Her Husband's Harlot (41 page)

Much
as she craved his company, however, she could not allow her love to become an
unwelcome distraction. She did not wish Nicholas to neglect his duties out of
marital obligation. One morning, she ventured into his bedchamber to tell him
so.

"So,
you see," she said, perching on the bed as the valet put the finishing
touch on Nicholas' cravat, "you need not fear I will be bored without your
company. I have plenty of things with which to occupy my time."

Nicholas
nodded, and the valet bowed and departed.

Her
husband walked over to the bed. Her heart flipped at his handsomeness. Freshly
shaved, smelling of sandalwood and soap, he was the most delicious man in the entire
world.

And
he is mine.

She
could scarce believe it at times.

"Are
you saying I interfere with your busy schedule, my dear?"

Mesmerized
by the warm, teasing look in his eyes, she struggled to keep her mind on the
purpose.

"No.
That is, yes, I do have household matters to attend to, but more to the point,
you are a busy man, Nicholas. You really need not feel obligated to escort me
on errands and such. I can carry on well enough on my own."

"Ah.
But perhaps I do not carry on half as well on
my
own."

He stood
between her knees now, his thighs wedging her legs apart. Her palms dampened on
the coverlet.

"You
are teasing," she said. She attempted to scoot backward onto the bed, only
to find he had trapped her by her skirts. "Nicholas, I am attempting to be
serious. I know how much the company means to you. I would not have your life's
work suffer out of a sense of misplaced duty."

"Duty,
hmm?"

He
was not listening to her, she was quite sure of it. He was too preoccupied
nuzzling a spot beneath her right ear.

"Y-yes,"
she managed.

He
licked her earlobe.

Sighing,
she tilted her head to offer him more access and was instantly lost in the spell
he cast over her senses. His hand captured hers, brought it to his arousal. She
inhaled at the fierceness of him.

"Do
you think this is duty, my love?" He pushed into her hand, and she felt a
corresponding throbbing between her thighs. "Is this obligation? A
misplaced sense, perhaps, of husbandly responsibility?"

"That
is not what I meant," she said, in a desperate bid to reason with him
before her wits abandoned her entirely. "It is just that I know you must have
many appointments, many people counting upon you ..."

"Mmm,"
he said.

He
had unbuttoned his trousers; the satin-steel length of him burned against her
fingers and evaporated the last iota of reason. Greed, pure and unadulterated,
surged in its place. She made to sink backward into the mattress, but he stopped
her. He kept her sitting on the edge of the bed as he tossed up her skirts and
chemise. Instead of mounting atop, he cupped her hips and brought her closer. Her
legs dangled, not quite touching the floor. She sat thus, splayed by his knees,
open and vulnerable. Her pussy quivered and moistened.

As
she watched, he ran a long finger up the crevice of her sex. He parted her
curls, and his eyes darkened as he took in her womanly secrets. She whimpered
at the decadence of his touch, groaning as he slowly, deliberately, slicked a
path to her bud.

"Do
you think," he said, his voice raspy and low, "there is anything of
greater importance to me than you?"

She
could not speak. Her hips arched upward, a silent plea. His eyes smoldered with
smoke and flame as he obliged her, notching the head of his rod to her eager
opening. In one swift thrust, he vanquished the emptiness. Her legs clenched
around his thighs. Her head fell back. There was no room for thought, for
words, for anything save the devastating pleasure churning between them.

"Do
you actually believe that anything could matter as much as you?" He
withdrew and thrust again, to the rhythm of her cries. "As my desire for
you, as my need to be with you, inside you, every waking moment?"

Still,
she could not speak, so filled was she with his loving.

He
lifted her hips and brought her down against him at the same time that he drove
upward. Their bodies collided; the sound of panting, of skin meeting skin
filled the room. Over and over, he penetrated her to the depths of her being.
She was impaled fully upon his cock, suspended between bed and floor, with no
purchase save the thickness of him holding her aloft. He was her fulcrum, the center
of all sensation. Hands fisted in the bedclothes, she ground against him, every
fiber straining with need of him. She began sobbing, the feelings too intense,
too exquisite to be contained.

"Yes,
my love." His tones were gravelly, harsh with his own need as he urged her
on. "Reach for it. Take it, Helena. It is yours."

"I
love you," she cried the moment before she shattered.

He
followed, his shout of satisfaction mingling with hers.

A
while later, she blinked drowsily. She lay on the bed, Nicholas beside her. He
was still fully dressed, but his eyes were closed. He looked to be asleep. A
good thing, as the man rested too little. Perhaps time away from work might
prove good for him after all.

With
a tender smile, she reached to brush back a wayward tuft of black hair.

His
lips twitched. "Still fretting about my important appointments?"

Whatever
am I do with this husband of mine?

"Oh,
do be quiet and kiss me," she said.

He
laughed and, rolling over, did just that.

The
following afternoon, Marianne came to call. Helena greeted her with an
impulsive hug. She was much relieved to see her friend in usual spirits, looking
ravishing in a walking dress styled
à la militaire
.

"Well,
I suppose that answers my question about the state of your affairs,"
Marianne said dryly as she rearranged her epaulettes. "To think, I came to
check in on you after hearing the latest
on-dit
."

Helena
lifted her chin. "I do not care what they are saying." It was true—after
a week spent in a dreamy cocoon of love and passion, she couldn't give a fig
what the world thought. She had everything she wanted. "Jacoby deserved
every wallop he received."

"I
know he did, my dear." For once, the smile reached Marianne's eyes. "And
so does the rest of the
ton
. The gossips have made you a heroine."

"Me?
A heroine?" Helena asked, dumbstruck.

"Of
the most romantic sort," Marianne confirmed, as she seated herself and removed
her gloves. "The innocent young wife who defends her lord with the dark
past,
et cetera, et cetera
. They are calling Harteford a hero, too, for
the brooding dignity he has shown while curs like Jacoby yapped at his heels.
Mrs. Radcliffe may yet write a novel about the two of you."

Helena
dropped onto the chair opposite. "I cannot
believe it."

"It
is the way of the
ton
," Marianne said, with a philosophic shrug. "Once
you care not what they think, they welcome you into the fold with adoring arms.
Harteford is the Makeshift Marquess no longer. But tell me, dearest, you are
happy, are you not?"

"I
have never been better." Helena smiled and shook her head. "Nay, I
never thought to be so happy."

"I
take it matters with Harteford have been reconciled?"

"Yes."

"And
you have told him everything?"

"Everything,"
Helena said with pride. "And you were right—he does not care that I am not
a paragon. He loves me as I am."

Marianne
smiled slowly. "Your husband is a wise man, my dear."

"A
lucky one, at the very least."

At the
sound of the deep, male voice, Helena spun around in her seat. Nicholas must
have recently arrived home for his dark hair bore the mark of his hat and his
cravat appeared ruffled by the wind. To someone who did not know him, he appeared
somber, austere even. But she did know him, and the silver warmth in his eyes
nigh stopped her breath.

"You
are home early," Helena said.

Crossing
the room, he bent to kiss her cheek. His lips lingered for the briefest
instant. "Am I interrupting anything?"

"Not
at all." Suppressing the urge to give him a proper welcome, one that would
be decidedly
im
proper given the company, Helena murmured, "Marianne
and I were just enjoying a bit of a chat."

"How
nice to see you again, Lord Harteford," Marianne said.

Nicholas
bowed over her extended hand. "The pleasure is all mine, Lady Draven."
He slid his wife a devilish look. "And I understand you had something to
do with that. Please accept my most sincere gratitude."

"None
necessary, my lord," Marianne said approvingly, "for my friend's
happiness is reward enough. And speaking of rewards, Helena, I saw Madame
Rousseau this morning, and she wanted me to tell you your new gowns are ready.
I had a glimpse of them—they are divine."

"I
suppose I could go see Madame after tea." Helena tipped her head at her
husband. "That is, if you don't mind?"

"Not
at all. In fact, I will accompany you," Nicholas said.

*****

"You
are sure this is not a waste of your time?" Helena asked as the modiste
led her to the mirrored platform.

"Not
in the slightest," Nicholas replied. He took her hand and kissed it,
before settling into a chair. "In fact, I could not imagine a better use
of my time."

Helena
smiled at his chivalry.

She
was not smiling several minutes later when the agenda behind her husband's
visit became evident. Nicholas was voicing yet another suggestion regarding her
new silk toile gown.

"
Six
inches?
" Using her hand, she raised the imaginary neckline up to her
throat. "You might as well dress me in a ... a nun's habit! 'Twould ruin
this gorgeous gown completely. Tell him so, Madame."

Madame
Rousseau looked skeptically at Helena's reflection. "It would be a trifle,
how do you say,
dow-dee
? I am certain my lord would not wish his lovely
wife to be dressed in the manner of the country cousin."

"I
wish to see my wish dressed. Period," Nicholas said.

"Ah."
Madame Rousseau sent a placating look to Helena. "This is the prerogative
of the husband, no?"

Helena
clenched her teeth. Clearly, the modiste thought it prudent not to cross swords
with he who footed the bills. She, herself, had no such qualms.

"'Tis
my
prerogative not to resemble the veriest bumpkin," she said. "You
shall leave the gown as it is, if you please, Madame."

"For
God's sake, your breasts are falling out of the neckline," Nicholas
snapped.

She spun
to face him. "You did not complain of that in the drawing room last week!"

"I
will not have you sharing your charms with the world." Nicholas' brows
lowered, a portent of storms ahead.

Madame
Rousseau intervened with a subtle cough. "
Alors
, I believe I
comprehend the problem. My lady, she wishes to display her beauty to an
advantage. My lord, he appreciates his wife's beauty, but perhaps wishes more
of it might be kept to his own private enjoyment. This is true, yes?"

"That
about captures it," Nicholas said. "I will not have my wife, the
Marchioness of Harteford, dressed like a common—"

"Yes,
yes, my lord, I do believe I understand," Madame Rousseau interjected, but
Nicholas' gaze remained steady on Helena's.

"You
are mine, and I will not allow what is mine to be bandied about like cheap
inventory."

Helena's
jaw dropped. For a moment, red spots danced before her eyes.

"Of
all the arrogant, high-handed,
insulting
..."

"Call
me what you will, but you belong to me," her husband said. "Do not
forget that."

"I
am
not
a piece of ... of inventory, yours or otherwise!"

"Please,
my lady, my lord, if I may suggest a compromise?"

Helena's
rapid breaths strained her bodice as she focused on the modiste. She had nearly
forgotten the woman's presence. She forced herself to count to ten. "Yes,
well, what is it?"

"Perhaps
a small, how do you say,
negotiation
might be in order?"

A
tense silence greeted the dressmaker's suggestion. Nicholas sat brooding in the
chair.  Helena raised her brow, and Madame Rousseau sighed, her eyes darting
between her clients. She turned Helena to face the mirror again.

"The
gown, it would be a small matter to elevate the neckline, say three inches?"

"It
is not nearly enough," Nicholas said.

"'Tis
too much," Helena said at the same time.