Her Husband's Harlot (5 page)

To
Helena, who favored intellectual salons populated by bluestockings and
spinsters, Marianne's glamorous self-possession had seemed slightly terrifying.
But once the two had started talking, the intimacy of their childhood days had
sprouted and re-sown itself. And while it was true that Marianne had changed in
some ways, in other ways she had changed not a whit. Marianne had always been
clever, the friend to turn to in a time of need. The day before, in a fit of
desperation Helena had found herself confessing about the state of her marriage
and the admission ticket she had found in Nicholas' rooms. Marianne's strategic
plan had been worthy of the great Wellington himself.

Helena
eyed her friend. "Are you always this tactful?"

"I
arranged your visit to The Nunnery last evening, did I not? What would one call
that, if not tact?" Curiosity gleamed in Marianne's clear green eyes. "Did
all go as planned?"

"Yes,
after your driver deposited me at the back entrance, the ... Abbess let me in."

How
strange a name for a bawd, and stranger yet that Marianne should count the
proprietor of a bawdy house among her acquaintances. Helena knew better than to
ask, however. 'Twas not Marianne's style to offer much in the way of
explanation. "She was quite pleasant, and not at all what I imagined. Do
you know she actually offered me lemonade?"

Marianne
laughed, arranging her tangerine-colored skirts with an elegant flick of the wrist.
"The Abbess can be charming when it pleases her. When I told her of your
plight, she quite enjoyed the tale of your wifely devotion. That, and the extra
guineas I supplied for her discretion. Did she make good on her promise of a
private room?"

Helena
felt heat creep up her neck. She took another swallow
of tea.

"She
did not? I shall have to have a word with her." A tinge of peach appeared
on Marianne's high cheekbones. "I specifically instructed her to—"

"Oh
no, it was not the Abbess' fault," Helena protested, setting down the
saucer. "She did have a room. It is just that I—I did not make it quite
that far. To the room, I mean."

"Oh,
Helena, tell me you did not play the part of the wilting orchid. Really,
after all my efforts! Did you even find your husband?"

Helena's
chin rose a little at Marianne's mocking tone. "I found Harteford."

"And
what transpired? Did you confront him with your demands for fidelity?"

"Well,
in truth, our conversation did not progress that far."

"He
was angry, then, that you followed him to the Nunnery. How very hypocritical of
him. And how typically male." Rolling her eyes, Marianne crossed her arms
beneath her bosom. The movement elevated her bodice
à la Grecque
to
eye-popping effect. Helena glanced down at her own neckline and shrugged
experimentally. Nothing. The starched surface of her chemisette obscured any
interesting movement.

"He
was not angry, exactly. At least, he did not appear so." Shifting against
the cushions, Helena felt the blush suffuse her cheeks. "He seemed quite
... pleased, actually."

"Pleased?
If you did not talk with him, why in Heaven's name would he ..." Grasping
the implication of Helena's words, Marianne gave a wicked peal of laughter. "Dearest,
did you seduce your own husband?"

Helena
nodded, a
frisson
of pleasure sweeping through
her body. Her breasts suddenly ached with their own weight, and her nipples
tightened at the memory of his long fingers, the way he had cupped and stroked
and kneaded her there. He'd called them her
tits
, chanted his praise of
them in a voice so dark and thick it raised goose bumps on her flesh even now.

"Dare
I ask ... the event, was it enjoyable?"

Helena
looked at Marianne's laughing, candid eyes and felt
something loosen in her chest. All her life, she had been taught that certain
topics were never to be thought of or, heaven forbid,
alluded
to in
polite company. But thinking about her mother's inadequate wedding night
advice, she felt another rebellious tug and then suddenly something flew open
within her. "Oh, Marianne, it was quite so!"

There,
she'd said it. Exhilarated, she almost snatched a jam tart from the plate. She
caught herself in time and clasped her hands together instead. She waited for
her friend's reaction. Surely, she had managed to shock Marianne.

"And
well it should be," Marianne said. "I have often wondered why the
beau
monde
considers love matches to be unfashionable. In my experience,
loveless marriages become quite tedious in a short space of time."

"I
am not certain ours is a love match. At least, not on his part." The
reality of her night's activities deflated some of her elation.

"Did
you not say your reunion was quite satisfactory?"

Helena's
skin tingled as she recalled the hunger in Nicholas' expression. When she had
touched his chest, his whole body had vibrated like the string of a finely-tuned
violin. Then came that glittering moment, when she'd felt heat swoosh between
her legs and explode like firecrackers throughout her body ... and
his
hoarse cries had mingled with hers. In that instant, feeling the gallop of his
heart beat next to hers, inhaling the musky scent of their shared pleasure, she
had experienced a shattering joy. A bewildering pain.

"He
did not know it was me," Helena said through stiff lips.

"I
beg your pardon?"

"Last
night, Harteford did not know it was me. It was dark, and I did not remove my
mask or wig."

"But
surely when you spoke ..."

"I
spoke in French to disguise my voice."

"To
disguise your voice ... but why?" Marianne asked.

"Because
... because ..." Helena strove to explain the fever that had overcome her.
Behind the mask, she had been a different sort of woman than her ordinary self.
The sort of woman who might entice a man, who might respond to his desires with
brazen wants of her own. Wants that she had not known existed until Nicholas
unleashed them with his bold hands and his wicked mouth.

A
shiver ran up her legs remembering the way he had kissed her breasts at the
same time that his turgid flesh invaded her. Overcome by a desperate hunger, she
had pleaded for more of him; 'twas as if she was starved for his touch, on her,
inside
her ... Disguised by flaming red hair and paint, she had truly transformed
into a harlot! The sense of freedom had been as exhilarating as it had been
foreign.

Only
afterward, when Nicholas had extricated himself from her embrace and began to
dress with cool efficiency, had reality returned. What had come over her? How
could she have responded with such enthusiasm, such unbridled
wantonness
,
to his caresses? Sweet heavens, what would Nicholas do if she was to expose
herself to him then and there, as a doxy who had but moments ago begged him for
more and more? A tide of shame and horror had crashed over her as the words of
his marriage proposal suddenly echoed in her mind.

 I
ask the greatest privilege of your hand in marriage
.
While I am undeserving of your pure and virtuous
nature, I do prize it above all. I will strive to be a worthy husband, if you
will have me.

Pure
and virtuous? No indeed—she was positively shameless.

Blanching,
Helena said, "I was afraid to reveal my true identity. You see, after it
was over, he got up and dressed like nothing had happened. He ... he did not
even look at me."

"Well,
if he thought you were a whore," Marianne said reasonably, "how else
was he to treat you?"

And
there was the crux of the problem. She, Helena Morgan, the Marchioness of
Harteford, had played the part of a strumpet so convincingly that she had
fooled her own husband. But what if her actions had not been playacting at all?
What if ... what if it was her
virtue
that was false? Recalling Nicholas'
indifferent manner after their coupling last night, Helena shivered. Could he
love her, knowing her true nature? Or would he think himself deceived? Duped,
by his harlot of a wife.

"Did
he say anything to you at all?"

"Pardon?"
Helena whispered.

"Any
words conveyed. To your person," Marianne repeated impatiently.

Squirming
with humiliation, Helena admitted, "Yes. Before he left, he said,
Thank
you.
And he ... he left a fifty pound note on the desk."

"A
fifty pound note! You shall certainly not run short of pin money this month."

"That
is not amusing, Marianne," Helena said, feeling hot pressure behind her
eyelids.

Marianne's
eyes gleamed. "Oh, but I think it is. Imagine, the Marquess of Harteford
paying for favors that he has already purchased through marriage. Surely you
see the humor in that."

"I
most certainly do
not
! My husband will be most ...
vexed
if he
was to find out." With an agitated hand, Helena dashed away the tears that
had spilled over. "He will never forgive me for deceiving him in such a
fashion."

"From
that perspective ..." Marianne shrugged. "Things would have been
rather simpler if you had confessed yourself then and there. Why did you not?"

Helena
lowered her head. "I was afraid."

"Afraid?
After such an enjoyable coupling? I confess, my dear, you have got me quite,
quite confused."

"Marianne,
when you were married, did you ever ... ever ..."

"Yes,
my dear?"

"Respond
somewhat ... with rather a great deal of enthusiasm for. . ."

"Do
speak plainly, Helena. You know I do not appreciate inane niceties."

"Did
you ever beg for your husband's lovemaking?" Helena asked in a rush.

Marianne
gave a startled laugh. "Beg? Of course not!"

"'Tis
true, then. I am a whore." Helena spoke the words with dull acceptance,
though her bottom lip quivered. "Harteford will never love me now."

"I
am sure there is no need for such dramatics." Marianne reached for her
tea. Grimacing after a sip, she set the cup and saucer back on the table. "If
you were simply to explain ..."

"Last
night, Marianne, I ... I acted like a wanton! I begged my husband to—"

"Yes,
well, as I have said that is rather common in happy marriages."

"You
said
you
never begged for your husband's attentions," Helena pointed
out.

"That
is because I have not had the privilege of a happy marriage," her friend
responded tartly.

"Oh.
I—I am sorry."

"It
is of no consequence. After all, I gained a great deal from the match,
including the freedoms I now enjoy." Marianne raised a delicately arched
eyebrow. "Freedoms that would allow me to comment that the enjoyment of
affaires
is a commonplace thing."

"But
you do not understand. I
truly
enjoyed it. So much so that I begged Harteford
to ..." Helena felt a panicked sob rise in her throat.

"To
what, Helena? You will have to tell me if I am to help."

Helena
shut her eyes. "To fuck me. I begged him to fuck
me. With his ... his
cock
."

"My,
that is rather forward." Marianne cleared her throat. "Where exactly
did you learn such words?"

"Well,
from Harteford, of course. He told me to say them last night." Helena blinked. "Where else would I learn them?"

"And
how did your lord respond when you uttered those words to him?"

Helena
paused, coloring. "He grew rather ...  frantic in his movements."

"My,
my." Marianne fanned herself with her gloves. "And you found his
passion enjoyable, yes?"

"It
was the most wonderful thing I have ever experienced," Helena said
fervently.

"Then
why should he feel any differently about you?"

Helena
tilted her head. "I beg your pardon?"

"Why
should your husband not likewise enjoy passion from you?"

She
had not thought of it that way before. "It's just that ... before we were
married, when he seemed quite fond of me, he commented often about my proper
nature. In point of fact, he once praised me as a paragon of virtue. Like
Caesar's wife—beyond reproach."

Marianne
rolled her eyes. "My dear, no man wishes to bed a paragon, no matter what
he says. May I be frank with you?"

"Yes,
of course." Struck by the enormity of her confessions, Helena suddenly
giggled. She had never talked so honestly in all her life. "After all I
have confided, need you ask?"

"Your
husband married you for a reason. Despite his unfortunate origins, Harteford's
fortune still caused many a matchmaking matron to fall into paroxysms of
excitement. But he chose you. Why did he, do you think?"

"Because
of my family's connections?" Helena ventured.