Why did he have to be afflicted thus, with a weakness for a woman he could never have? Even if his honor did not demand he keep a respectable distance from his friend’s sister, he had promised Grandfather he would marry Lady Beatrice, a woman who could not be more opposite to the fiery, scandal-courting siren facing him now. Lady Beatrice would make him an ideal countess, and their marriage would be perfectly polite, bereft of ruinous passion or emotion. It was what was best for him.
“What you are doing is wrong,” he said, hating the huskiness in his voice. Despising himself for the snugness of his trousers. A gentle breeze blew, bringing with it the scent of bergamot and citrus. He forced himself to continue. “You will only hurt yourself and your family if you carry on in this vein.”
“Why should you care?” she asked.
Excellent question.
He was beginning to wonder the same.
He clenched his jaw. “Because I am an honorable man. Because I am friends with Shelbourne, and I owe it to him to look after you as I would my own sister.”
She tugged at her elbow, but he held firm. “I am not your sister, Huntingdon.”
No one knew that better than he did.
A certain portion of his anatomy was painfully, rigidly familiar with that fact.
“Nonetheless, I consider you my sister in name, if not in truth,” he insisted, which was a loathsome lie. There was nothing brotherly about the way he felt whenever he was within Lady Helena Davenport’s presence.
And that was why he had always done his utmost to avoid her.
Why he ought to be avoiding her now.
If only she would see reason.
“Would that you did have a sister so you could go chasing her about in gardens,” Helena said.
And just like that, her words brought all the hated past rushing back to him. Lisbeth’s face, contorted in death. For a moment, he could not breathe. When he finally did, his lungs burned with the effort, as if he were beneath water. The crushing weight that had never been far from his chest in the early days of what had befallen her returned.
Panic assailed him. He could do nothing but double over, drawing the thick night air into his lungs with painstaking precision.
He must have released his hold on Helena, but she had not fled. Gradually, he became aware of a slow, steady caress on his back. Of a sweet voice, melodious, piercing him through the fogs of agony.
“I am so sorry, Huntingdon. I was not thinking when I spoke,” Helena was saying. “Please forgive me. I was angry with you and said something I should not have.”
The weight receded. He could breathe again. The anxiety lessened, bit by bit. These attacks were reminders of why he was a man of duty and honor. He must never forget.
His heart yet thumped in rapid beats, but he felt more himself. Was it wrong that he remained as he was for a moment longer than necessary, absorbing those tender caresses he had no business receiving?
Yes, it was.
And yet, Helena was touching him. Soothing him. He liked her hand upon him far too much. It made him feel as if she cared. For a fleeting heartbeat of a second, he could almost pretend she did.
But that was a greater foolishness than her campaign of ruination. Futile, too.
He straightened, gathering himself, chasing the old fears and pain, the anxiety. “You are forgiven, my lady. But if you truly wish to make amends, you will return to the ballroom and cease this recklessness.”
His hopes that she would put some much-needed distance between them were dashed when she remained where she was, perilously near, and her chin went up in that familiar show of rebelliousness. “My actions have nothing to do with you. I absolve you of any misplaced responsibility troubling you. Go back to the ballroom and your betrothed.”
Curse his undeserving hide, he had forgotten all about Lady Beatrice. His thoughts, much to his shame, had been completely owned by Helena for the last few minutes. But still, he could not go. Would not leave her in the gardens, alone and determined to ruin herself with whomever she could.
“I will escort you to the edges of the garden,” he countered, “and watch from the shadows as you re-enter the ballroom.”
She sighed. “You are a ridiculous man.”
“On the contrary. I am a logical one.” For reasons he refused to contemplate, he knew he would remain here in the gardens with her, guarding her like a dog. “I will not be dissuaded from my course.”
“And nor will I.”
They faced each other as he imagined duelers of old would have, waiting and watching the first to make a move.
“Stalemate once more, it seems,” he observed.
“I will stay here all evening if I must,” she replied.
They stared each other down some more. When stubborn met determined, what could be done, really? Until, at last, Mother Nature intervened in the form of a drop falling from the sky. First one, then another. A breeze kicked up the fauna in the garden, making branches rustle as clouds passed over the moon.
The scent of rain was suddenly in the air, mingling with lemon and bergamot.
“It would seem the fates have a different idea,” he said wryly. “If we do not return to the ballroom, I dare say we will be caught in a deluge.”
More rain fell, deciding their course for them.
“Oh, very well.” Helena gathered up her voluminous skirts. “I shall return first and you may follow. But do not suppose for a moment this means you have won, Huntingdon.”
He watched her flounce past him down the darkened path. There was no winning in this particular battle.
Chapter Four
We cannot stop fighting to right the injustices perpetrated upon our sex. The denial of equal representation in the matters which affect our daily lives must come to an end, one way or another. Let us hope it is with reason and sound intellect prevailing.
—From Lady’s Suffrage Society Times
Helena had been thwarted by Huntingdon on two occasions.
But today was a new day, and her plan was a new plan, and the ball being held by Lord and Lady Cholmondeley presented the perfect opportunity for her third attempt at courting scandal. The Marquess of Dorset had already agreed to slip away from the fête and meet her in the library at the appointed hour.
The hour was now.
Helena was early because balls were dreadfully boring affairs, and she could not be bothered to feign her enjoyment when Lord Hamish was in attendance as well. Which he was. Already, she had suffered a Viennese waltz with him. He had stepped on her hem thrice. And his breath had smelled of fish and whisky. His hand had been far too familiar with her person. The entire affair had left her feeling as if she ought to take a good, comforting soak in the nearest bath.
But instead she was here, in the cavernous library, which had been lit so lowly with a lone gas lamp that the shadows on the walls resembled monsters. The chamber smelled of old leather, mildew, and tobacco. Hardly an auspicious setting, but Helena told herself she did not care.
Dorset was a legendary seducer. He was handsome, as was to be expected for a man of his reputation. Dark haired, much like Huntingdon. Broad of shoulders, lean of hip, long-limbed and tall, with a commanding presence and dark eyes which seemed to be shadowed with sadness. Common fame had it that his heart had been broken by Lady Anna Harcastle, who had gone on to become Marchioness of Huntly.