“That word is hardly any better.” Her eyes were so damned verdant, burning into his, searing him. “And I will not make you any promises of that sort, Lord Huntingdon.”
Stubborn creature. Never mind. He was made of sterner stuff than she.
“Yes, you will.”
Up went her chin again, in that defiant slant he had come to recognize. “No, I most certainly will not. I owe you nothing.”
“You owe me your gratitude for saving you from a wretched fate,” he countered, frustrated with her anew. “Forsyte is a rotter. You have no notion of what awaited you in those filthy rooms.”
The mere thought of her acting with such reckless disregard for her welfare infuriated him. How could she possibly believe debasing herself with a scoundrel such as Lord Algernon would be preferable to a marriage? Lord Hamish White was a rather loathsome fellow, and that could not be denied. But as Lord Hamish’s wife, she would want for nothing, and she would maintain her respectability. Then again, the notion of her becoming Lord Hamish’s wife also filled him with a maddening disquiet.
“I most certainly will not thank you for your unwanted meddling,” Lady Helena said, as august as any princess. “Nor for your high-handed manner of forcing me into your carriage. How am I going to return home without notice when I arrive in the Earl of Huntingdon’s carriage?”
“How indeed?” he challenged her. “Perhaps I will deliver you to the doorstep myself and have an audience with Lord Northampton.”
The color fled her cheeks. “You would not dare to do something so cruel.”
“It is the honorable thing to do,” he pressed. “You cannot carry on in such a reckless fashion, Lady Helena. If I had not been there to keep you from making the greatest mistake of your life, you would be on your way to a life of penury and heartache.”
That was the truth. She could not possibly expect her father to blithely accept her ruination and suddenly bend to her whims, allowing her to marry as she chose or run wild as any hellion. Society would turn its collective back upon her. No man would wed her. And Northampton…he would no doubt be enraged by her actions.
“I can and will carry on as I must,” she insisted, stubborn to the last. “I refuse to marry a man who believes women should not have a voice in the governing of England. Lord Hamish thinks all women are intellectually inferior to men. Can you credit it?”
No, he could not.
But nor could he change the opinions of such a man. He did, however, have a chance at forcing Lady Helena to see reason and promise that she would never again take such drastic measures to free herself from her unwanted betrothal.
“I am not here to debate Lord Hamish’s political persuasions and hopelessly wrongheaded notions,” he said. “I am here to save you from destroying your reputation. Have you thought of what would happen to you if you were to be ruined? What if there had been issue from your liaison? Where would you have gone if your father had turned you out?”
Thoughts of Lisbeth, never far from his mind, returned to him and he balled his fists. He could not afford to suffer one of his attacks now. He focused instead on Lady Helena.
Her lips tightened, and a small furrow appeared in her brow, both of which suggested she had not considered the ramifications of her actions so thoroughly. “I have been reading a great deal on the subject. I am not as foolish as you believe me, my lord.”
“Reading,” he repeated, sure he was misunderstanding her once more. “On the subject?”
“There are journals to be had which describe the act of lovemaking in excellent detail,” the minx had the daring to reply.
The word lovemaking uttered in her pleasant contralto had more unwanted effects upon him. His damned cock twitched to life. Why was it so bloody hot in this carriage? When the devil had she grown so bold?
“How in heaven’s name did a lady find herself in possession of such filth?” he asked, outraged at his reaction.
Outraged at her, too.
She shrugged. “I found them in Shelbourne’s library. So you see, Huntingdon? I did a great deal of research when I decided upon my course of action.”
Research.
He swallowed against a rush of lust. Base, horrible, unbecoming lust. For his friend’s innocent sister. Then again, just how innocent was she?
You have a betrothed, Gabe.
And yet, Lady Beatrice could not be further from his mind at the moment.
“Reading bawdy books is hardly sufficient preparation for destroying the rest of your life, Lady Helena.” He was gratified at the sangfroid he was able to somehow muster.
One would scarcely guess his trousers were as snug as the breeches of a Georgian dandy.
He disgusted himself.
She twitched her skirts in annoyance, revealing a flash of stockinged ankle in the process. “That is where we differ, my lord. I am not seeking to destroy the rest of my life, but to save it.”
That ankle of hers was not helping matters.
Gabe pinched his nose again, wondering why the hell it was taking so long to get to Curzon Street.
This was the longest carriage ride of her life.
At least, that was how it felt to Helena, who had been miserably lodged within the equipage with Huntingdon for far too long. Train journeys to the country passed with more speed than this small journey home from Lord Algernon’s rooms had.
She had been miserably torn between the urge to kiss the earl senseless and throw one of her boots at him ever since he had unceremoniously shoved her inside his conveyance.
He pinched his nose and glared at her now as if he found her horridly offensive. And still, her stupid heart loved him.
Her life was a study in misery.
“I suppose we shall have to accept we are at a stalemate,” he said.
Had his gaze just slipped to her lips?
She dashed the fledgling hope.
Also stupid. Infinitely more stupid than mere stupidity. Utterly ludicrous.
“Yes, I suppose we shall,” she agreed, not without a touch of bitterness.
“No more of this foolishness,” he commanded, as if he had a right to make demands of her. “You will cease all future attempts to debase yourself.”
“You cannot dictate what I do, Huntingdon,” she told him, injecting some frost into her voice.
His countenance turned grim. “Yes, I can.”
Even with the mien of a man attending a funeral, he was beautiful. Why had her brother chosen to become friends with the Earl of Huntingdon during their school days? Why could he not have chosen someone who was bald-pated and overly fond of cakes?
“No,” she argued, “you cannot.”
Huntingdon was imperious and austere, but surely he had to realize he possessed no true sovereignty over her. He was neither her brother nor her father. And he most certainly was not her betrothed.
If he had been, she would not be doing everything in her power to flee the entanglement. Instead, she would have prepared her trousseau and requested a hasty wedding.
His nostrils flared in displeasure. It was a habit of his she had taken note of long ago. Helena studied him at dinner parties and balls and at every opportunity. For an entire season, she had hoped he would not honor his long-standing engagement with Lady Beatrice, and she had made every excuse to arrange chance encounters with him. But the earl had always been preoccupied with making his escape, and he had always paid attention to everyone but her. The most she had ever managed was a striking connection of gazes on a handful of occasions.