Her Husband's Harlot (9 page)

"Oh,
no! I c-couldn't," Helena stammered. "I mean, I could never go back
to such a place."

Her
friend gave her a long look. "Why ever not?"

Because
I am not a harlot, I'm not.
The
thought of engaging in further wicked escapades made her heart race. With a
nervous little laugh, she said, "I am done with that, Marianne. That night
at the Nunnery was an exception. I was not my usual self—I did it only out of
desperation. From here on in, I shall try to win my husband's affections with
more, er, conventional means."

"You
are certain of that?"

Helena
gave an empathic nod.

"Have
it your way, then." Marianne sounded indifferent. "Good luck with
Harteford. And send me a note if you have need of anything."

Before
Helena could say anything further, Marianne summoned the footman with a rap
on the door. The servant appeared instantly, and Helena found herself being helped
to the ground. She turned around to reiterate her thanks, but the door was
already closed. Within seconds, the silver barouche glided away.

Sighing,
she entered the townhouse. She returned Crikstaff's greeting and inquired if
Lord Harteford was at home. She did not let disappointment weigh her down when
the butler replied that the master was not, nor had he left a message about his
plans or whereabouts. Truly, she was not prepared to see Nicholas; how would
she react to him, knowing what had transpired between them?

More
to the point, how was she to go about seducing an unwitting, perhaps even
unwilling
bridegroom? As Helena ascended the staircase to her dressing room, worry began
to fray the edge of hope. The beautiful clothes would help, of course. But that
still left a great deal unaccounted for. Perhaps she should not have rejected
Marianne's suggestion out of hand ... she shivered. She could not risk exposing
herself to such licentiousness again. Look at what had happened the last time.
How immodestly she'd acted. No, the way to win her husband's heart was to entice
him ... with her
wifely
skills.

Gnawing
on her lip, Helena entered her chambers. Bessie, her lady's maid, stopped in
the task of tying a ribbon on a straw bonnet to bob a curtsy. Helena nodded absent-mindedly
and settled down at the secretaire by the window. Pushing aside the stack of Shakespeare's
plays she'd recently purchased, she placed a sheet of parchment on the polished
walnut burl and picked up her quill.

Nibbling
on the tip of the feather, she considered the task at hand. Really, planning a
seduction was little different than planning anything else, was it not? And she
was an excellent planner. After the death of her brother, her mother had
entertained very little; by default, Helena had been left in charge of
organizing any occasions that merited celebration. Thinking of her preparations
for her father's fiftieth birthday festivities, Helena scribbled a list.

Feeling
better already, she contemplated the categories one by one. The first was the
guest list. Well, that was obvious enough, wasn't it? She jotted in
Nicholas
and
Helena
. The sight of her name linked with her husband's
drew a wistful smile. The next item on the list: locale. Given that Nicholas
was hardly likely to barge into her bedchamber (or her, his), the site of the
seduction would have to begin elsewhere, in a more public arena. Well, why not
combine refreshments with location, and start with an intimate dinner for two?

Inspired,
Helena hurried past a startled-looking Bessie and down the staircase. She
headed to the drawing room first, deciding that a pre-prandial drink might
prove an elegant touch. She knew her husband preferred whiskey over sherry; she
would be sure to have the finest single malt served in a crystal glass. As she
surveyed the well-appointed space, imagining the addition of candles and
pink-hued flowers to flare the romantic spirit, she could not help but feel a
touch of satisfaction. She may have disappointed Nicholas in the way of marital
relations, but in other ways she had assumed her wifely duties in a most
proficient manner.

Before
their marriage, Nicholas had paid little mind to the running of his household—he
had simply continued with the archaic system instituted by the former marquess.
When Helena had crossed the proverbial
threshold of her new home for the first time, she had been secretly horrified at
the
dusty rooms and aged furnishings.
Bits of the plaster moldings had routinely crumbled onto the stained carpets
(and, if one was not careful, onto one's coiffure). The servants had slouched
around in uniforms tattered at the edges; more significantly, she'd later
learned, the wages of the house staff had not been increased for several years.

Helena
had spent much of her time as a new bride attending to the domestic chaos. She
was rather proud of the results. As she looked about the clean and airy room,
she noted with satisfaction that the surfaces shone with polish and the
Aubusson rug had been restored to a silky luster. With the substantial increase
in their earnings, the staff had showed a renewed vigor and commitment to their
duties. They beamed as brightly as the golden buttons on their new livery.

Smiling
wistfully, Helena pictured Nicholas and her sitting by the fire on the new maize
damask loveseat. After a day of work, he would appreciate the fine whiskey and
witty conversation she would supply him with. Perhaps she would arrange for
some hors d'oeuvres as well. She recalled that Nicholas had seemed partial to the
watercress sandwiches her mother served at tea and decided to add those to the
list of preparations. She was about to ring for the housekeeper to discuss the
dinner menu when she heard the front door open and close. Crikstaff's somber
tones could be heard, followed by a deeper, commanding voice.

Every
fiber of her being sparked with recognition. And, truth be told, a panicky sort
of anticipation.

Nicholas
was home.

Helena
heard the footsteps approaching the drawing room. She
flung herself onto the loveseat and frantically arranged her skirts, striving
for a casual yet attractive pose. Dash it all, how would Marianne sit? She
tried crossing her ankles. No, too prim. She uncrossed them and propped her elbow
against the armrest instead, thrusting her bosom forward. The steps grew closer
and closer. Her lips froze in a welcoming smile as the breath raced in and out
of her lungs. The steps were pausing now, outside the door ... and then they continued
past. It took a moment for her numbed mind to recognize what was happening.

Nicholas
was walking away. He was leaving. Again.

Instinct
took over. Somehow, she was at the door, flinging it open, her voice shaping
his name. She cringed at the shrill, desperate tone that escaped her. She sounded
less like a siren bent on seduction on more like a Billingsgate fishwife.

"Harteford,"
she managed more calmly over the thudding in her ears. "Y-you are home."

Nicholas
turned on the stairwell landing. Lord, but the sight of him made her knees
weak. He wore unembellished black, and the austerity of his clothes emphasized
the brawny musculature beneath. Her breath quickened at the memory of that
hard, sinewy body moving against her own. His hooded eyes had flared with
passion as he pushed himself deep inside her. Trembling, she noticed that a
tuft of black hair stood out a little above his ear, the after-effects of
removing his hat no doubt. How she longed to smooth it straight, to ease the
crease between his brows with her fingers, to draw him closer ...

Her
hands clenched against her skirts.

Nicholas'
dark inscrutable eyes traveled slowly over her. There was no lover-like glow in
his gaze. His mouth formed a tight line. Flushing, Helena realized that she had
not yet changed her clothes since her outing with Marianne. Surely there were
dirt stains on her hem, and her hair ... her eyes widened. Good heavens,
her
hair
. She had not even glanced at her coiffure since removing her bonnet,
so enthralled had she been by her clever plan to seduce her husband. Now, she
could almost feel the wayward wisps frizzing about her face as Nicholas took
impassive stock of her—his frumpy wife, with the hair of a banshee.

She retreated
a step as Nicholas descended the stairs. He stopped in front of her and bowed. Politely,
as if to a stranger. There was a stiff quality to his posture and his
expression, as if he was not pleased that she had detained him. Well, who would
want to be hindered by an unattractive shrew of a wife, Helena thought,
fighting back mortified tears. Here was her opportunity—and she was ruining
everything. Numbly, she led him into the drawing room.

"Good
afternoon," Nicholas said. "I trust everything is well?"

"Quite
well," Helena said.

Except
that I feel like throwing myself down the nearest well
.

She
realized then that Nicholas was still standing because she had forgotten to sit
down. Hastily, she plopped down on the nearest chair. So much for a winsome
pose. The flush on her cheek began to burn. "H-how have you been? I have
not seen much of you these days past." The moment she said the words, she
wished she could retract them. 'Twas as if she'd lost control over her voice—she'd
not intended the words to sound accusatory.

A
look of distaste crossed Nicholas' features as he folded his large frame into
an adjacent chair. "I have been occupied of late."

"Of
course," she said quickly.

If
there is not a well nearby, a ditch will do.

"Is
there something I can assist you with?" Nicholas was studying the
fireplace, not quite meeting her eyes. Who could blame him? Her mind raced to
find an acceptable excuse for having solicited his attention.

"Th-the
Dewitt musicale," she stammered. "It is on Saturday. I wanted to
remind you that we are promised to attend."

Nicholas'
brows knit together. "I do not recall accepting the invitation."

"Lady
Dewitt is my mother's cousin, if you'll recall."

"Actually,
I do not recall," he said.

There
was something about his tone that had her chin lifting. "She sat to the
right of my mother at our wedding breakfast. She invited us at that time to her
annual musicale, and I promised her we would both come."

At the
time, it had seemed a trifling matter to do so. But, of course, that had been
before
their wedding night—and before the polite amicability that had settled over
them like a pall.

"I
wish you had consulted me first," Nicholas said, frowning.

Before
her lord had decided to avoid her bed and her company.

"I
may have a prior commitment," he continued.

Before
he had decided to bed a whore.

A
wave of emotions crashed over Helena. Everything she had experienced in the
past two days swelled in her chest. She could hardly catch her breath, and her
limbs were shaking.

With
... anger.

"I
believe I reminded you of it last week," she said sharply. "Or at
least, I left a message with Crikstaff to do so since you have so often been
out."

"You
have already remarked upon my absence." Nicholas' tone matched hers. "Though
it surprises me that you would notice, given your busy social schedule."

Helena's
teeth clicked together. "I have been
busy
refurbishing your home,
my lord. Or perhaps that has escaped your attention?"

Nicholas
flicked a glance around him.

"It
looks fine," he said.

Fine
. Helena felt like flinging one of the Chinese vases
she had carefully arranged on the mantelpiece.

"I
am glad you think so," she replied acidly.

"Hmm,"
Nicholas said, drumming his fingers on the armrest.

Better
yet, she could smash the priceless porcelain over his head.

"Is
there anything else you require?" her husband was asking.

"You
will attend the musicale, then?" It was unlike her to be so persistent.
She did not know why she was pressing the issue, other than his obvious reluctance
to oblige her. "My parents will be in attendance as well. I am sure they would
like to see you."

Nicholas
looked disgruntled and not particularly happy at the prospect of seeing his
in-laws. "I suppose I can fit it in."

"You
are too kind, my lord," she said in cool tones.

Nicholas
cleared his throat in the silence that followed.

"Well,
if there is nothing else ..." he began.

"No,
there is not."

"I
will take my leave, then."

"Of
course. I will detain you no further," she said, rising.

He
bowed again. In a few powerful strides, he exited the drawing room. A few
moments later, she heard the door to his bedchamber opening and closing on the
floor above. With a stiff gait, she walked back to the loveseat, sat, and
stared into the space recently vacated by her husband. What in heaven's name
had transpired just now? She had planned to seduce him, and instead she had
managed to make matters worse.