Her Husband's Harlot (23 page)

Heart
thudding, he forced himself to shrug. Carelessly. Deliberately. "'Tis as I
told you at the Dewitt's. I made an error in offering for you. I married you
because I thought I needed a wife with connections. You married me to settle
your family's debts. It all sounded advantageous—but I fear I've grown weary of
matrimony."

"Y-you
cannot mean that," Helena stammered.

"Why
not?" He lifted a brow, his words measured. "It is the truth."

Helena
bit her lip. Then, she said in a rush, "Are you saying this because you
think ... there are differences between us? Because I swear to you, I care not
about your origins. Or what the
ton
says about your ... your ..."

"Legitimacy?
Or the fact that I am in trade? Can you not even speak the words?"

"Of
course I can. I was just trying to be delicate," she said, her lower lip
wobbling. "This isn't like you, Nicholas—why are you acting this way?"

Nicholas
let his own lip curl and his polished accents drop. "I'm not
actin'
in any way, milady. I'm jus' callin' the cards as I see 'em. The fact is, I
thought I could do this, but it's been a li'l o'er a month, han't it, an' I'm
bored to tears with wedlock. Seems I need more variety, so to speak."

"But
what of our courtship, the w-way you have held me ..." Tears were leaking unheeded
down her face as she stared at him in horror. "You told me I was
beautiful
."

"An'
you took those words to 'eart, did you, luv?"

"Yes,"
she whispered.

"Then
I told you what you wanted to 'ear. For the sake o' havin' some peace."
Nicholas lifted his shoulders. "Sorry, but that's the 'onest to God truth."

Helena
was biting her bottom lip, he could see, as if she
could somehow clamp down on the emotions so clearly trembling within her. "I
cannot believe the affection between us is a lie. You cannot deny that you care
something for me, as I for you."

"Time
passes, as do flights o' fancy," he heard himself say. "What can I
say, but our weddin' night squashed that bit o' folly. But what's done is done,
eh? We must look to the future, an' I reckon there's a way to salvage the
situation."

The
color drained from his wife's face. For an instant, he feared she would swoon.
That he had pushed her delicate sensibilities beyond the limit.

"Wh-what
are you saying?" she said faintly.

He
forced himself to continue in a brash, cheerful manner that twisted his insides
with self-loathing. "I'm talkin' 'bout an annulment, o' course. I'm rich
as Croesus these days an' can afford to 'ire a team o' law men if need be. Wha'ever
it takes, I'll see this union 'tween us dissolved. By the by, don't worry your 'ead
'bout a thing—you'll 'ave as much o' the ready as you need for the rest o' your
life, I promise you that."

Helena
was staring at him as if she'd never seen him before. "I don't want your
money," she said in a low voice.

"Suit
yourself. I warrant you'll be singin' a different tune when
Papa
comes
for 'elp. At any rate, I've promised to look after you, an' I will. I 'ave only
one condition."

"What
is it?"

"I
want you to leave. Get out o' London an' go stay with your folks in the
country," he said bluntly. "It'll 'elp build the case for the
annulment if we ain't livin' 'neath the same roof."

Helena
was looking at him in a way that made him distinctly uneasy. She took a step
backward from the bed, and his first thought was that she meant to leave, that
he had finally driven her away. But she did not move any further. Instead, her
hands went to the tie of her woolen wrapper. She seemed to hesitate. Then, in a
quick movement, she jerked loose the knot. She shed the heavy layer, letting it
pool at her feet.

Christ
.
Bloody fucking Christ.

It
took every ounce of willpower he possessed not to react to the sight of Helena
in what had to be the poorest excuse for a nightgown known to mankind. The
bronze material barely covered her breasts and drew the eye to her perfectly
rounded curves. Flushed as Aphrodite rising from the sea, she embodied
everything he wanted in a woman. She trembled, but kept her head courageously
high and her hands at her sides. His dream goddess, both innocent and sensual.
Nay, she was beyond every fantasy he'd ever had of her. Yearning bordering on
pain clawed at his gut.

"I'll
go if you can tell me you don't want me," she said, her voice tremulous, "that
you don't care for me, even a little."

If
only she knew how much he wanted, how much he cared. So much so that he would
do whatever was required to protect her.

"Put
your clothes on before you embarrass yourself further," he snapped. "You
disgust me. You're acting no better than a sixpenny whore."

Helena
looked stricken. Her cheeks grew red and blotchy as if he had physically
slapped her. She scrambled for her heavy robe. "I—I didn't mean to—"

"If
I wanted a cheap tumble, I know enough where to get one," he said with
crude precision. "A man wants a lady for a wife, not a bleeding strumpet."

Her
hands fumbled with the ties. She was looking down at the belt, mumbling as if
to herself. "W-we should not be having this conversation. Your senses have
not recovered from the shock. The blood loss has addled your senses."

"This
conversation will not change. Truthfully, we should have had this discussion
long ago. To prevent any future misunderstanding, let me make myself very
clear: I want you out of here, out of my life. Do you understand?"

Veiled
by downcast lashes, her eyes remained hidden from him.

"When
I ask a question, you will answer," he said curtly.

She
did raise her eyes then, and they were bright with humiliation and fury. It
took every shred of self-control to resist from pulling her into his arms. To
resist from holding her, comforting her, begging for her forgiveness. Which he
could not do, if he loved her.

Which,
of course, he did.

"Go
to hell," she choked out and fled to the door.

Too
late for that, he thought with weary resignation. He was already there. Had
never left, and that was the bleeding truth.

"Lady
Harteford, do come join us!"

Helena
looked in the direction of the voices. When she spied the trio of familiar
faces, she pasted a smile on her face. She had met Lady Tillycott and the
Misses Haversham at a literary salon when she first arrived in London and
counted the ladies in her small circle of friends. She found their company an
enjoyable distraction—and she was badly in need of distraction this evening.

Tonight
was her first time out of the townhouse in days. After Nicholas had torn up at
her, she'd holed herself up in her bedchamber. The numbness had slowly faded; her
emotional state now teetered precariously between self-pity and rage. What was
wrong with her that Nicholas would treat her so? Remembering his reaction to
her
negligee
, she felt humiliation creep upon her nape. What had she
done, other than try to please him at every turn? She had disguised herself as
a whore, for heaven's sake, and for what? He'd used her and tossed her aside
when she was the doxy; as a wife, she'd received no better treatment.

You
disgust me. You're acting no better than a sixpenny whore.

She
swallowed the swell of resentment and sailed toward her seated friends, her
head held high. Well, no more. She was done. She had wasted enough energy and
tears on her scoundrel of a husband.

"How
do you do, ladies?" she said, taking the seat they had saved for her.
Though truth be told there was really no need—hardly anyone desired the rickety
little chairs at the back of the ballroom. Wallflowers and spinsters had the
pick of the lot.

"Not
nearly as well as you, Lady Harteford," Miss Lavinia Haversham said.

Unmarried
and at an unmentionable age, Miss Haversham was considered firmly on the shelf.
She possessed a gaunt, spare figure and large, rather protruding eyes.
Unfortunately, the bug-like quality of her gaze was not helped by the lorgnette
she wielded. Her faded blue eye blinked, grotesquely magnified as she took in
Helena's appearance. "I do declare you shine like the brightest star this
evening! Is that a new gown?"

Beside
her, her twin sister Miss Matilda Haversham, bobbed her head in agreement.

"Thank
you," Helena replied with a grateful smile. She had taken special care
with her toilette this evening, wearing a scandalously low-cut dress of indigo
satin. So Nicholas did not find her desirable—well, she would show him. No
longer would she play the role of the shrinking violet; in her remaining days in
London, she would be the merriest, most dashing matron the
ton
had ever
seen.

For
she'd written her parents, and, as it turned out, they had begged off on her
visit for another fortnight; apparently, Papa had a hunting party ensconced in
all the rooms. Not wanting to alert them to the state of her marriage, Helena
had responded simply that she would come at their convenience. She'd penned
Nicholas a note as well—a chilly one informing him that he would have to bear
her presence for a few more weeks. She hadn't received a response. In fact, she'd
seen neither hide nor hair of him since their estrangement.

Helena
became aware that Miss Lavinia was asking her about
the source of her improved wardrobe. "Oh, Madame Rousseau designed it,"
she said.

 "Madame
Rousseau! She is very expensive, is she not?" This came from Lady Tillycot,
the last lady to make up the trio. Wearing a fussy pink gown that clashed
magnificently with her hennaed hair, she was as fleshy as Miss Lavinia was
thin. "I'm told she caters to only the most elite of clientele."

Helena
ignored the jibe. "Lady Marianne Draven secured
an appointment for me."

"Perhaps
she could get one for me," Miss Lavinia said. Miss Matilda nodded eagerly
as well.

"I
shall ask her," Helena promised.

Lady
Tillycot sniffed. "I would watch who I indebt myself to, Miss Lavinia."
She turned to Helena. "I have been meaning to say something about your
friendship with Lady Draven. You came with her tonight, did you not?"

Helena
nodded. Marianne had shown up on her doorstep earlier, insisting that wallowing
helped nothing and Helena would be better off accompanying her to the Fraser's ball
instead. As usual, Marianne had had the right of it.

"Yes,
I did," Helena said. "Lady Draven is an old and dear friend of mine."

"Then
I tell you this for your own good. I should not want your consequence tainted
by this association."

"Now,
Lady Tillycot ..." Miss Lavinia began.

"Tainted?"
Helena asked, puzzled. "Whatever do you mean, Lady Tillycot?"

Lady
Tillycot leaned closer, the long plume in her turban nearly poking Helena in
the eye. Her tone was low and smug. "Marianne Draven runs with a fast crowd,
Lady Harteford. I will not soil your ears with what I have heard, but suffice
it to say, she is a lady of loose morals and questionable character."

Reticule
strings pulled tight between Helena's fingers. "I should question the
character of anyone who passes along gossip as truth, Lady Tillycot."

"'Tis
not gossip but fact that Marianne Draven did not spend so much as a day in
mourning for her late husband before she began carousing about Town," Lady
Tillycot said. "And I am not the only one to observe that nary a stitch of
widow's weeds has ever graced her person."

"'
My
grief lies within, and these external manners of lament are merely shadows to
the unseen grief
'," Helena retorted.

"Mr.
William Shakespeare,
King Richard II, Act IV
, if I am not mistaken,"
Miss Lavinia said, clapping her hands together. "Bravo, Lady Harteford!"

Lady
Tillycot's eyes slit with malice. "The tale of Clytemnestra and Agamemnon
is the more apt analogy, I believe—or haven't you heard the rumors concerning
Draven's rather sudden passing?"

"You
go too far," Helena said, her voice shaking with anger.

Lady
Tillycot rose, a casual movement that nevertheless resulted in a cataclysmic
shifting of flesh. "Suit yourself, Lady Harteford. I cannot be faulted for
my attempt to salvage your reputation, little that it may be."

She
walked off with a satisfied swagger which made Helena's blood boil.

"Never
mind Lady Tillycot," Miss Lavinia said. "She is having an attack of
the doldrums today and relieves herself by making everyone around her miserable
as well."

"What
does she have to be miserable about?"

"Lord
Tillycot, of course," Miss Lavinia said matter-of-factly. "He lost
ten thousand pounds on a hand of hazard they say. The creditors are leaving
their calling cards."

Despite
her annoyance, Helena felt a stir of pity. She knew only too well the effects
of gaming. Had it not been for Nicholas, her father might be living in France, seeking refuge from debtor's prison. Her brow puckered at the thought of Nicholas
again. The dashed man had a mercurial temperament, that was for certain. One
minute he was all that was kind and generous, and the next ...