Winning Lord West (14 page)

She began to pace, seeking some relief in
movement. “Where is that doctor?”

Fen watched her with a troubled expression.
“West has survived every bout of fever so far, Helena. He’s bad for
a few days, then he’s well again. You saw it yourself this
week.”

That was before she’d found ecstasy in his
arms—and the heavenly peace of lying beside him after passion was
sated. That was before the idea of a world without him sent her
into an agony of fear. “This time is different.”

Fen didn’t ask why it was different, but
then, Fen, unlike Caro, was renowned for her tact. Instead, she
crossed the room and hugged Helena. “Don’t torment yourself.”

Briefly she rested in Fen’s embrace. Then she
broke free to pace again. “I can’t help it.”

Fenella sank into her usual chair. “He’ll be
up and about, and ready to dance at the wedding.”

“You can’t be sure.” Wringing her hands,
Helena quartered the floor. She paused when a door banged in the
wind. “What’s that?”

“I assume it’s the doctor arriving.” Fen
reached for her embroidery. She wore a pink silk wrap, and she’d
thought to put slippers on her feet. With her golden hair flowing
around her shoulders and her lovely face soft with lack of sleep,
she looked like a young girl.

Around them, Helena heard the unmistakable
sounds of the house coming alive. “I must see him.”

Fen placed a careful stitch. “And say
what?”

Fen was right. What could she say? If she’d
accepted West’s proposal, she’d have a wife’s rights.

But she was nobody.

She returned to the couch and stared into the
distance, her mind awash with excruciating pictures of West dying
without her saying goodbye. Or thank you.

John returned and set out the tea service.
Helena appreciated the warm drink, although her stomach revolted at
the sandwiches and pastries. Mrs. Ballard, the cook, had done a
marvelous job at this unfriendly hour.

After he left, silence fell. Helena supposed
she should go upstairs and dress. If she meant to waylay the doctor
and wheedle a visit to the sickroom, she’d rather not be wearing
her nightdress.

Caro came in, looking tired. “Is that
tea?”

Helena rose to pour. “What news?”

“He’s in and out of consciousness. The doctor
says the fever is taking its course.”

The teapot rattled against the cup as
Helena’s hand shook. “What the devil does that mean?”

Caro accepted the tea with a weary smile.
“That the fever is taking its course, I expect. Oh, lovely. Ham
sandwiches. Ridiculous to be hungry in the middle of the night, but
I am.”

“To Hades with your hunger,” Helena exploded.
“West could be dying up there.”

Caro eyed her with disapproval. “He’s come
through before.”

Fenella sipped her tea. “Hel, for heaven’s
sake, take a deep breath and sit down. It won’t do anyone a morsel
of good if you go to pieces.”

Helena slumped onto the sofa and brushed the
heavy fall of hair back from her face. “I’m making rather a fool of
myself, aren’t I?”

“We all go a little mad when we’re in love.”
Fen’s voice was gentle. “It’s nice to see you’re not immune.”

“In love?” she asked, shocked. Then so many
things that in her panic had gone unnoticed crashed down on her
like a huge wave. Her tone hardened. “You know. You both know.”

“That you and West are head over heels? Of
course we do,” Fen said comfortably.

Of course they did.

When she’d battered at their bedroom door,
neither Caro nor Silas had evinced a shred of surprise that Helena
was the one who knew West was ill. Nor for that matter, had Fen or
Anthony.

And Silas had headed toward her room without
asking where West was.

She frowned. “How did you know we’d reached
an…understanding?”

Which was a mealy-mouthed way to describe
their transcendent hours together. She didn’t pursue the head over
heels remark. Her feelings were too confused right now for her to
mount a suitable defense.

Caro rolled her eyes. “Where do I start? I
know we’re both distracted, but we’re not blind. You and West were
so busy, trying not to look at each other. I saw the marks on your
neck the other morning, despite that stylish high collar. And the
two of you came in yesterday afternoon looking distinctly
heavy-eyed, you naughty pair. Not to mention that for the last few
days, your acid wit has verged on sweet. Not a sarcastic remark to
be heard.”

Helena shifted uncomfortably. “How
revolting.”

“I think it’s lovely,” Fenella said.

“You would,” Caro said, casting her an
unimpressed glance.

Helena spread her hands. “Why didn’t you say
something? Fen’s the soul of delicacy, but discretion isn’t your
way.”

Caro was unoffended. “Because if we did,
you’d dig in your heels, and do your best to ruin everything out of
sheer contrariness.”

Helena scowled at her closest friends. “You
make me sound blindly obstinate.”

“When you’re always the soul of reason,” Caro
said, taking a fair stab at sarcasm herself.

“So now your secret’s out, what do you plan
to do?” Fen asked. “Has he proposed?”

“You’ve got marriage on the brain. West and I
are taking a few days to scratch a mutual itch, then we go back to
being mostly polite strangers.”

“If you say so,” Fen said.

“Really,” Helena said.

“That seems sensible,” Caro said.

“I mean it.”

Fenella returned to her embroidery. “Helena,
nobody’s arguing with you.”

Helena made a disgruntled sound and leaned
back in her chair. “I have this awful feeling you’re both trying to
manage me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Hel. You’re more than
capable of steering your own life,” Caro said cheerfully. “You
don’t need us.”

“That’s right.” She winced as she heard the
unnecessary emphasis she gave the words.

So did Caro. Her lips curved into a
smirk.

Helena’s scowl deepened. “Don’t you dare
laugh at me, Caroline Beaumont.”

“I wouldn’t be so bold.” Her smirk became a
giggle.

“Caro,” Helena said in a warning tone.

Caro returned her cup to its saucer. “It’s
just…” She took a breath to steady her voice. It didn’t make a
noticeable difference. “I know West is frightfully ill, and it’s
been a dreadful night, and you’re worried sick about him, but…”
Another gurgle of laughter escaped. “But I can’t help seeing Lord
West staggering out of the shadows, wearing only a sheet. It was
like…like Caesar’s ghost had come to haunt the house.”

She went off into whoops, and Fen started to
laugh, too. Helena glowered at them. How could they laugh when West
was so sick?

Then she recalled that odd moment, horrendous
at the time, now strangely comic. She remembered West’s clever, but
unlikely claim that he was sleepwalking. And she burst into
laughter herself.

***

The morning of Caro and Silas’s wedding
dawned bright with sunshine, as if even nature blessed this union.
As West dressed, he glanced out the window at the pristine beauty
of fields and hills. It had snowed, and pure sparkling white
changed the Nash estate from a familiar landscape into the setting
for a fairy tale.

As soon as he regained his senses, he’d sent
for his valet from London. The man fussed around him now, smoothing
out any wrinkles bold enough to mar the perfection of his dark blue
coat and cream silk waistcoat.

This bout of fever had been bad, and chafing
at the inactivity, he’d spent most of the last four days in bed.
He’d managed to make it downstairs to dinner the last two nights,
but the effort had exhausted him.

Enforced rest had left him with far too much
time to think. And the thoughts hadn’t been congenial. At times,
he’d wished he was still out of his head.

West had always enjoyed rude good health.
When he’d first contracted this damned malady, he’d assumed it
would prove a brief inconvenience, then become an unpleasant
memory.

That, it turned out, had been optimistic
ignorance. For six months now, he’d suffered regular bouts of
appalling physical misery. After this latest attack, he couldn’t
avoid the bleak fact that his illness had become a permanent part
of his life.

And he loathed it.

“Am I discommoding your lordship?” Cooper
asked nervously, straightening West’s snowy white cuffs.

Distracted from gloomy musings, West glanced
at the valet. “No. Why?”

“You looked rather fierce, sir.”

West’s thoughts had trended toward grimness
since he’d collapsed into Anthony Townsend’s arms, wearing nothing
but a sheet. “No. I’m fine.”

Except he wasn’t.

As he stood before the mirror, his legs
wobbled, and he felt alarmingly lightheaded. But damn it, he’d get
through this wedding ceremony, or he might as well put a bullet
through his brain.

***

The ancient village church was packed, and a
crowd formed outside, despite the snow. Lining the pews were local
friends, privileged villagers, and various Nashes who had arrived
over the last few days. Silas was well loved, and everyone was
delighted that he and his bride were so devoted.

West and Silas had driven up in an open
carriage. Silas claimed he wanted to arrive in style, but West knew
it was to save him from making the short walk. He’d wanted to snarl
at his friend that he wasn’t a bloody invalid. Until he admitted
the unpalatable truth that even such an easy stroll was beyond
him.

Now they stood at the altar while the last of
the congregation found their places. Fen and Anthony came in. The
first time he’d seen them together, they’d seemed an incongruous
couple. Delicate Fenella and her rough, gruff shipping magnate.

Now West was convinced she couldn’t have
found anyone better. She looked lovely in a pink velvet gown
trimmed with swansdown. She’d always been pretty, but love
transformed her to radiant beauty.

Accompanying them were two half-grown boys.
The fair one he recognized as Fenella’s son Brandon, while the dark
one had such a look of his uncle that he must be Carey Townsend,
Anthony’s ward.

Reluctantly his gaze moved past Fen and
Anthony to where Helena paused in the doorway to speak to an
elderly cousin. Every muscle tightened in forbidden longing.

Helena. His joy. His torment. His obsession.
The impossible fate.

Since his illness, he’d seen little of her.
Deliberately.

She’d dared propriety to visit his sickroom,
but he’d ensured they weren’t alone. He’d sensed her increasing
frustration, but he didn’t yet trust himself to do the right thing.
At least when she had him cornered in a bedroom.

As soon as he could hold a pen, he’d asked
the reliably discreet Cooper to deliver a note. The message had
promised a discussion after the wedding. Once the house emptied of
all those hawk-eyed relatives, and West had the strength to say
what he must. For her sake.

The note had prompted an immediate visit. He
should have known it would. But he’d pretended to be asleep, and
she’d retreated in defeat. She’d tried again, of course. His Helena
wasn’t one to accept the first setback. But the guests filling the
house hampered her movements, and the doctor had insisted on
constant nursing for West while he recovered.

These stratagems only put off the evil hour.
He’d have to talk to her soon. It was unfair to leave her
dangling.

Although a clever creature like Helena must
already know something had changed.

West was determined to meet her in a public
place, with no chance of laying his hands on her. Because if he
did, every scruple would fly out the window. When Helena was within
reach, he didn’t trust his ability to master his baser urges.

Today or tomorrow, he’d set her free. Despite
all her claims to emotional detachment, he knew she wouldn’t thank
him now. However, he was sure she’d thank him in time.

Poor comfort, but all he could muster at this
moment.

With her usual eye-catching saunter, Helena
moved into the body of the church. In all this crowd, he saw only
her. And damn it, if she didn’t instantly look over the sea of
heads toward him. Despite everything, heat blasted him.

Heat. Sorrow. And something else that he
forbade a name.

Before he made an ass of himself, he broke
the connection and turned to stare at the flower-bedecked altar.
Silas’s greenhouses had come up trumps again.

But the image of Helena, tall, elegant and
somehow tragically alone, despite her clamorous family about her,
remained burned on his eyes. She wore crimson, and her shining hair
was bundled up beneath an absurd confection of feathers and ribbons
and pearls.

“What the devil is the matter with you?”
Silas growled out of the side of his mouth. “I will not have my
groomsman looking like a bilious seagull.”

He raised his eyebrows. “A bilious
seagull?”

“Yes. The beaky nose makes the resemblance
unmistakable.” Silas released a hiss of exasperation. “Damn it,
it’s my wedding. Try and act like it’s a jolly occasion. Your
problems with my dashed troublesome sister will keep.”

Silas had a point. “Sorry, old man.”

But Silas had fallen silent, transfixed by
what he saw at the church door. The organist started to play as
West turned. Silas’s pretty tawny-haired sister Amy stepped
forward, wearing a fashionable light blue gown. Caro followed a few
paces behind.

West caught his breath. Caro had always been
lovely, but today she dazzled. She wore a gown of rich gold silk,
and her deep brown hair was braided in a crown around her head. She
carried a bouquet of spring flowers. Lily of the valley, snowdrops
and violets, twined about with ivy to symbolize fidelity. Befitting
a woman of her originality, no man walked by her side. She gave
herself to Silas with an independent will and a loving heart.