Curse it, even the small gap between her front teeth was entrancing. Her scent curled about him like some witch’s spell.
He had to force her to see reason. To send her on her way.
Only sternness would do.
Huntingdon braced himself for a battle.
Helena made a habit of offering prayers each evening before bed and every morning when she rose.
As she faced the man she had always loved—the man who would forever be lost to her—she said her prayers again.
Thank you, Lord, for sending me Hungtingdon in place of the odious Lord Algernon.
Hmm. That was rather poorly done of her, was it not? One ought not to cast aspersions upon the characters of others in prayer.
She hastily amended.
Thank you, Lord, for sending me Hungtingdon in place of Lord Algernon.
Even if his presence boded ill for her plan—which it decidedly did, since paragons did not ruin ladies for sport—she could not help but to be filled with a giddy sense of relief that Lord Algernon had failed to arrive.
And that, instead, Huntingdon was here.
Where she was meant to have been all along. Where she had planned to be. In the precise spot she had chosen—albeit in desperation—to escape the loathsome marriage her father was intent upon forcing her into. A woman without means had precious few choices, and Helena had settled upon ruination to procure her liberty since Father refused to see reason.
She could do anything, commit any sin, if only it meant she could escape a grim future as the wife of Lord Hamish White. She was running out of time. Father had informed her the betrothal’s formal announcement would come within the next fortnight. Desperation edged her every action.
“You do not know what you are saying,” Huntingdon was telling her, breaking through her tumultuous thoughts.
Drat him for his handsome face. For his debonair, gentlemanly air. For his dark hair and sparkling blue eyes. Drat him for refusing to see her as anything more than his friend’s sister. For never showing a hint of interest in her—because surely her father would have settled upon an earl before he would have decided she must wed his political crony, Lord Hamish.
Drat him, drat him, drat him.
“I know what I am saying,” she corrected the arrogant, beautiful earl who owned her heart.
And who was betrothed to the irritatingly perfect Lady Beatrice Knightbridge.
Drat Lady Beatrice, too.
“No,” Huntingdon countered. “You cannot. This is madness, Lady Helena. Sheer and utter lunacy. The risks you have taken with your reputation…freedom is not what will come of such a foolish action. Of that, I can assure you.”
How certain he was.
How sure he knew better than she.
Resentment stung her. “How do you suppose you know better than I do, my lord? Do you think me an imbecile?”
She loved him, but Huntingdon was Huntingdon. Proper and frigid and exuding an overall aura of untouchability that both attracted and repelled her. She longed to kiss his jaw and muss up his hair every time she saw him. To undo his necktie and slide her hands inside his coat. To break down his icy walls.
But in this moment, Helena could not resist the urge to challenge him in a different manner. Part of her was currently rejoicing he had saved her from an untenable fate. But the other part of her railed against his highhandedness. Moreover, he had just dashed her plans.
How dare he?
His countenance—almost too pretty to belong to a man, it was true—reflected his shock at her outrage. “I have always prized your intellect, Lady Helena. However, there is only one deduction I can make from the lack of sound reasoning and logic you exhibit in this disastrous attempt at being the architect of your own ruin.”
Huntingdon could have been an orator.
His voice was deep and smooth and melodious, rather like silk to the senses. And even his speech was impeccable, his words eloquent without being flowery, his charismatic charm ineffably persuasive. Too bad it was all wasted upon her at the moment.
“Are you being forced into an untenable marriage?” she demanded.
His lips parted. With surprise at her rancor, no doubt.
Forget about how delicious his mouth is, Helena. You will never have the opportunity to kiss it.
Much to her everlasting disappointment.
She rushed on without bothering to wait for his response. “Of course you are not. You are a man. How could you possibly understand what it is like to be pressured and coerced into accepting a marriage that will drain your soul? A union so despicable you would sooner give your innocence to the nearest available scoundrel than submit yourself to the yoke? And this, to say nothing of the laws which remain in his favor to keep me pinned beneath his hated thumb.”
Although there had been laws introduced to aid the plight of women in marriage, they had not provided complete protection. In truth, there were not sufficient laws in existence to govern a marriage with Lord Hamish.
“I did not come here to argue the laws of the land,” Huntingdon said, his tone taking on a curt note.
“Why did you come here then, Lord Huntingdon?” she asked him, begging the question that had been nagging at her from the moment she had crossed the threshold to find him here.
There was something undeniably agreeable about the earl’s strength. He excelled at athleticism and it showed. He was an estimable rower and swimmer, with the broad shoulders and musculature of a man who did not dally on dance floors or aimlessly haunt his clubs.
Of course he was the epitome of masculinity.
The Earl of Huntingdon was perfection.
Full stop.
And that was the problem with him. Also, likely, the problem with Helena. She was far from perfection. Unapologetically imperfect, that was what she was. Too loud, too bold, too opinionated. Hair too light, laughter too brash, teeth unevenly spaced. Her father had hoped for a dedicated daughter who would meekly cower to his whims and accept his matrimonial guidance. But she was doing everything in her power to thwart him.
“Why did I come here?” he asked, repeating her query, a note of disbelief edging his baritone now. “By God, my lady, do you even dare to ask such a question of me? It is plain as the sun’s rays that men such as Lord Algernon Forsyte are not to be trusted. The scoundrel was letting it be known to everyone within earshot what he intended to do with the incomparable Lady Helena Davenport. What else was I to do, hmm? Find my oldest friend and inform him that his lady sister was about to forfeit her innocence to a villain like Forsyte?”
Dismay washed over her.
“Lord Algernon was obviously the wrong man for the task,” she said. “Next time, I will choose better.”
He caught her arm again—her elbow, to be precise, his touch like a brand—and pulled her nearer. Almost imperceptibly. A gentle tug, nothing more. The Earl of Huntingdon would never deign to importune a lady. No matter how vexed he was with her.
And as she eyed his visage, Helena was willing to wager her entire dowry that Huntingdon was indeed quite vexed. Mayhap outraged would be a more effective descriptor…
“What the…” Huntingdon paused and seemed to gather himself before continuing. “No, my lady. Whatever nonsense is rotting your mind, I implore you, steer yourself in a more beneficial direction.”
A more beneficial direction being marriage.
To Lord Hamish.
No cursed thank you, my lord.