Home > Lady Reckless(7)

Lady Reckless(7)
Author: Scarlett Scott

He knew instinctively, though her back was to him, that it was her.

She was in attendance, but the crush was so immense, he had yet to cross paths with her since she had been announced. But there was no mistaking the silhouette—tall, statuesque, curved. Or the way she carried herself. She moved with a natural confidence that most ladies could never affect, let alone possess. Her gown also gave her away—ivory trimmed with yellow flowers, matching yellow flowers in her hair. Daffodil was a color Helena favored.

But before he could reach her, she was moving. Escaping through the same doors he had intended to flee to himself. Except, she was not alone. Lord Dessington was accompanying her. She was smiling at him. Laughing at a quip he made. Clinging to his arm.

Everyone knew Dessington was a rakehell of the worst order. Huntingdon had to wonder how the scoundrel had even managed to obtain an invitation. Realization hit him.

No.

Surely Helena was not going to use Dessington to ruin herself.

Bloody hell.

His strides lengthened. Huntingdon bustled into a frowning dowager in his attempt to reach the couple before they disappeared into the darkness. He mumbled an apology and carried on. She had warned him she would not stop with her nonsensical plans.

He ought to have spoken with Shelbourne. Taken him aside, as a friend, and explained the looming disaster. What had stopped him? His disgust at his own reaction to her?

It little mattered, for now, Helena was about to ruin herself with Dessington. Yet another scoundrel who did not deserve to touch even the dirt on her slipper.

And Huntingdon was honor bound to stop her.

By the time he descended from the terrace and reached the gardens, Helena and Dessington had disappeared down one of the darkened gravel paths. He heard the crunch of footfalls and a rustle of silk, and his gut clenched. If only Shelbourne were here this evening, looking after his sister instead of drinking himself to oblivion. Something had long been eating at his old friend and Huntingdon could not fathom what.

But that was neither here nor there. In his friend’s absence, Huntingdon would act the part of protector.

Except you do not want to protect her. You want to ruin her yourself.

He banished the taunting voice. Because it was right. But he had honor, damn it, and a duty to uphold. He would not dare to dishonor Lady Beatrice in such a careless fashion. Nor could he bear to lose Shelbourne as his friend.

He possessed icy restraint. Which was more than could be said for Dessington, who was already holding Helena in his arms when Huntingdon rounded a set of hedges and came upon his quarry at last. The sight of another man holding her, about to kiss her, filled him with so much fury, he acted without thought.

On a low growl, he seized Dessington and hauled him across the gravel. Perhaps with more force than necessary. The viscount was taken by surprise and tripped on his own feet, landing on his arse.

Helena let out a shocked gasp. “Huntingdon! What do you think you are doing?”

“Keeping you from folly,” he said grimly.

“Devil take you, Huntingdon, I was only having a spot of fun,” complained Dessington as he rose from the gravel and dusted himself off. “I ought to plant you a facer for that.”

“I ought to plant you a facer,” he countered, his fists balled at his sides. He was tempted. So tempted. “Keep your distance from Lady Helena.”

“What do you care whom I kiss in the gardens, old chap?” Dessington asked, sounding smug.

Curse the rotter. How dare he taste those lips when Huntingdon had not?

The ability to control himself fled entirely. One moment he was standing there on the gravel walk as calmly as any gentleman taking the air. The next, his fist was connecting with Dessington’s jaw.

There was a satisfying snap of the man’s head.

And another outraged sound from Helena. “Huntingdon, are you mad?”

Dessington rubbed his jaw. “If you want her for yourself, you need only have said. I do not fight over petticoats. They aren’t worth it.”

And then the blighter promptly took himself off, hastening back to the ballroom like the scurrying rat he was. His words echoed in a whole new taunt after he had gone. If you want her for yourself…

Huntingdon shook his hand. His knuckles throbbed from the connection with Dessington’s jaw. He had not punched anyone since his school days.

“What in heaven’s name is wrong with you?” Helena demanded, simultaneously sotto voce and furious.

He was asking himself the same question, and there was only one reasonable answer he could settle upon. She was what was wrong with him.

“I am the one who ought to be posing that question, madam,” he said sternly. “You are once more acting rashly. A rotter like Dessington? He has bedded half London for sport. If anyone would have come upon you in his embrace—”

“I would have been ruined, yes,” she hissed, interrupting him again. “That was what I was aiming for, until some fool arrived before I could even manage so much as a kiss.”

Relief he had no right to feel washed over him.

She had not kissed Dessington, then.

Thank God.

He dashed the thoughts. “You leave me with no choice but to inform your father and brother of your attempts at sabotaging not only your betrothal, but your reputation and good name as well. You cannot believe Shelbourne or Northampton would be pleased to discover you have been cavorting in moonlit gardens with conscienceless rakehells.”

In the silver light of the moon he could see all too well those lush lips of hers forming a pout. “I have only managed to do so just this once, and you quite spoiled it, my lord.”

“You are welcome,” he growled, reaching for her. “Now come back to the ball.”

But Helena eluded his grasp, dancing backward, deeper into the garden path. “I will return to the ballroom when I am good and ready, and not a moment sooner.”

Damn the minx, he had no doubt if he left her here to her own devices, she would simply find the next ne’er-do-well mingling in the moonlight and ask him to kiss her instead. Huntingdon had two choices: he could abandon her and return to the ball himself, or he could follow her, potentially opening the door for his own scandal.

The crunch of gravel mocked him. As did her golden hair, disappearing around a wall of boxwoods. His legs were moving once more, because now that he thought upon it, he had no choice at all, had he?

“Helena,” he called, careful to keep his voice low. “You are gambling with your reputation each second you remain out here.”

In her heavy skirts, weighed down by the pronounced tournure that gave them their lush fullness, she was no match for him. He caught her in a trice, taking her elbow and spinning her to face him.

“Curse you, Helena,” he said, and then lost his ability for further speech.

The ethereal light of the night bathed her lovely face. Her bosom, pale and full, was a temptation he had not previously noted in the haste of his altercation with Dessington and her subsequent retreat.

“You are remarkably obtuse for a man who is otherwise possessed of an estimable intellect,” she snapped.

Her ire ought to have ruined the effect, but he still felt as if he were a drunkard with his favorite vice laid before him. He wanted to consume her. Drown in her. He wanted to do all the things he had never dared to do.

With her.

Only her.

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