A Wild Pursuit

  Nothing.

  The very thought steadied her. Stephen Fairfax-Lacy would no sooner appear in his bride’s doorway the worse for liquor than he would appear in Parliament dressed in a nightshirt. Which made her wonder whether he would come to her room in a nightshirt. If she simply pretended that he was no more unexpected than Esme paying her a visit…

  There was a knock on the door, and Helene almost screamed. Instead she tottered over to the door, opened it, and said rather hoarsely, “Do come in.” He was fully dressed, which she found daunting. She was wearing nothing more than a cotton night rail. Helene straightened her backbone. She had survived marriage with Rees; she could survive anything.

  He seemed to see nothing amiss, though. With a little flourish, he held up a flagon and two small glasses.

  “How thoughtful of you, Mr. Fairfax-Lacy,” she said.

  He put the glasses on the table and walked over to her. “I think you might call me Stephen?”

  His voice had that rich, dark chocolate sound that he must use to mesmerize the House of Commons.

  “And may I call you Helene?”

  Helene on his lips sounded French and almost exotic. She nodded and took a seat by the fireplace. He sat down next to her and poured a little glass of golden liquor. Helene tried to picture what would happen next. Would he simply disrobe? Should she turn to the wall and allow him some privacy? How was she to take off her night rail? Luckily Mr. Fairfax-Lacy—Stephen—seemed perfectly content to sit in silence.

  “I’ve got no practice with this sort of thing,” she finally said, taking a gulp of the liquor. It burned and glowed to the pit of her stomach.

  He reached out and took her hand in a comforting sort of way. “There’s nothing very arduous to it, Helene. You and your husband have not lived together for years, have you not?”

  “Almost nine years,” Helene said, feeling that inextricable pang again. It was just that she hated to admit to such a failure.

  “You cannot be expected to go to your grave without companionship,” he said. His thumb was running gently over the back of her hand, and it felt remarkably soothing. “As it happens, I have never met a woman whom I wished to marry. So I am also free to take my pleasure where I may, and I would very much like to take it with you.”

  Helene could feel a little smile trembling on her lips. “I’m just worried about…about…” But how did one ask bluntly when he was going to leave? If he spent the night with her and her maid found out, she would die of shame.

  “I am perfectly able to prevent conception,” he said. He moved his hand, and her fingers slipped between his.

  Helene’s heart skipped a beat. She wanted a child—desperately, in fact. But not this way. “Thank you, that would be very kind,” she said, feeling the ridiculousness of it. Oh for goodness’ sake, perhaps they should just get it over with, and then she could begin the process of curdling Rees’s liver. “Would you like to go to bed now?” she asked.

  He stood looking at her for a moment and nodded. “It would be a pleasure, my dear.”

  Helene crawled into her bed and pulled the covers up. “I shall close my eyes so as to give you some privacy,” she said. Surely he would be grateful for that small kindness. After all, there was no reason why they had to behave like wild animals simply because they were embarking on an affair.

  A moment later she felt the bed tilt slightly as he got under the covers. She opened her eyes and hastily shut them again. He was leaning over her, and he hadn’t any shirt on. “You forgot to snuff the candles,” she said in a stifled voice.

  “I shall do so immediately,” he replied.

  Stephen was so different from Rees. His voice was always calm and helpful, ever the gentleman. Would Rees have snuffed the candles on her request? Never. And Rees’s chest was all covered with black hair, whereas Stephen’s was smooth. Almost—almost feminine, except that was such a disloyal thought that she choked it back.

  He returned to bed, and she made herself turn toward him. Thank goodness, the room had fallen into a kind of twilight, lit only by the fireplace off to the side. She took a deep breath. Whatever happened, she was ready.

  Except that nothing happened for a few moments.

  If the truth be known, Stephen was rather perplexed. Helene clearly wanted to have an affair. But she wasn’t exactly welcoming. That’s because she’s a true English lady, and not a trollop, he told himself, dismissing the image of Bea’s creamy breasts that popped up, willy-nilly, to his mind. He had doubts about those breasts anyway. They’d seemed slightly skewed to the left after she’d wriggled herself out of her spencer in the goat pasture.

  With a start he realized that he was in quite a different bed and should be thinking very different thoughts. He bent over and kissed Helene. Her lips were cool and not unwelcoming. He slipped his hands around her shoulders. Her husband must have been something of a boor; the poor woman was trembling, and not with passion.

  But Stephen was nothing if not patient. He kissed her slowly and delicately, each touch promising that he would be a gentleman, that he would be slow, that she could take her pleasure as she would. And slowly, slowly, Helene stopped trembling. She didn’t exactly participate, though. He kept having to push away fugitive thoughts about the way Bea had made little sounds in her throat when he kissed her in the goat pasture.

  Twenty minutes later, he judged that they had reached a point at which she wouldn’t mind being touched. He ran a hand down her shoulder and edged toward her breasts. Helene gasped and went rigid again.

  “May I touch your breast?” he whispered. A small voice in the back of his head was saying quite obstinately that this was all extraordinarily unexciting. The last woman he bedded who’d shown as little initiative as Lady Godwin had been his very first. And she was all of fifteen, as was he. But Lady Godwin—Helene—was clearly trying.

  “Of course you may,” she whispered.

  It was the whisper that did it. The very small trickle of desire that had crept into his veins died on the spot. She was being polite, and she was being brave. Neither emotion did much for Stephen’s desire. The desire he had wilted, in all senses of the word. He slid his hand very carefully around her back and pulled her close. She felt rather like a fragile bird, nestled in his arms. Then he rested his chin on her hair and said, “I thought I knew why I was here, but now I’m not sure that I do.”

  There was silence. Then: “Because we are beginning an affair?”

  He couldn’t even tell where all that desperation was coming from. From the idea of bedding him? In that case, why on earth was she putting herself through such an ordeal?

  He chose his words very carefully. “Generally, when a couple embarks on such a…a relationship, it is because they feel a mutual attraction. I certainly think you are a beautiful woman—”

  Helene chimed in with the exquisite manners that accompanied everything she said or did. “You are extremely handsome as well.”

  “But do you really wish to sleep with me?” He ran a coaxing hand down her arm.

  When she finally spoke, it sounded as if she were near tears. “Of course!”

  “I’ve never been so attractive that a woman felt she must bed me,” Stephen said teasingly, trying to lighten the atmosphere. It didn’t work. He could feel his chest growing damp from her tears. Damn it, the whole day was a fiasco, from beginning to end.

  “I should never have done it,” Helene said shakily, wiping tears away as fast as she could. “I simply thought…” Her voice trailed off.

  Stephen was struck by a sudden thought. “Did you think to use me to prove adultery?” That would destroy his career in two seconds flat—a notion that didn’t seem to bother him as much as it should.

  “No,” Helene sobbed. “I would never have used you in such a way. I thought we might—we might enjoy—and then I could tell my husband, and—” Her voice trailed off.

  They lay there for a while, a lanky English gentleman and a sniffling countess. “I’m sure my f
ace is quite red,” Helene said finally.

  Her wry tone told Stephen that she had regained control. Her face was indeed all red, and her hair was starting to fall out of its braid into wisps around her face. For some reason, he found it very sweet that she hadn’t even known enough about an assignation with a man to loosen her hair.

  “Helene,” he said gently, “this isn’t going to work.”

  “Why not?”

  He blinked and realized her surprise was genuine. “Because you don’t truly wish to make love to me,” he pointed out.

  Helene could have screamed with vexation. How stupid could the man be! If she didn’t want to make love to him, would he be in her room? Would she have humiliated herself by appearing in dishabille before a man? Would she have allowed an unclothed man anywhere in her vicinity? “I do wish to make love to you,” she managed.

  He reached out and rubbed away a tear. “I don’t think you do,” he said, and there was a sweet look on his face.

  A sweet, condescending look.

  A whole flood of naughty words—the words she had been taught not to use, and indeed, had never even used in thought—came to Helene’s mind. “That’s rot,” she said. “You’re a man. Men always want to make love to women under any circumstances. Everyone knows that.”

  Stephen bit his lip, and Helene had a terrible feeling he was trying to keep back a smile. “They generally like to feel that the lady they are with is willing.”

  “I am willing!” Helene said, hearing her voice rising. “How much more willing can I be?”

  He looked embarrassed now. “Perhaps I’m not phrasing this correctly.”

  “I’m willing!” Helene said. She reached up and wrenched open the buttons that ran down the front of her night rail. “Go ahead. Do whatever you wish.”

  For a moment they both just stared at Helene’s breasts. They were small in comparison to Esme’s, but they had a nice jaunty air to them. At least that’s what Helene thought until she forced herself to look at Stephen. He looked absolutely mortified. But Helene was starting to enjoy herself. It seemed that she was capable of shocking people!

  She wriggled her night rail back over her shoulders so it pooled around her waist. “Now if I remember this whole procedure correctly from my marriage,” she said, feeling a slightly hysterical giggle coming, “you should be overcome by lust at this point. At least, my husband always was.”

  Stephen looked almost goggle-eyed. “He was? I mean, of course he was!”

  At this point one obviously laughed or cried. Helene chose to laugh. There was only so much humiliation a woman could take in one evening. She folded her hands over the top of the sheet and grinned at Stephen, quite as if they were at a tea party. “I suppose we could have an old-fashioned game of ‘you show me, I show you,’” she said. “Or we could simply give it up.”

  His eyes flew to hers, and the relief in them was palpable.

  “I gather that I need more practice before I can induce a man to actually stay in my bed,” Helene said. “I have to tell you, Stephen, that it is quite a personal triumph that I lured you into my bedchamber at all.”

  He reached over and pulled the sheet up above her breasts, tucking it about her, quite as if he were tucking a child in at night. Then he said, “Now you’ll have to explain to me, Helene, exactly why you lured me up here. After all, your husband is not a member of this house party.”

  Helene swallowed. But he deserved a real explanation. “I want a divorce. But when I asked my husband whether we could simply manufacture the evidence of my adultery, he laughed and said no one in the world would believe that I was adulterous. It has to be a woman’s adultery that dissolves a marriage, you know. It’s grotesquely unfair, but the letter of the law.”

  “I agree with you,” Stephen said, nodding. “Especially in cases such as yours, there ought to be other provisions. And I’m sure there will be changes to the law, in time. So…”

  “So I thought perhaps you and I…we…might…” Helene trailed off and then stiffened her backbone. For goodness’ sake! She was half naked in bed with the man; she might as well be frank. “I like you very much,” she said, looking into his eyes. “I thought perhaps we might have an affair, but I see now that I was mistaken. There’s a great deal I don’t understand about bedroom matters.”

  Stephen pulled her snug against his side again. “There’s time.”

  Helene couldn’t help grinning. Here she was in bed, half naked, and snuggled up to a naked man! If only Esme could see her now! Or Rees, for that matter! “It was a lowly impulse,” she said, feeling more generous now that the acute sense of humiliation was gone. “I just wanted revenge. Rees laughed when I asked him for the divorce. He says I’m frigid, and no man would ever want me.” Her tone had a bitterness that she couldn’t hide.

  Stephen’s arm tightened. “That’s cruel nonsense,” he said firmly. They sat for a moment, Helene tucked against Stephen’s shoulder while he thought about beating Rees Godwin into small pieces.

  “Are you absolutely certain that it wouldn’t work between us?” she asked.

  Stephen looked down at her. “Are you trembling with desire because my arm is around you? Are you secretly wishing that I would push down your sheet and take your breast—”

  “No! No, I’m not,” she said hastily, tucking the sheet more firmly under her arm. “All right. I accept that it won’t work between the two of us. It’s just such a shame, because you are quite perfect, and I’m not sure I have enough…enough bravery to go through this again.”

  “Ah, but if you truly desired the man in question, it wouldn’t take that much bravery.”

  Helene didn’t agree at all, but she bit her tongue.

  “It seems to me,” Stephen said slowly, “that you’re not quite certain that you wish for the affair itself, Helene. You are more interested in the appearance of an affair.”

  “True. At the heart I’m terribly prudish about marriage. I am married. Or perhaps,” she added, rather sadly, “I’m just prudish. That’s what Rees would say.”

  “If only your husband could see you now,” Stephen said, a mischievous glint in his eye.

  “Yes, wouldn’t that be wonderful? Because I do like you more every moment.”

  “The feeling is entirely mutual.” He gave her a little squeeze.

  “And there’s no one else at this party whom I could even consider inviting to my bedchamber,” she continued. “There’s no hope for it. I shall have to wait until I can return to London, and that won’t be for quite a while. I just wish that Rees knew where I am, right now!”

  “Invite him,” Stephen said, a wicked lilt in his voice.

  “Invite him? Invite him where?”

  “Here. Invite him to the house. We can make certain that he sees you in a compromising situation.”

  Helene gasped. “With you?”

  “Exactly.”

  She started to giggle. “It would never work.”

  “I don’t see why not. I’ve never met your husband. But I don’t like what you’ve told me about him. So why not fashion a comeuppance for the man?”

  “It would be wonderful,” Helene breathed, imagining it. All the revenge without having to go through with the unpleasant bits. Could there be anything better?

  “Unless there’s a chance he might grow violent,” Stephen said, thinking of various nasty stories he’d read over the years about irate husbands.

  “Rees wouldn’t bother. Truly. He lives with an opera singer, you know.”

  “I have heard that,” Stephen admitted.

  Helene clutched his arm. “Would you do it, Stephen, really? Would you do it for me? I would be so grateful; I can’t even tell you how much.”

  He looked down at her and laughed, and the joy of it came right from the heart. “Do you know what I do with my days? I try to win votes. I count votes. I bargain for votes. I beg for votes.”

  “That is very important work.”

  “It doesn’t feel important. T
his feels more important. So, summon the philandering husband!” Stephen said magisterially. “I always wanted to play a part in a romantic comedy. Sheridan, Congreve—here I come!”

  Helene broke into laughter and he joined her, two proper, half-clothed members of the English peerage.

  14

  Because the Library is

  Not Yet Emptied of Books

  Bea was creeping down the corridor toward the main stairs and library when the laugh rumbled through a door just at her shoulder. She would know that laughter anywhere. There wasn’t another man in London with such a lovely, deep voice as Mr. Puritan Fairfax-Lacy himself.

  It wasn’t that she didn’t want Helene and Mr. Fairfax-Lacy to find pleasure in each other. Of course she did. Why, she was instrumental in bringing them together, wasn’t she? She headed directly down the stairs, trying to erase all thoughts of what might have brought on the Puritan’s delighted peal of laughter. What had Helene done? Did she know as much as Bea did about pleasuring a man? It seemed unlikely.

  Probably that was the sort of laughter shared by people who don’t know everything, who discover new pleasures together. She couldn’t remember laughing while in bed with a man. She mentally revisited the three occasions in question. There had been a good deal of panting and general carrying on…but laughter? No.

  The thought made her a little sick, so she walked downstairs even faster. Once in the library she wandered around the shelves, holding her candle up high so she could read the titles. But it was no use.

  The idea of returning to her cold bed was miserable. The idea of pretending to read one of these foolish books was enough to make a woman deranged. Instead she plunked down on a chilly little settee, drew up her feet under her night rail (a delicious, frothy concoction of Belgian lace that was far more beautiful than warm) and tried to think where things had gone wrong in her life.

  The world would have said, without hesitation, that it was the moment when Lady Ditcher walked into a drawing room and was paralyzed with horror to see one of the Duke of Wintersall’s daughters prostrate in the arms of a gentleman. Not that her arms were a problem, Bea thought moodily to herself. It was the sight of long white thighs and violet silk stockings. That’s what had done the trick for Lady Ditcher.