He was debonair. He was broken. He had danced with her and flirted shamelessly. When she had coyly suggested a meeting, he had not hesitated to accept.
In short, she was certain she had found the man who would be her savior. A few well-placed whispers of gossip, and she was equally sure Lady Clementine Hammond—who had never made any secret of her disdain for Helena, nor shied at the opportunity to bring her low—would be entering the library within the next half hour.
The timing was impeccable and essential. Helena had realized, partly because of the Earl of Huntingdon’s cool reprimands, and partly because of her own conscience, that she could not bear to endure a true deflowering. Kisses, embraces, mayhap a raised hem—she would suffer it in the name of her freedom from Lord Hamish. But this evening’s scandal had been planned, down to the minute. No more than one quarter-hour alone with Dorset before Lady Clementine appeared.
Lady Clementine would be shocked. And secretly pleased. And she would carry her tale to every available ear in London. Helena would feign horror and rebuff any obligatory offers of marriage the marquess might offer. She had it all planned, down to what she would say, down to her affectation of surprise.
Yes, this time, victory—and ultimately, freedom—would be hers.
No one, not even the Earl of Huntingdon, could stop her.
The door to the library opened.
She spun about, and her heart sank.
There, crossing the threshold and closing the portal at his back, was none other than the one man who had been plaguing her for the last fortnight. The man she loved.
If only she could stop loving him.
And if only he would cease his relentless determination to thwart her plotting at every turn.
“Huntingdon!” she said his name as if it were a curse, and indeed, in this instance, it was. “Why are you here?”
He strode toward her. She told herself to ignore the effect he had on her in his evening wear. To ignore his neck cloth, waistcoat, and trousers cut to perfection, the way he made her breath catch. And above all, to ignore his face, so beautiful her heart ached at the mere sight of him, even as fury at his high-handedness rattled through her.
“Need I answer that question?” he asked, as effortlessly as if they discussed something of scant import.
The weather, for instance.
Or the Serpentine.
The rising and falling tides.
The number of guests in attendance. Another crush—surely two hundred. She had sworn he was not a guest this evening. How was he here? Oh, it hardly mattered, did it? For he was before her, tall, handsome…
Infuriating.
“Yes,” she gritted. “You do need to answer that question, my lord.”
“Saving you,” he said solemnly. “That is why I am here.”
Helena twitched her skirts in agitation, then stalked several paces away to put some distance between them once more. “I do not require saving!”
And if she did need saving, it was decidedly not of the form he was offering. She had yet to forgive him for the humiliation of their last encounter, during which he had informed her he viewed her as a sister.
A. Sister.
She still longed to rail at him for such a stinging insult, and likely she would have done at the time had not she made the error of mentioning his dead sister. She could kick herself for her thoughtless words; seeing the way he had reacted still haunted her.
Still, she could not help wondering. How could he feel nothing for her when she felt everything for him? Helena vowed she would never understand it.
Silly, ignominious heart.
“I would suggest that your presence in this library conveys the direct opposite of what you are saying,” he said smoothly.
Her heart thudded, and that same liquid heat that pooled in her belly whenever he was near returned. If only she could control herself. If only she could stop loving him. If only she could keep from longing to throw herself into his arms and banish that frown with her lips.
What would kissing him be like?
She would never know. Because he was betrothed to another and he thought of her as a sister who required him to storm to the rescue like a gallant knight of old.
“Dorset is joining me here at any moment,” she informed him, bumping into a wall of books at her back in an effort to keep him as far away from her as possible.
There was nowhere else to escape to.
Huntingdon reached her, those impossibly blue eyes sparkling with an emotion she could not read. “Dorset is not coming.”
Not again.
Oh, drat him. Drat him for his meddling. Drat him for crowding her, for trapping her between the bookshelves and his powerful body. Drat him for his scent, taunting her now, musky and delicious.
“How do you presume to know what Dorset is doing and what he is not doing?” she asked, though she was afraid she already knew the answer.
Huntingdon smiled grimly. “We had a discussion, he and I. I persuaded him it would not be in his favor to dally with you.”
Would he never cease plaguing her?
Frustration and irritation blossomed, making her bold. She settled her hands on his chest and shoved. “Your concern is misplaced, Huntingdon. Direct it toward your betrothed and leave me to do as I wish.”
Touching him was a mistake.
Because she liked it far too much. The texture of his coat was smooth seduction. Heat radiated from him, seeping into her palms, making her weak. Making her want him. Her gaze dipped to his lips. One kiss. She had been doing everything in her power to ruin herself, and all she wanted was this man. His mouth on hers.
“My sense of honor forbids me from leaving you to your own wayward actions,” he growled, flattening his palms on the bookshelf at either side of her head, trapping her there.
A fruitless action. At the moment, she had no desire to go anywhere, though she knew all too well she should.
“I do not need your sense of honor,” she protested, despising herself for the breathlessness in her tone. For her inability to guard her heart against him. For the longing that washed over her, when she knew he could not ever be hers.
“On the contrary, my dear.” His voice was forbidding. “You very much do. If it were not for me, you should be on the cusp of making the greatest mistake of your life. You will thank me later. The Marquess of Dorset is not worthy of touching your hems.”
Was it her imagination, or had Huntingdon’s head lowered?
Of course it was her imagination. He thought of her as a sister.
“Whether or not Dorset touches my hems is for me to decide. Not you.” But as she issued her stern warning, her hands moved, sliding up his broad, firm chest. Settling upon his shoulders.
“This was your final chance, Helena. I have no choice but to go to Shelbourne now.”
Gabe stared down at Helena’s upturned face. She was a tall woman, but his uncommon height meant she was the perfect fit for him. All he needed to do was lower his head, and her lips could be his.
But that would be wrong, he reminded himself.
So very wrong.
“You are bluffing,” the spirited minx told him. “If you were going to go to Shelbourne, you would have already done so by now.”
She was right, damn her. He did not want to go to her brother with this. And if he bothered to examine the reason why, he would have to admit it was because he enjoyed chasing after her. Watching over her gave him an excuse to be in her presence. To be near. So near, her massive skirts billowed into his trousers. So near, he could ravish her pouting mouth to his content.