed on in shaky tones, "Can you not trust me enough to tell me what is
going on?"

The yearning
she saw in his eyes raised goose-pimples on her skin.

"I—I
do want you, Helena. It has been hell pretending otherwise." The admission
sounded rusty, as if it was being pulled from a deep and seldom accessed place
within. "Yet there are things in my past that threaten your safety, and I
cannot allow that to happen." He cleared his throat. "And, by the
way, the answer is no."

"No
to what?" she asked, mystified.