Her Husband's Harlot (19 page)

When
still he hesitated, she gave him an exasperated look. "For heaven's sake,
Harteford, I know we are to live separate lives, but surely we can have tea
from time to time. I don't bite, you know. We can converse on nothing beyond
the weather, if it suits you."

Feeling
like an idiot, he nodded. He followed his wife to the sitting area and watched
with hooded eyes as she served him. She poured his tea the way he preferred it,
with plenty of cream and no sugar; despite himself, it charmed him that she
remembered. With silver tongs, she filled a plate with sandwiches and bits of
pastry and fruit. Her movements were as graceful as the music she played and
wove a similar enchantment around his senses.

"Thank
you," he said, taking the plate she offered.

He
bit into a sandwich. The bread was soft with butter and layered with thin
slices of savory ham. Suddenly ravenous, he took another bite. It seemed he had
consumed an ocean of coffee today, but he could not recall when he had last
eaten. His plate was clean before he knew it. He eyed the service, only to
realize that Helena was observing him, an amused glint in her eye.

"Not
had time to eat today, my lord?" she asked, as she refilled his plate.

"Not
much," he admitted. He drank his tea. It was hot and fortifying. "I
have been otherwise occupied. The warehouse has been in an uproar."

Helena
handed him the replenished plate. "Really? Over
what?"

He hesitated. 
He swallowed a mouthful of lemon pudding before answering, "Theft."

"At
the warehouse?" His wife asked in incredulous tones.

He
nodded. "The place was ransacked three days ago. The thieves got away with
rum and tobacco. We're still counting up the spice inventory to see what is
missing. The pepper bins—" He stopped abruptly, remembering who he was
talking to.

His
wife, a lady who should not be hearing about the vulgar details of trade.

His
wife, whom he vowed to distance himself from.

Yet
the concern in her eyes quite undid him. "That is quite a lot of cargo, is
it not? Will it hurt the profits badly?" she asked.

"It
won't help, that's for certain, but it would take a much larger hit to hurt
Fines and Company." Nicholas gulped down more tea. "The River Police
has been alerted. The other merchants on the dock have been informed as well,
for the thieves may try to sell off their bounty. A concerted effort may help
recover some of the goods."

"The
other merchants, they will help?" Helena asked, a little wrinkle between
her brows. "After all, I imagine the lure of quality goods at a cheap
price must be great."

At
his wife's perceptive comment, Nicholas felt the corner of his mouth edge
upward. It would serve him well to remember that despite her fragile appearance
and inexperience in worldly matters, his lady possessed an unusually agile
mind.

"Under
ordinary circumstances, you would be correct," he said. "However, it
has long been the understanding of us merchants that our interests are best
served when we band together in the face of those who threaten our well-being—be
it pilferage or detrimental political agendas. Our association met this morning
to determine the best plan of action."

His
wife slanted him a glance from beneath her lashes. "So this is why you have
been away from home the last three days?"

"Yes."
Feeling the stress and lack of sleep advancing upon him, Nicholas deposited his
plate on the coffee table. He leaned his elbows on his thighs and rubbed his
hands over his face. "And, I am sorry to say, it is not yet over."

He
stiffened when he felt the cushion depress beside him. Hands, soft and supple,
moved over the shoulders of his jacket. He jerked upright.

"What
are you doing?" His voice was raspy, incredulous.

Next
to him on the couch, Helena smiled in what could only be termed a wifely
manner. "Helping you to relax, my lord. Such fatigue cannot be healthful."

Her
hands rolled over his tense muscles again. No doubt she intended her touch to
be gentle, soothing. Instead, the pressure of her fingers sent fire raging
through his veins.

"Such
ministrations are not necessary," he managed, trying to shift away.

"Nonsense.
Hold still. This shan't help if you are moving all about."

"Helena,
you mustn't—"

His
words were lost in a groan as she found the knots at the junction of neck and
shoulder. With unerring strokes, she worked at loosening the balled sinew.
Shocks of pleasure-pain jolted through his system. His scalp tingled. Dimly, he
knew he should stop this madness immediately, but
Christ Almighty
her
hands felt good.

Her
voice brushed his ear from behind. "You work too hard, Harteford. Though I
admire your industriousness more than I can say, you must take better care of
yourself. See how stiff you are?"

He
was
beyond
stiff, Nicholas thought with an inward groan. His belly
twitched, his groin burgeoning with heat. He should pull away, go ... but her
wifely solicitude was too much to resist. He shuddered as her fingers slipped
beneath his cravat and sent the noose drifting to the floor. With a nimble
touch, she sought and released the points of tension along his neck, rubbing
deeply, caressing softly. No one had ever done this for him before. His mind went
fuzzy with bliss. His neck arched into her hands.

"How
does that feel, my lord?" Helena's voice feathered against his ear.

"Bloody
good." He groaned a little as her fingers pushed deeper into his tensed
flesh. He was acutely aware of her sitting behind him, the puff of her breath.
Tension crackled in the space between their bodies. When her fingers massaged
upward, over his neck and onto his jaw, he gave into temptation. He captured
her hand in his own and pressed a kiss in her palm.

"My
lord, do you want me to stop?"

Her
breathy tones came from the depths of his darkest fantasies. For an instant, he
teetered between desire and sense.

"Don't
ever stop," he growled.

In
the next breath, he was upon her. His lips took hers in a kiss of burning possession
as he pressed her back into the cushions. By God, she was soft. Sweet. Through the
haze of lust, a faint notion appeared, telling him to slow down, to be careful
lest he frighten her again, but she opened to him, welcoming him into her
warmth. The shy brush of her tongue annihilated his rationality, his restraint.
His sordid past became a blur, his numerous faults incidental as he plundered
what she offered. The beast within him roared to life—he had to have her.
Nothing else mattered but the primal recognition that she was
his
.

He thrust himself deeper into her silky cavern. She
tasted of tea and honey, of everything good. His tongue found hers, and the
slick twining made them both moan. His fingers tightened in her soft locks,
holding her still as he drank and drank of her. The sexy little sounds she made
drove him insane. As did the plush softness of her curves as she wiggled
against him. She was so innocent, so damned arousing ...

Unable to resist, he broke from her lips to nuzzle a
soft spot behind her ear. The scent of orange blossoms filled his head, luring
him down the column of her neck. The skin there was just as fragrant, just as
delectable. He flicked his tongue against the pulse throbbing at the hollowed
junction. She gasped, her neck arching upward. He obliged her, his mouth
travelling to the quivering tops of her tits. He kissed the firm flesh and
licked into the crevice between.

"Oh,
yes," she panted. "Please."

His
nostrils flared at the pleading in her voice. A knot deep in his chest relaxed.
By some miracle, even after their wedding night, she wasn't afraid of him,
disgusted by him. Could it be that his demure lady
wanted
his touch?

"Again,
darling," he rasped against her breasts. "Ask me for it again."

"Please."
Her voice hitched as he brought his hands to join his mouth. "More,
Nicholas.
Please
."

Arousal
rushed to his head at the sound of his name. His thumbs found the hardened
nipples beneath the soft fabric of her bodice. Tenderly, he worked them,
rolling, squeezing until she whimpered in pleasure. Her fingers dug into his
shoulders, a silent plea for more. He groaned. How ready he was to give it to
her. His turgid cock throbbed against his smalls. His head dipped for a kiss, the
silky slide of her tongue enticing him into imaging how hot and wet another
entrance must be ...

There
was a knock at the door.

He
froze, refusing to believe the Gods would be so cruel.

More
knocking.

Perhaps
if he ignored whoever it was, the bastard would go away.

"Harteford,"
his wife gasped. "We must—"

"Shh,"
he whispered. "If we remain silent—"

The
rapping came again, only this time more insistent.

Helena
began to struggle in earnest beneath him. Her wriggles spread wildfire over his
loins, already taut as a mast in full wind.

 "
Bloody
hell
." He issued several more choice words before extricating himself
from the tangle of his wife's skirts. He helped Helena to sit up; her hands
fluttered immediately to her hair. Wincing, he attempted to find a comfortable
sitting position, one that did not strain his erection any further. In the end,
he blew out a breath and settled his jacket over his lap.

"Yes,
come in." He all but snarled the words.

Crikstaff
edged through the door. He looked ready to bolt at any minute. Good. The man
had some sense of self-preservation at least.

Flushed
and flustered, Helena nonetheless smiled at the butler. "Yes, Crikstaff?"

Crikstaff
warmed immediately and bowed low. "My lady. There is a gentleman to see
Lord Harteford." The butler sniffed to emphasize that the word
gentleman
was applied generously in this case. "His name is Mr. Ambrose Kent, and he
identifies himself as a member of the River Police. He claims he is expected."

As
exact as the damned night watchman
.

"Send
him in," Nicholas said.

After
Crikstaff retreated, Nicholas turned to Helena. Even as reality splashed over
his brain like a bucket of icy water, he felt his lips twitch. She was madly
pushing pins into her gloriously wild locks. With her kiss-swollen lips pursed
in concentration, she attempted to smooth her skirts this way and that. He
might have told her it was no use—the crumpled material looked as if it had
been trampled on by a herd of elephants. But she was adorable, muttering to
herself, in complete and utter disarray.

The
door swung open.

Ambrose
Kent entered. He moved with determined energy despite his considerable height.
His well-worn garments hung from thin limbs, giving him the appearance of a
ragged scarecrow. He had a long ascetic face, like that of a monk. His eyes
were an odd shade, like the pale amber of ale, and they immediately took stock
of the room. From his past interactions with Kent, Nicholas suspected the man
missed very little. It was the reason he both trusted and remained wary of Kent. The police man's eyes sharpened on Helena.

"Lady
Harteford, may I introduce Mr. Ambrose Kent, of the Thames River Police,"
Nicholas said as he stood, carefully keeping his jacket in front.

"Lady
Harteford," Kent said, sweeping an unexpectedly elegant bow. "My
felicitations on your recent nuptials."

"Thank
you, Mr. Kent. Won't you sit and have some tea?"

Kent
looked nonplussed at her invitation. On the social
ladder, a police man fell several rungs below even a merchant, hovering just
above the criminals he apprehended. Nicholas supposed it was an unusual day
when Kent was offered tea by a marchioness.

Not
that Kent was complaining. He was too busy polishing off a slice of cream cake
and enjoying the attention Helena lavished him with.

"Is
it true that children are oft found to be perpetrators of crime?" Helena asked.

"Aye.
The prisons are full of them." Kent took a gulp of his tea. "Newgate,
for instance, is rife with thieves as young as five or six."

"Five
or six?" Helena echoed, clearly appalled. "I should think a child is
not capable of knowing his own mind at so tender an age. How can he possibly be
aware of the consequences of his actions?"

"You
speak like a reformist, my lady," Kent said.

Helena
blushed. "Such political energies I cannot
claim, Mr. Kent. However, at the weekly salon I attend there is often talk of the
works of Mrs. Fry and others like her. I find their approach more humane than
the gallows or deportation. Education, the relief of poverty—these seem more
effective strategies for managing the ills of our society, don't you agree?"

Kent
grunted. "I have no idea, my lady. My job is to
apprehend criminals, not nurse them."