Her Husband's Harlot (16 page)

His
lady giggled as he bent and kissed her on the nose.

Shaking
all over, Helena turned away from the viewing hole. She slumped onto a bench. She
ought to be shocked by what she had just witnessed. By the fact that she had shamelessly
spied upon what appeared to be torrid,
marital
lovemaking. Instead, a
flare of recognition heated her insides as she understood, finally, what was
possible in a marriage. What she had always longed for with Nicholas. She
wanted his love, yes, but she also yearned for the decadent pleasure he'd shown
her at the Nunnery.

For
the hot, male taste of him filling her senses.

For his
devastating touch on her breasts and the aching place between her thighs.

For
the intensity of his possession, his cock thrusting against the very limits of
her restraint, making her beg for more and more.

Sweetness
above, she
was
a harlot.

Sitting
there upon the bench, a strange calm settled over her. As she studied the
string of paper lanterns overhead, it occurred to her that the frail shells,
pretty as they were, obscured a rather vital glow. A tear trickled from beneath
her mask.

After
a few moments, she wiped away the dampness.

And began
to plan.

Later
that week, Nicholas handed his coat and hat to the butler, relieved to find the
foyer empty.

"Is Lady Harteford out, Crikstaff?" he
asked, running a hand through his disheveled hair.

"Yes, my lord," Crikstaff intoned.

Nicholas
felt relieved even as he mentally cursed his own cowardice. Lord, he was becoming
a spineless fool. He had avoided Helena all week. He had no desire for a repeat
performance of their interaction at the musicale, and he didn't know what he
would say if he did see her. Not the truth, that was for certain.

I'm
sorry, but you've married a murderer
wasn't something one confessed to a gently bred lady. Or to anyone, for that
matter.

His
lips tightened.

The
butler was not finished jabbering. "Lady Harteford did leave word that she
would be dining in this evening. She specifically requested your presence
should your lordship be at home. She has asked Chef to prepare a most special
repast."

At the
thought of Helena asking for him, Nicholas' pulse leaped. Seeing her would be
courting danger—how much longer could he hide his desire for her and keep her
at arm's length? Yet how could he refuse without obviously disregarding his
wife's wishes in front of the staff?

He gave
a curt nod.

The
normally somber Crikstaff looked ready to skip down the halls. "I am sure
you will find the menu this evening most delightful—"

"I
will be down at seven o'clock. Be sure that the meal is ready, as I will be
leaving for an engagement at eight." Nicholas stalked away, turning to
add, "And I wish to be undisturbed until we dine."

He
tried to ignore the fallen look on the butler's face. Was he so much of a disappointment
that even his servants found him lacking? A year ago, he'd inherited the house
staff along with the property; frankly, he'd had no idea what to do with the
lot of them. Before his marriage, he'd kept the arrangement simple, the way he
liked: he paid their wages, and they stayed out of his way.

His
method had worked fine until Helena came along. She seemed to inspire in the
servants (and old stick-in-the-mud Crikstaff especially) some sort of domestic
fervor. They became full of questions:
Is the soup to your liking, my lord?
Would you prefer your cravat à la Brutus or in a Waterfall, this evening?

How
the hell was he to know what the French soup was supposed to taste like, or how
his bloody neck cloth should be tied?

He
had problems—
real
ones—that were a sight more pressing.

Striding
into his study, he shut the door behind him. He regarded the polished mahogany
and dark green tones of his private sanctuary with relief. At least here no one
dared to seek him out. He poured himself a whiskey and slouched into the chair
behind his desk. As he sipped, savoring the burn, he grimly contemplated his
situation.

Someone
had somehow discovered his secret. Whoever had sent those notes knew that seventeen
years ago he'd killed that bastard Ben Grimes. That he'd stuck that
black-hearted bugger in the chest and run. For weeks after the murder, he'd
huddled with the mud-larks beneath the docks, numb with shock and the certainty
of retribution. Yet justice had not come for him. Instead, a rumor had finally pierced
his petrified brain: Grimes' flash house had gone down in flames. Grimes' body
had been recovered, charred and unrecognizable, and the fire had been blamed
for his death. Nicholas alone had known the truth. He'd kept running, never
feeling safe, always fearing his secret would be revealed.

The
price for keeping your crime secret is upon you.
Nicholas's throat clenched. Who was this faceless enemy?
How had this would-be blackmailer come by the information about his past? And why
hadn't any demands been made as of yet? Questions crowded against his temples,
making them pulse. As much as Nicholas disliked Isaac Bragg, the man didn't
seem to have the brains to concoct such a scheme. Looting, yes, but blackmail
... Bragg couldn't keep such a juicy secret to himself.

He'd
have Bragg followed, Nicholas decided, but by whom? He didn't trust the Bow
Street Runners or any investigators for hire, for that matter. As far as he was
concerned, that lot had far too much in common with the criminals they hunted—and
the last thing he needed was for some unscrupulous detective to ferret out his
past. The option left, then, was Ambrose Kent. His instincts told him Kent was
honest. He'd have to think of some way to ask for Kent's assistance, without
alerting the police man to his wrongdoing. Perhaps he could ask the detective
to follow Bragg as a potential suspect in the warehouse losses.

A
knock on the door startled Nicholas from his brooding. Before he could respond,
the door swung slowly open. Recovering himself, he snapped, "What the
devil is it? I said I was not to be ..."

He
stopped mid-sentence when he saw Helena's head peer around the doorway. The
sight of her heart-shaped countenance made him instantly ache all over. Then his
brow creased. She
never
entered his study. In fact, she never entered
any part of the house considered his domain. Not his bedchamber and certainly
not this room. What the hell was she doing here now?

"How
can I help you?" Incredulity made his words sharper than he had intended.

Helena
responded with a shy smile. "I know you are busy, my lord, but I was
wondering if I might have a few minutes of your time."

Nicholas
blinked. She had never asked for his time before either. Then his jaw tautened.
Of course. Presumably, she wanted to take him to task over his behavior at the
musicale. He couldn't blame her—he
had
acted boorishly. He couldn't very
well tell her the reason for it, that he needed to drive her away for her own
good. But he wasn't about to apologize for whatever lies her father had poured
into her ear, either. He'd be damned if he let her rake him over the coals over
Northgate's alleged mistreatment.

Nicholas
rose stiffly from the desk as Helena came toward him. He noted that she must
have returned from a recent excursion as she still wore her pelisse. Trimmed in
ermine and spun in cornflower blue, the cloak set off the purity of her
features. The rounded curve of her cheeks reminded him of a blushing peach. She
wore her hair simply today, the silky rich mass of it secured by a blue ribbon
at her nape. The smell of spring trailed in her wake.

In
spite of his frustration, he could not help but drink in the sight of her, and
this increased his irritability further. Did she
have
to possess such
pleasing curves, such softness about her? Did she have to smell like fruit and
flowers, the very essence of femininity? Out of nowhere, brazen red hair and a
body made for sinning assailed his mind's eye. Skin smooth as silk beneath his
fingers, and a hot, voracious mouth ...

He
caught himself, nearly shook his head in disgust. Why would he think of the doxy
at such a time? He must be depraved indeed to allow such libidinous thoughts to
sully the presence of his lady wife. Bloody hell. Now he had to contend with
the nasty prickles of his conscience on top of everything else. He might as
well get the business over with.

"What
is it that you want to discuss?" he asked curtly, knowing full well the
answer.

Helena
walked up to his desk. She held a leather box in each
hand. "I am having the most difficult time trying to decide which necklace
to wear with my gown this evening. Since you have the most exquisite taste, I
am depending on your kind assistance, my lord."

Her request
distracted him from the counter-arguments he had been formulating about her ass
of a father. Nicholas' eyes narrowed. Had he missed something? So this was not
about her father, then? Nor about their quarrel at the musicale? This was about
... jewelry?

"I
beg your pardon?" he asked.

"I
should like the loan of your exquisite sense of style," his wife said.

He
, exquisite style? He hardly knew what his valet
dressed him in each morning. Prior to inheriting his title, he'd had his man dress
him in simple garb befitting his office at the warehouse. Prior to that, there
had been a time when he'd committed the ultimate offense to gentility by
dressing himself. No care needed getting ready for a day working the docks.

Though
he had managed to obscure that charming part of his history with fancy lessons
in elocution and etiquette, the truth was he had earned his success the hard
way, without power or privilege. Bad enough that the
ton
scorned him for
being a merchant—what would they, or his lady wife, daughter of an earl, say if
they'd known he'd once been nothing but a common laborer, hefting ten stone
sacks with the rest of the riffraff struggling about the wharves?

"My
lord, would you help me, please?"

Though
he tried to resist, he found himself once more a powerless captive to her
sweet, inquisitive eyes. Hazel, they were, with flecks of green and gold swirled
into rich brandy pools. Her eyes did not lie, and they were not angry. They
were ... smiling. At him. Despite everything, a knot began to loosen in his
chest. Her mouth imitated her eyes, so now her whole face was smiling at him. Beaming
goodwill and wifeliness as she held the jewelry box toward him.

Reluctantly,
Nicholas removed the necklace from its white satin lining. The rubies caught
fire in the sinking light of the sun, sending fiery prisms onto the walls and
carpet. He had never seen the necklace out of its box. After their disastrous
wedding night, he had left it for Helena at the breakfast table. A shameful
apology, a silent penance. Since then his wrongdoings had only multiplied: no
amount of baubles could atone for the harm he'd done her by tying her to a
murderer. A brute and a coward.

The
jewels weighed heavily in his palm.

"Oh
wait. I have forgotten to remove my pelisse." Helena untied the silken
cords and tossed the cloak onto his chair.

Nicholas
felt the air escape his lungs. The sudden gust left him light-headed, unable to
hold onto a thought save one.
Who was the creature in front of him?
The Helena he knew wore primly proper dresses, with pieces of starchy-looking fabric tucked
neatly in the neckline. An abundance of ribbons and flounces and other
embellishments for which he had no name typically covered her from head to toe.
Thankfully for him, those decorations tended to hide the lushness of her figure
and provided some minor respite from temptation.

This
Helena, however, wore a gown that draped her figure like
a swath of moonlight. The airy white fabric glimmered with silver and was
nearly as transparent as a moonbeam. The square bodice bared her plump, white
breasts almost to the nipple. In fact, he surely
could
see her nipples,
the faint outline of puckered buds visible under the gossamer breath of silk. The
thin silver ribbon tied beneath her breasts emphasized the ripeness of the
fruit above, larger than apples, more delicious than summer-sweet melons. He
felt his mouth water. A man could gorge himself all day on those luscious tits.
Plump pink nipples, he decided. Full buds shaped to tempt a man's tongue.

"Harteford?"

His
wife was looking at him, her eyebrows raised and a small smile playing on her lush
lips. He realized he had the necklace still clutched in his fist. Shaking
himself from his erotic reverie, he felt a surge of anger. What was his wife
playing at, dressing in such an immodest fashion? Why was she flaunting herself
in such a manner that any hot-blooded male would be sniffing at her skirts like
a hound scenting its prey? A simultaneous throbbing began at his temples and at
his groin.

"Perhaps
there is a fabric shortage I am unaware of?" he asked.