A Regency Christmas Pact Collection (18 page)

Hélène watched him leave as tears formed in her eyes.  She couldn’t understand the emotions rioting within her. She wasn’t being forced into a marriage. Stanwick accepted that she would return to Milan and continue acting. Why did she feel like a part of her just walked out the door?

It was silly, of course. She sniffed and wiped a tear from her cheek.  Stanwick had simply awakened a passion she hadn’t known existed.  He accepted her for who she was. Hélène regretted that she wouldn’t have the opportunity to explore that passion a bit further, but to do so would require marriage. She wasn’t about to give up her dreams to find out what magic occurred between a man and woman behind closed doors.

“Are you all right?”

Hélène blinked to find Elizabeth standing inside the room. She hadn’t even seen her enter even though she had been looking in that very direction.

“I’ll be fine.” She feigned a smile and moved to refill her teacup.

“Are you sure you don’t wish to reconsider marrying Stanwick?”

Hélène shook her head. She did not want to talk about Stanwick or his proposal, or she might very well start crying.  She was getting what she wanted. There was no reason to be maudlin.

“We did come by for a purpose,” Elizabeth announced as she settled back in the chair she had previously vacated.

Hélène turned to her with interest, hoping it was something to take her mind from Stanwick and his kisses.

“Because of your injury and your inability to travel, we are not leaving for Yorkshire until December seventeenth.  If the weather holds, we should arrive on the twenty-fourth.”

Hélène simply nodded.  Though she had no desire to travel to Yorkshire, Hélène no longer cared.  In a month, she would be sailing for Milan and that was all that mattered. There she would be able to put the Trents and Stanwick behind her.  It wouldn’t be so easy to go on without her sisters, especially if Genviève decided to remain in England, but they had their own lives. It was time she forged on without them.

“And since you are stuck here for the time being,” Elizabeth continued.  “We are going to bring a bit of Christmas to you.”

“Pardon?” What could she possibly mean?

Elizabeth walked to the side of the room and yanked on the bellpull.  A moment later, servants entered with woven stacks and began opening them.  The scent of evergreen filled the air, tickling Hélène’s nose until she sneezed.  They had never truly celebrated Christmas after leaving Paris. They had spent the day much like they did the rest of the year. In Paris, Grandmother had adorned the rooms with greenery and candles. The crèch was always placed on the center table, and on Christmas Eve the tree was set in the corner of the room. Hélène and her sisters would decorate it with apples, cookies, candles, and ribbons.  Despite what was occurring in France, Grandmother had always tried to make the season festive. 

Elizabeth set about instructing the servants on how the greenery should be placed, and the bows tied, and at which doors mistletoe should be hung.  While the festive décor should lighten her mood, it only made her sadder.  This would be her last Christmas with her family and the first without her mother.  Hélène swiped a tear from her cheek. Why was she so emotional? What was wrong with her? 

Stanwick wandered about Dagger’s Haven, stopping at each table to watch the play before moving onto the next.  This was how he had spent his nights for years. It was fulfilling because he was living the life he wished and becoming ridiculously rich.   

Less than half his tables held players, but that was to be expected. It was getting close to Christmas thought Stanwick found no reason to decorate for the holiday. The gentlemen didn’t come here for festivities but for a good game of cards and expensive liquor.

If matters continued as they had in the past, Stanwick would be closing his doors within a few days only to reopen them after Twelfth Night.  Most of his regular members would be off to the country with their families, as many already were, and would not return until next year. Those who remained through the Christmas Season did not cross the threshold often, and it cost Stanwick more to remain open than he earned. 

As there was nothing of any real interest happening in the gaming room, Stanwick wandered back to his office and closed the door before sinking into the chair behind his desk.  The purse that held Hélène’s winnings still sat to the side. He should return it to her but if she had the funds, she would leave.  He wasn’t ready for her to be gone from London just yet, though he could see no reason why she should stay.

He grasped the bottle of brandy and poured until his glass was half full. 

Her rejection of his offer still stung. He couldn’t understand why he hadn’t been relieved to not be forced into marriage, but relief was the last thing he felt.

He did, however, feel confused, hurt, angry, unsettled, and a number of other unpleasant emotions.  Happiness and liberation were not among them.

Stanwick tipped back the glass and drained the contents. The brandy burned a path to his stomach, warming yet not calming him. 

Why didn’t she want to marry him?

Perhaps she was holding out for love, but he couldn’t claim to love her. He admired her, yes. She fascinated him like no other woman of his acquaintance. She was a card sharper. Under different circumstances, it would be enjoyable to play against her, perhaps for higher stakes. The kind of stakes that would only take place behind closed doors, in private. 

She certainly wasn’t boring. He would never need worry about insipid conversations.  She was an actress. If they married, she could play a different role each night—in their bedchamber, of course.

He wanted her. There was no doubt as to his desire to bed her and discover all the many layers of Hélène Mirabelle, but that was no reason to marry. He should be thankful he had escaped. 

Hélène pulled the shawl around her shoulders and returned to sewing a new set of breeches to replace the ones Stanwick had destroyed with his rapier.  Her waistcoat would need to be repaired as well. She may need to sew a new coat, as it had been left at Dagger’s that fateful night. 

The fire was built high but it hadn’t taken the chill from the room.  Since coming to England, Hélène had rarely been warm. She missed the mild and even hot temperatures of Milan. The footman had even moved the settee and table as close to the fireplace as he dared, and Hélène was still chilled. Perhaps she should sew warmer clothing. The only gowns she had in the house were suited for warmer temperatures.

The house was quiet as Juliette, Acker and Genviève were across Town at dinner with his mother, and the servants were below stairs doing whatever it was they did at night.  Hélène was alone, and for the first time the silence was almost deafening.  She wished for someone to talk to only because she didn’t wish to be alone with her thoughts and she missed Stanwick.

How could she possibly miss Stanwick? She barely knew the man, but he intrigued her beyond anything she could imagine.  There was no more handsome man in Italy, France, or England, and his kisses could only be described as wicked. If he were here now, kissing her, she wouldn’t be freezing. Simply being in his presence warmed her, but Hélène doubted she would see him again.

“Miss Hélène,” a footman announced from the doorway, startling her so that she pricked her finger with the needle.  She turned as she stuck her injured finger in her mouth. 

“Mr. Sebastian Stanwick has come to call. Shall I show him up?”

Excitement bloomed in her breast.  “Yes, please, and bring a tea service, as well as brandy for Mr. Stanwick.”

Hélène hurriedly tidied the stack of plays she’d read earlier, which were now scattered across the table.  She had just smoothed her skirts into place when he walked in the room, nearly stealing her breath.  He appeared as he had that first night she had seen him, dressed in dark evening clothes, hair neatly combed back, crisp white cravat tied into an intricate knot.  Self-consciously, Hélène’s hand went to her own hair and smoothed it away from her face.  He smiled, and her heart melted. Damn and blast, why hadn’t she taken greater care with her appearance?  She was still wearing the batiste gown she had donned earlier in the day.

“Please, come in.” She gestured to the small seating area arranged before the fire.

Stanwick didn’t take the chair across from her but settled at the opposite end of the settee. Her pulse increased at him being so near. She grasped the material she’d been sewing to keep her hands from shaking.  Why did this gentleman affect her so? Was it because of that kiss or because he was handsome, pure male, and she wished to discover more about him?

The footman entered with a tray and set the service at the center of the table.  Stanwick looked at the bottle of brandy and lifted an eyebrow in question. 

“I thought since its evening you would prefer something stronger,” she hastily explained.

“I think it is safer if I stick with tea.” He chuckled.

Did he fear getting inebriated?  Her brothers drank brandy, lots of it, and whiskey, but she had yet to see them drunk.

Hélène leaned to pour two cups of tea.  Such movement still pulled at her stitches but it was no longer painful.  Stanwick didn’t attempt to assist as he had in the past.

“If I recall, you prefer a dab of milk.”

“Yes, thank you.”

She prepared his cup and handed it to him before fixing her own.

Stanwick picked up the stack of plays and thumbed through them. “How long have you been an actress?”

“Since I was sixteen.” 

“Is it something you have always wanted to do?”

“No. It was quite by accident.”

He lifted a brow in question as he sipped.

“I had been at the theatre to pick up Juliette’s costume. A play was in rehearsal, but one of the actresses was ill. They asked that I stand in for blocking and to read lines.  As the actress didn’t return for two weeks, she could not catch up and I was cast in the role.”

“And you’ve been acting ever since?”

“Yes.” She smiled.  “There are fewer, if any, places I would rather be than on the stage.”

Stanwick turned toward her and cocked his head. “Where did you learn to fence?”

Hélène laughed.  How long had this question puzzled him? “I’ve often played a male on stage because of my height.  Once, a director brought in a fencing master to train us for a fight scene.”

His jaw dropped at her revelation.  “You gained that skill from a simple play.”