Her Husband's Harlot (6 page)

"Marrying
into the peerage was a boon," Marianne conceded. "But then again,
there were several ladies on the market with titles and dowries that surpassed
your own. If it was simply blue blood that Harteford was after, why did he not
pursue a greater matrimonial prize?"

"I
do not know." Without thinking, Helena reached for one of the pastries.
She stopped, her fingers trembling a hair's-breadth away from the fluted buttery
edge. Swallowing, she said, "But you are correct in one regard.
Financially speaking, I was no prize. You know that after ... after Thomas
passed, our fortunes changed."

The
clock grew louder in the silence that followed, as did the hustle and bustle of
the servants as they carried on their duties beyond the drawing room doors.
Helena wondered if a time would ever come when she could talk of her older
brother's death without feeling the ache of emptiness. To compound the darkness
of that time, Marianne had married and left for Yorkshire a month after Thomas'
funeral.

"Thomas
was well loved by all who knew him," Marianne said quietly.

"Yes,
well, who wouldn't love him? He was perfect." Helena paused, studying her
hands. "They never got over it. My parents, I mean. My father took to
gaming and my mother to her bedchamber. Before long, the debts mounted. There
was only one solution."

"A
daughter's duty." Marianne's voice was as hard as ice.

"As
my mother always pointed out, I had so little else to recommend me that I needed
to make my behavior as amenable
as possible in order to attract suitable
suitors. Do you know I memorized Lady Epplethistle's
Compleat Guide
line
by line?" Helena shrugged. "But it was for naught. I am nothing
special. Not a beauty, and too plump for the current fashion. Before Harteford's
proposal, my mother feared that I would end up on the shelf. It was nearing the
end of my Season. My father could not afford a second."

"You
are not too plump. Men adore women with a voluptuous figure. And you are
certainly not dull," Marianne said. "Modesty may be becoming, but it
certainly will not help you understand your husband."

"But
I really do not know!" Helena threw her hands up in defeat. "Other
than my virtue, which we have now allowed does not exist, I am not sure what he
finds appealing. I am accomplished but not extraordinarily so in the realms of
art, music, and languages."

"Oh,
for God's sake. As pretty as your performance is at the piano, that is not why
your husband married you," Marianne snapped.

"I
know it." Helena gave her friend a hurt look. "Why are you angry at
me?"

"Because
you are blind to the fortune in front of you."

"What
fortune? Truly, Marianne, could you not be more specific?"

Marianne
pinned her with a blunt green gaze. "Have you not noticed the way your
husband looks at you? I have seen the hunger in his eyes, try as he might to
mask it. Dearest, he looks at you the way you have been looking at that blessed
tart—like he is longing to eat you up, every last bite."

Helena's
jaw dropped.

"Why
are you shocked, Helena? Have you forgotten the night of passion you spent in
your husband's arms?"

"He
thought I was another." The pain of betrayal was confusing, given that it
was
she
who had deceived
him
. Yet he had broken his marriage vows;
why had he seen fit to share with a stranger intimacies that he kept from his
own wife? With a hitch to her voice, she said, "He lay with me believing I
was a doxy at the ball."

"Perhaps
he would not be seeking a doxy if he found a warmer welcome in his home."

Helena's
cheeks flamed. "I had thought of that. I should never have listened to my
mother's advice about bonnet shopping."

At
Marianne's inquisitive look, Helena explained what she had been told about
conjugal duties.

"Oh,
Lord." For once, Marianne appeared at a loss for words. Her mouth opened
and closed several times before she said, "Can I safely assume that last
evening no bonnets were bought or sold?"

"None
whatsoever," Helena responded fervently.

"Excellent."
Marianne patted Helena's hand. "You love your husband?"

"You
know that I do!"

"And
you are certain you cannot tell him that you were the harlot?"

"I
can't," Helena whispered. "He'll despise me ... for lying to him."

For
acting like a harlot. Sweet heavens, for ...
being
one.

Marianne
sighed. "Very well, then, here's my advice. Find a way to seduce him, this
time as his wife. Show him he has no need to return to the bawdy house."

"Do
you think I can?" Uncertainty and hope wavered in Helena's voice.

"Of
course. Men are simple creatures, my dear, and, above all, lazy. Convenience is
your greatest ally. If Harteford finds everything he desires in his own home,
he will not bother to stray. But remember: you are competing with a harlot, so
you must use whatever means necessary."

"Means?
What means have I?"

Marianne
scrutinized her person with such intensity that Helena felt astonishingly naked
despite her chemise, stays, and petticoats. She reassured herself that she specifically
had her morning dress designed, like all the garments in her wardrobe, to hide
her embarrassing abundance of flesh. It was one thing to mention one's
plumpness and quite another for one's friend to actually
see
it.

"It
appears your means are quite generous, yet you somehow manage to depress them
with the poor cut of your gown, enough petticoats to clothe a village, and, Oh
Lord, is that a corset you are wearing?" Marianne finished in mock horror.

"I
know it is not currently
de rigueur
," Helena said with dignity, "but
my dressmaker assures me that many ladies of the
ton
still rely upon
them to convey a more fashionable figure."

"I
was not aware that the shape of a trussed up chicken was the rage this season."
Leaning forward, Marianne poked her in the ribs. "How, may I ask, do you manage
to breathe in that monstrosity?"

"Do
stop." Helena slapped her friend's hand away. "We cannot all possess
naturally svelte figures like you."

Marianne
patted her skirts complacently. "Well, that is true. But why must you hide
your own particular gifts?"

"I
am hiding nothing." Helena spoke through clenched teeth. "I am merely
attempting to minimize my flaws."

"In
doing so, you have minimized any approximate shape to your body. Your dress has
enough material to cover the both of us. And," her friend added ruthlessly,
"enough lace and flounces to decorate the nation of France."

Humiliation
swelled hot and prickly in Helena's chest. Marianne was probably right. After
all, Marianne always looked as if she had stepped off the pages of
La Belle
Assemblée
.

"It
just so happens I have an appointment tomorrow afternoon with Madame Rousseau.
You shall accompany me."

"Madame Rousseau would see me and on such short
notice?" Helena asked doubtfully. "It is said she clothes only the
cr
è
me de la
cr
è
me
of
Society."

Grinning, Marianne helped herself to a tart. "She
will take one look at you and declare you her greatest challenge."

Nicholas
woke to the sounds of muffled shouting, followed by a thunderous crash that
shook the floor and reverberated through his body. Lively curses issued from
the warehouse floor below stairs. Minutes later, a sweet, pungent smell drifted
into the room. Recalling that a new shipment of rum had arrived yesterday from
the West Indies, Nicholas groaned. He rolled over on the lumpy couch and pulled
the rough woolen blanket more securely around him. At the moment, he did not
want to face another day at the office.

What
he wanted to do was to fall back asleep and into the arms of the dream vixen
who had been torturing him with impudent kisses. Kisses that had brought him to
a throbbing morning cock-stand. With a sigh and eyes still closed, Nicholas
unbuttoned his smalls. He concentrated on the dream girl's mouth, cherry ripe
beneath her feathered mask. The full, luscious mouth that was planting soft
kisses along his jaw and down his neck. His breath came faster as she ran her
hands down the rigid muscles of his chest, and her tongue followed, licking
fire against his nipples.

She
moved like a water nymph, her chestnut hair a cool silken wave over his skin.
She sank naturally between his legs, as if she belonged there. Her small hands played
with his stones. The gentle circular strokes made his blood roar. Then she set
her mouth on him. Nicholas bit back a growl as she lapped at his balls like
waves to a shore. Each tide pulled him deeper and deeper into an ocean of
pleasure. Twining his hands in her hair, he guided her mouth upward and crammed
himself inside. Hot, fast thrusts that blurred her words of love and lust. As
he neared his climax, he reached for her mask and tore it off.

Golden
hazel eyes met his.

"I
love you," Helena whispered.

He
came in violent surges.

Panting,
Nicholas lay flat on his back on the sofa. Gradually, he became aware of the
world again—the loud brass of cockney voices, the lulling splash of the tides,
the marine-and-refuse perfume of the river. The physical release did nothing
for his guilt, so he breathed in deeply, taking comfort in the elixir of damp
salt air, tar, and coal smoke from the metal works downstream. The tang of the Thames might make others cover up their noses, but to him the complex odors spoke of new
beginnings, of possibilities open to any man with the determination and drive
to improve his station in life.

Nicholas
rose, and, looking down, winced at the wet stain. He went to the cupboard to
withdraw clean garments. As he changed, he looked out the large window behind
his desk. At this time of morning, the Thames resembled a sunburned forest,
with red ochre sails fluttering from hundreds of masts. Lighters jostled
irritably against one another, vying for space within the walls of the West
India Dock. Vessels fortunate enough to be moored wharf-side were being
unloaded by teams of porters who moved as tirelessly as ants between dock and
warehouse.

Nicholas
felt as always the pull of the river's energy. For sixteen years, he'd
routinely arrived at the warehouse on the Isle of Dogs before the break of dawn
and left in similar darkness. In his early years with the company, he'd heard
the snickered comments of the other clerks.
Toad-eater
, they'd called
him, disparaging his work ethic as a ploy to get in the good graces of the
owner, Jeremiah Fines.

Nicholas
had ignored the jibes and worked harder. It was true that he sought to re-pay
Jeremiah for giving him the opportunity to work at the company. But soon the
need to please his mentor was eclipsed by something else, a deeper desire. Working
became his lifeblood, success his sustaining breath. The snickers faded into
the distance as he rose through the company ranks.

But
lately work had lost some of its powerful appeal. The money he made, the
successes he accumulated—nothing seemed to satisfy him. As he stood looking out
over the dockside world that had defined him, Nicholas did something he rarely permitted
himself to do. He stopped and reflected.  As he did so, a sense of emptiness began
to gnaw at his gut. The feeling grew and intensified. Fragments of the past
began creeping in, insidious images that pounded against his temples and dampened
his palms.

Looking
down, he saw the hands of a man who'd clawed his way up from the gutter. His
knuckles bore the scars of countless brawls, his fingers and palms the calluses
of crude labor. And that was only the surface. Beneath the thickened skin lay
deeper disfigurement: the secret cuts and burn marks sustained by a boy who'd
cleaned chimneys to survive. Who'd welcomed the days in soot-choked stacks
because they were a bloody sight better than the nights spent cowering in fear.

Fear of
the squealing hinges that heralded the opening of the master's door. Fear of
the black-bearded man who emerged and blocked out all the light. Fear that Ben
Grimes' small, dark eyes might land on him that night. And the trembling,
paralyzing terror of that crooking finger, the whizzing of the crop, that
squalid room with flea-eaten sheets, he would not go there again, he could
not
—

With
a harsh breath, Nicholas slammed the door on the swirling darkness. His hands gripped
the edge of the desk as his heart continued to thump like a trapped rabbit.
It's
over. Grimes is dead.
He repeated the words until he could breathe again.
Until he could remember who he was and what he was now. No longer a helpless
boy, but a man. A tide of anguished rage broke over him. Aye, he was a man—but
what kind of a man?

One who
harbored a despicable secret. One whose blood was tainted, whose bestial nature
dictated his destiny. His eyes shut. Bloody hell, last night he'd fornicated
with a whore—and compounded his sin by pretending she was his wife. He pictured
the real Helena with her shy smile and innocent eyes, and his stomach churned
with self-disgust.