“Of course I would never dream of judging you so harshly, my lord,” Lady Beatrice said calmly. “Gentlemen will have their moments of temptation. My place as your wife will be to offer my sincere affection and support however I may.”
Her response left him stunned. He had imagined a host of reactions from his betrothed on his carriage ride here, and none of them had been complacency and acceptance.
He cleared his throat. “Your understanding is much appreciated, my dear. However, I wish to reassure you I will never again allow myself to act with such dishonor again.”
“You need not fear I will object to your keeping a mistress, Lord Huntingdon,” she said briskly, as if she were speaking of something as simple as the rose bushes in bloom. “Indeed, I am more than prepared to encourage you to do so.”
Helena was hardly his mistress. The wickedest part of him contemplated the notion of her, naked in his bed. Of making love to her.
No, Gabe. You are better than this. Cling to your honor…
He did not dare reveal the identity of the lady in question. He had been spending the last few weeks doing his utmost to keep Helena from ruining herself, damn it. Confiding in Lady Beatrice would only undermine that purpose, to say nothing of the other problems it would create.
“I will not be keeping a mistress,” he said stiffly, the use of the word, spoken to his future countess, feeling shameful and wrong. “I intend to be a faithful husband.”
Indeed, faithfulness was one of the most important tenets which should guide a marriage. Neither of his parents had been faithful to each other. And look at what had become of them, of Lisbeth.
“Forgive me for being so forward with my wishes, but I do believe it for the best if you are to keep a mistress, Lord Huntingdon,” his betrothed returned then, leaving him further shocked. “It is expected and, in many ways, natural. If you should wish to pursue more with this…female acquaintance of yours, I would not object.”
This was not what he wished to hear. Suspicion rose within him. Was she encouraging him to take a mistress so she, too, could pursue another? Because the last thing he wanted was to bind himself in a marriage like the one his parents had shared.
“Mayhap this is a conversation we should have had before, Lady Beatrice. I will not accept infidelity within the bonds of marriage.”
She smiled brightly. “You need not fear on that account, my lord. I will be more than happy to be a faithful wife and provide you with the necessary heirs, while you are free to pursue whatever you wish. I wholeheartedly appreciate your candor, and now, I do think it best we returned inside as we have tarried quite a bit in the gardens.”
“Of course, my lady.” Bemused, he turned and guided them back into the house.
After a few minutes of polite inquiries between himself and his hostesses, Huntingdon was once more in his carriage. He needed to speak with Shelbourne. Unfortunately for him, a call at his friend’s bachelor’s residence revealed he was not at home.
Feeling grimmer than he had upon waking that morning, Huntingdon returned home and promptly took up a bottle of whisky, hiding in his study. Even more unfortunately for Huntingdon, he was an infrequent imbiber.
Which meant that in no time at all, he was desperately bosky.
And which also meant that in no time at all, he was once more finding himself desperately in trouble.
With the wrong woman.
Again.
Chapter Six
As for anyone who argues the granting of woman’s suffrage would be a mistake, I challenge them to provide sound, logical reasons why. Of course, they can be in possession of none.
—From Lady’s Suffrage Society Times
The Earl of Huntingdon was soused.
Impossible as it seemed—for she had never witnessed the paragon overindulge—there was no denying the truth of it.
Helena’s first indication was when he arrived for dinner at the Marquess and Marchioness of Hartstock’s townhome and entered the dining hall swaying like a tree caught in a maelstrom. The second indication was when he spoke too loudly at dinner and laughed overly long at one of his own jokes. To be fair, the fact that he had told a sally at all was yet another troubling indicator. The third was the manner in which he quaffed his wine over the many courses, also quite unlike himself.
And the fourth was when he followed Helena into the lady’s withdrawing room, stuffing her inside and crowding her with his presence much as he had in the library.
She had not heard him follow her, and as she eyed him warily, heart hammering, she could not help but to wonder how. He was so large. He could not have trod silently, especially after the amount of wine he had drained over the course of the evening.
Regardless of his unusual behavior, he was here. Her lips tingled with remembrance of the kisses they had shared.
“Huntingdon,” she forced herself to say, “what in heaven’s name are you doing, following me in here? If anyone were to come upon us, it would be the scandal of the decade.”
“I needed to speak with you in private, to apologize for my unpardonable actions,” he announced, dashing any futile hopes she had been harboring that he may have followed her so he could kiss her again.
“You kissed me,” she said calmly, as if those kisses had not changed her world.
In truth, his refusal to speak honestly of what had transpired between them infuriated her. His unpardonable actions had been everything to her, drat his beautiful hide.
“It was a mistake, what happened,” he said, talking far too loudly.
“Hush, or someone will hear you.” If Helena snapped at him, it could not be helped. He had just called kissing her a mistake, as well. She longed to slap him. And then kiss him some more. “You truly must go, Huntingdon. This is quite unlike you.”
“I have been able to think of nothing else but what happened.” He reached for her, then frowned and withdrew his hand before making contact, almost as if his body had a will of its own which did not match his mind. “Thinking of how wrong and dishonorable it was of me to act as I did. I cannot forgive myself, even if Lady Beatrice has.”
The mentioning of his betrothed had the effect of a bucket of ice being dumped into her soul. “Surely you are jesting, Lord Huntingdon.”
“Jesting?” He blinked in owlish fashion. “Of course I would never jest about a matter of such great import. You must know I desire you…er, your respect. As an old chum of Shelbourne’s, of course.”
Her foolish heart thumped with greater abandon, clinging to his misstep.
What if it was not a misstep? What if Huntingdon does desire you?
He did not kiss like a man who did not desire her. If anything, his kisses had been proof of the opposite.
She searched his deep-blue gaze, trying to find the answers she sought and finding only more questions instead. “You have always had my respect. Until you began this nonsensical meddling in my affairs, that is. You cannot continue following me about. I have settled upon my course.”
“Ruination,” he muttered, disgust evident in his voice.
“It is that or commit myself to a miserable existence as Lord Hamish’s bride,” she countered.
Why, oh why, would none of the men in her life see reason? Why could none of them understand how little power and hope a woman truly held? She was at the mercy of her father and his ludicrous plan she marry a man of his choosing.