Winning Lord West (15 page)

She looked proud and happy, and transfigured
by love. As if the angels agreed, the sun chose that moment to
stream through the stained glass window and bathe her in brilliant
light.

“You’re a lucky man, old son,” he said to
Silas.

“More than I deserve.” Silas smiled at his
bride. She smiled back, and misery stabbed West. He didn’t resent
his friend’s good fortune, but he knew that he’d never look across
a crowded church to see the woman he wanted walking toward him.

With a rustle, the congregation rose. The
vicar stepped forward with the prayer book in his hands. West
packed away his selfish concerns to watch his best friend pledge
himself to the woman he loved.

In the commotion after the ceremony, Helena
lost track of West. Which was something of a miracle, given she’d
been burningly conscious of him from the moment she entered the
church. Her heart had slammed to a stop at the sight of him waiting
at the altar, tall and handsome in his blue coat.

Tall and handsome, and drawn and tired. Today
he appeared ten years older than the man she’d seduced in the
summerhouse.

Despite his best attempts to avoid looking at
her—honestly, he must know the game was up when it came to hiding
their liaison—a thread of fire had connected them. But as Silas and
Caro left for Woodley Park in a barouche garlanded with ribbons and
hothouse flowers, she glanced around the rice-strewn churchyard and
realized that West had disappeared.

Fear stirred. He’d been so ill. Had he
collapsed somewhere, and in all the hullabaloo, nobody noticed?

Berating herself, she retreated from the
thinning crowd—Silas had laid on a celebration for the villagers at
the tavern, while his friends and family walked back to the house
for the wedding breakfast.

One last check of the area. No West.

She started her hunt in the church, but only
saw the vicar’s wife collecting hymn books. Helena shivered and
wrapped her arms around herself. Without the press of warm bodies,
the old stone building was cold.

Where on earth was West? Had he slipped away
to the house ahead of everyone else? After the ceremony, carriages
had driven the old and infirm up to the breakfast. But she couldn’t
see West, no matter how ill, admitting that he fell into that
category.

She emerged into the day, blinking at the
glare of sun on snow. The villagers had cleared the road, and the
area in front of the church, but white blanketed everything
else.

What a perfect winter day for a perfect
winter wedding. Caro and Silas’s transparent happiness had brought
a tear to even unsentimental Helena Wade’s eye. Her brother and his
bride deserved every ounce of their joy.

Helena made her way around the church,
thankful anew for the villagers’ hard work. Her fur-lined
half-boots were a stylish take on seasonal footwear, but they
weren’t up to wading through snow. She shaded her eyes and looked
over the graves—although why West would choose to wander among
tombstones today of all days, she couldn’t imagine.

Still no sign of him. He must have left
without her noticing. Which seemed dashed odd.

Nettled and still worried, she turned to
retrace her steps, and caught sight of a pair of long—and
familiar—legs. They extended across the entrance to the stone porch
outside the vestry.

Propelled by a mixture of relief and concern,
she hurried forward. “West? Aren’t you well?”

During the ceremony, he’d looked pale and
serious. She suspected iron will alone had kept him standing.

“Helena.” He didn’t look up as she appeared
in the doorway. “My day is complete.”

She flinched as foreboding settled heavy in
her stomach. The words might be flattering. His tone was not. He
sounded like the drawling, sardonic rake she’d so disliked in
London.

He’d removed his hat and set it on the bench
beside him. She bit back the urge to insist he put it on against
the cold. The last thing he’d want was her fussing about his
health.

“Are you all right?” Needing the support, she
set a shaky hand on the stone archway. His closed expression
deterred her from touching him.

His illness might explain this cool
reception, she supposed. Although she couldn’t help feeling
something more personal lay behind his reserve.

He concentrated on the flagstoned floor. “Of
course I am.”

She set a hand on her hip. “Then why are you
brooding in here?”

“Just catching my breath. You go ahead. I’ll
be there soon.”

She struggled to hide how his dismissal
stung. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

At last, he lifted his eyes. The green was
flat as she’d never seen it. “Yes, I have.”

She was surprised at the ready admission.
Surprised, puzzled—and hurt. “Why?”

Impatience lengthened the lips that had
kissed her into a frenzy. “Because there’s something I need to say.
And I don’t want to spoil Silas’s wedding for you.”

She stiffened her spine and raised her chin.
“Well, that’s damned considerate of you.”

He shook his glossy head. As if anchoring
himself in place, he hooked his gloved hands over the edge of the
oak bench. “We need privacy, and no likelihood of
interruption.”

Worse and worse. Sick apprehension knotted
her stomach. The last time he’d wanted privacy and no
interruptions, he’d sent her to paradise and back. The contrast
with today was chilling.

She clutched trembling hands together at her
waist, before deliberately separating them and lowering them to her
sides. His distant attitude scraped tattered holes in her heart,
but she was a fighter, not a helpless victim. “Don’t leave me
hanging.”

A muscle flickered in his lean cheek. “The
vicar’s still inside the church, and we’re expected at the house.
I’m due to make a speech, if you recall.”

She set her jaw and marched into the small
space, despite West’s silent warning to keep out. “The vicar and
his wife left a few minutes ago. You don’t have to do your speech
until the end of the breakfast. And you’re not weaseling out of
telling me what’s going on, even if we sit here until
Christmas.”

He sighed again. “People will talk.”

“Let them.” With legs that felt like string,
she sank onto the narrow bench opposite West. It was colder in his
dank hideout than it was outside in the sun. “What’s wrong?”

He smiled with grudging fondness—and a regret
that sliced at her like a razor. “Always ready to rush in where
angels fear to tread.”

She didn’t smile back—after all, he hadn’t
given her much of a smile in the first place. “Are you angry
because our friends now know we’re…involved?”

“No. Although that doesn’t mean I want the
whole bloody county knowing our business.”

She leaned back on the clammy medieval stone.
She didn’t understand what was happening. Which was strange when
she and West had shared such an uncanny connection.

But whatever troubled him, he needed to know
that the game had changed.

“West, I will marry you.”

Whatever reaction she expected, it wasn’t the
one she got. For a blistering instant, he stared at her in absolute
horror. Then he tipped his head against the wall and laughed.

His sour amusement bounced around the stone
walls like mistuned bells. Devastated, angry, bewildered, Helena
surged to her feet and glared at him. Her hands formed fists at her
sides, although she knew she couldn’t thump a man only hours out of
his sickbed.

“What the devil is wrong with you?”

He stopped laughing and leveled cold eyes
upon her. Shocked, distraught, she stumbled back onto the
bench.

His lips twisted. “Do any two people in
history have worse timing than you and me?”

That didn’t sound good. That didn’t sound
good at all.

Dread colder than the snow outside oozed down
her spine. “What do you mean?” she asked in a reedy voice.

The humor, however bitter, drained from his
face. He looked weary and desolate.

She wasn’t a stupid woman, although right
now, she feared she’d been fatally stupid about West. Before he
spoke, she knew what he was going to say. Although she still
couldn’t fathom how everything could shift in mere days.

“I mean that I’ve changed my mind.” His deep
voice was toneless. He didn’t sound at all like the man who had
slept by her side and caressed her until she cried out in ecstasy.
“I won’t marry you, Helena.”

Although his manner already hinted at that
answer, she recoiled. Having her heart crushed beneath his boot
heel hurt like the very devil. Tears pricked her eyes, but she
blinked them back. She wouldn’t cry. It would be too
humiliating.

She couldn’t help but remember the afternoon
in the summerhouse. She’d never trusted anyone so deeply. She’d
never felt so happy.

Her nails bit into her palms as she struggled
for control. Crewe had taught her all about disappointment and
loneliness and shame. This should be more of the same.

Except it wasn’t.

Because she’d soon realized that her
so-called love for Crewe was only adolescent romanticism, allied
with his dedicated pursuit of her—and her dowry. Whereas her bond
with West was real.

Or at least she’d believed it was.

Mustering her ragged courage, she squared her
shoulders. “Is that all you’ve got to say?”

“Yes.” That muscle in his cheek continued its
erratic dance. He looked uncomfortable and miserable and
strained.

Which also struck her as strange. This
couldn’t be the first time a libertine like West had dismissed an
incompatible lover. He should be better at it.

Her brain scurried for explanations. Only one
reason occurred to her, and it made her feel like vomiting. “Is
it…”

Helena broke off. It seemed blasphemous to
say the words outside a church, but she had to know. When she’d
taken him into her mouth, she’d felt so free and brave. But men
were bizarre creatures. Perhaps he saw her actions in a different
light.

She steeled herself to ask the question. “Did
I give you a disgust of me, when I—”

His features tightened in dismay, and he
reached out convulsively. But he stopped before making contact and
curled his hands over the bench again. “No. Good God, no. That was
one of the most glorious experiences of my life.”

At least he no longer sounded like a bored
roué rejecting an unpromising courtesan. She stared into his face,
and at last her sharp mind kicked into its usual efficient action.
Whatever lay behind this lunatic decision, it wasn’t because he’d
tired of her.

Just now he’d betrayed himself. She’d
glimpsed hunger and longing, and something that looked very much
like self-hatred.

Now his expression was shuttered, and he
stared over her right shoulder as if the old stonework was the most
fascinating thing he’d ever seen.

She sucked in a breath of freezing air and
forced herself to think, instead of feel. Feeling wouldn’t help her
here.

Four days ago, everything between them had
been perfect. So whatever the problem, it had arisen since he’d
collapsed with fever.

Helena strove for calmness. “If you don’t
want to marry me, we’ll do as you suggested, and go on as
lovers.”

That caught his attention. He stared at her
as if she was mad. “That’s not possible.”

West seemed determined to make an operatic
drama out of their affair. She was equally determined to drag him
back to reality. And the reality was that they belonged together,
even if she’d taken far too long to admit that.

“Why not?” She shrugged with manufactured
insouciance. “Although we may run into trouble when you choose a
bride. After all, you need an heir.”

Deep lines ran between his nose and mouth. “I
doubt I’ll ever marry.”

She frowned as explanations for his behavior,
none related to wanting to move on from her, hurtled through her
mind. She wasn’t experienced with dalliance, but nor was she a
fool. She couldn’t help remembering a man barely able to crawl who
had struggled out of his sickbed to protect her good name.

“That seems a pity.” Holding West’s gaze, she
rose and, daring the bristling hostility, sat beside him. “What
about the title?”

He slid away, but she hadn’t left him much
room to maneuver. “I have cousins aplenty.”

“That’s a mercy, then,” she said with assumed
cheerfulness. She inched along the seat until her hip bumped
his.

He eyed her warily, winged brows lowered in
displeasure. “Must you sit so close?”

“It’s cold.” She caught his gloved hand in
hers.

“So why not head up to the house?” He
vibrated with tension, but didn’t break free. “There’s nothing for
you here.”

How wrong could a man be? “I’m waiting for
you to tell me why you wanted me one day, and you can’t abide me
the next. It doesn’t seem like you.”

Despite lack of encouragement, her senses
expanded to his nearness. The lemon soap he used. Beneath that, the
musky scent of his skin. The warmth of his body. She’d felt
glacially cold when he’d tried to send her away, but now frail hope
warmed her blood.

Dear God, don’t let her be wrong.

“That’s rakes for you,” he said.

If he meant to sound like the heartless
debauchee she’d once believed him to be, he failed. She raised his
hand and rubbed her cheek against his knuckles. “Maybe, but I know
now I misjudged you all these years. You’re a man of steady
affections, unshakable loyalty, and the highest honor.”

This time he did wrench away, despite her
best efforts to cling to him. He stumbled to his feet and stared at
her angrily. “What’s this, Hel?”

As she studied him, tentative hope firmed,
and settled hard and sure inside her. “I’m saying I know your
game.”

He scowled. “This is no game. Our affair is
over. I’m sending you away.”