“I do hope you are not persisting in your wrongheaded notion of marrying for love.” Her brother’s lip curled in distaste.
Of course she was not. The man she loved was marrying another. But she could not say that. Not to Shelbourne. Not to anyone. Loving Huntingdon was her carefully guarded secret.
“It has nothing to do with love and everything to do with Lord Hamish being an odious boor who believes women are empty-headed ninnies who require men to make all the decisions for them.” Frustration surged anew within her. “Have you ever spoken to him?”
Shelbourne inclined his head. “I will own that he possesses a shortsighted understanding of the fairer sex, and that he shares some of Father’s antiquated and thoroughly wrong views. However, Lord Hamish is a gentleman. He respects you and holds you in high esteem and will never cause you shame. You will want for nothing as his wife. Father wishes to secure your future. I want that for you also.”
She wanted a secure future as well. But not with Lord dratted Hamish White! Why could no one see reason?
“Shelbourne, please,” she began.
“What would you wish instead of the marriage Father has found for you?” he snapped. “To go gadding about New York City, courting ruin in the fashion of Lady Julianna Somerset?”
“She had the approval of her family. I have already pleaded my case to Father and he has remained stalwart. As a woman without means of her own, what else am I to do but hope my family will not force me into a hated union?” She paused, something new occurring to her. “I thought you said you did not remember Lady Julianna.”
“My memory has restored itself.” His tone was cold. “A scandalous baggage, that one. I am surprised Father allows her to pay you a call.”
Not Shelbourne as well. It seemed he was shaping more to their father’s mold with each passing day. She was about to correct him when their butler arrived to announce Lady Julianna.
Shelbourne cut a quick bow, excused himself, and fled the room as if the seat of his trousers were aflame. So much for his help with Father. Why did he persist in believing love was a fiction and marriages were best made in duty?
Helena was still frowning over her brother’s odd behavior when Julianna crossed the threshold. But she promptly dashed her misgivings away as her beloved friend hurried across the salon to her.
“Helena! I have missed you, my dearest friend.” With her brilliant red hair and decidedly Parisian gown in shades of aubergine, Lady Julianna Somerset cut a striking figure.
Helena embraced her dear friend tightly, thinking she had scarcely changed at all in the years she had spent away. “I can scarcely believe you are here, returned at last!”
“Nor can I.” Julianna stepped back, her smile somewhat tremulous, an undeniable glitter of emotion in her blue eyes. “It is so good to see you. You must tell me everything I have missed in my absence.”
Where to begin? There was much to tell. So much. Her concern over her impending betrothal to Lord Hamish had not made its way into her letters, as she had done her best to keep from straying to upsetting subjects. As Mother always said, bad news does not travel well.
But now, her friend was here, just when she needed her guidance and support most.
“Have a seat and I shall ring for tea,” Helena said grimly, for she had quite a story to tell, and she suspected Julianna did as well.
This distraction was just what she needed to keep her mind from returning to ruinous thoughts, like the way Huntingdon’s lips had molded to hers. Or how desperately she wanted him to kiss her again.
The day after he had courted ruin by kissing Helena senseless in the library at the Cholmondeley affair, Huntingdon had come to the bitter realization that he needed to engage in two thoroughly unwanted calls. He was presently undertaking the first, and the second would necessarily follow.
Lady Beatrice held his arm as he took her for a turn in the small gardens at her father’s Mayfair townhome. The day was unseasonably warm, and beneath his coat, he was perspiring, the fine fabric of his shirt sticking to his skin. He wished he could appreciate the manner in which the sunshine caught the hints of copper in his betrothed’s dark hair. However, all he could see was Helena after he had kissed her.
That sultry mouth so dark red and inviting.
“Your call this afternoon is an unexpected pleasure, my lord,” Lady Beatrice said softly.
She had been at her needlework when he arrived, and he had regretted the interruption of her day and the potential disruption of her emotions as well. But it was necessary to unburden himself. His sense of honor would allow no less.
He wondered where the devil to begin. What a godawful muddle. “Forgive me for not sending word, but I needed to see you as soon as possible.”
Because he was a scoundrel.
Because he could not control himself.
Ah, bloody hell. The temptation of Helena in his arms, her body curled to his, had been too much for him. He tried to cast all thoughts of her from his mind—she had no place there. And she most certainly did not belong in this moment of solemnity between himself and the lady he had wronged.
But she would not go. Helena remained. For a moment, he swore he could detect her scent on the breeze. His heart squeezed in his chest.
“I am flattered you were so eager to see me,” Lady Beatrice said, a hint of flirtation in her voice. “It has only been a few days since you were in my company.”
Guilt lodged inside him with the violence of a swinging pickaxe.
“I am always eager to see you, my lady,” he forced out. “You know that. No other lady can compare.”
What a hideous liar he was. Helena very much compared. She outshone Lady Beatrice in every way. But Helena was a wild hellion, his friend’s sister, altogether forbidden to him. Lady Beatrice was the woman Grandfather had chosen to become the next Countess of Huntingdon. For all the right reasons.
His betrothed smiled at him, and her loveliness could not be denied. Nor could his distinct lack of reaction to her. Not a twitch of his prick. Not the slightest hint of heat in his belly or a sense of awareness.
Apathy was excellent, he reminded himself. Respect the foundation for a sound marriage, the sort of union he wanted for himself. He would not be doomed to repeat the sins of his parents.
“You flatter me, my lord.” She turned her head to admire a clump of fat, blooming roses. “I am not worthy of your high regard.”
“You are worthy of my highest regard,” he said solemnly, “and for that reason, I must confess that I come to you today with an apology, Lady Beatrice.”
She stiffened, her gaze flying back to his, and yet, her countenance remained oddly emotionless. “I am certain you have done nothing which requires my forgiveness, Lord Huntingdon.”
He hated himself. “While I appreciate your high opinion of me, I fear it is misguided in this instance. I acted in an inappropriate and far too familiar fashion with a female acquaintance yesterday. I remain deeply ashamed of my actions, and I felt the only honorable path was to be honest with you at once. Naturally, if you decide you cannot proceed with our marriage, given my lapse of judgment, I will understand.”
They paused on the path. Her mother watched from the salon windows, but they were out of earshot. It was enough for a spot of privacy, but not enough to be an affront to propriety.