An Exquisite Marriage (12 page)

But she must speak anyway, and she must do it now.

I'm sorry, Suza.

She lifted her eyes and met Marcus's clear, kind gaze.

***

Marcus stood and watched Helene Fitzgerald make up her mind. It was taking a great deal of effort to hold himself still, but he did not want to frighten her. She was frightened, he could see by the way her eyes had been dimmed and clouded by old memories. He did not for a minute believe she would break down, or faint again, or anything of the kind, but there was a struggle going on inside her, and he must let her resolve it.

He hadn't been ready for this. He'd expected her to say yes more or less immediately and give him permission to call on her father. But he must get used to the fact that nothing with Helene would be quite as expected. At least, he would if she did say yes. Marcus looked at her pale face and clouded eyes and realized that her reply was no longer a foregone conclusion.

His heart constricted in surprise, and not a little bit of fear.

“I believe,” said Helene softly, “that you are good man. You have been kind to me, friendly even. I do not wish . . . I would not like to see that friendship marred by too much familiarity. There will be complexities in marrying me, and they may transcend your ability to feel affection.”

Marcus found himself smiling. Only she could talk in such a circuitous fashion about emotion. Really, the girl was amazing.

He expected her to narrow her eyes in that look of distinct calculation he had become so familiar with, but instead Helene's face took on something most unexpected. She looked angry.

At me?
Marcus tried to think how he could have offended.
Or someone else?

“There is the question of the settlement,” Helene said, and her voice shook. “I have no dowry. At all.”

Is that all?
Marcus exhaled, relieved out of all proportion. “I am certain your father and I can work something out to everyone's satisfaction.”

That quirked her mouth up in something approaching her usual dry amusement. “If my father is involved, it will be to no one's satisfaction, not even his for long.”

“Ah,” said Marcus, and understanding cleared away some more of his worry. He'd made some very quiet inquiries before he wrote requesting this interview. The results had confirmed what he already knew. Lord Anandale was beyond hopeless when it came to money. He'd run through all his sources of good credit years ago. Marcus also knew why Helene had insisted they conduct this interview in Windford House. The Fitzgeralds' London house, which was their only house at this point, was nothing but a half-empty, half-staffed ruin.

“You've already told me your family is in distress,” he reminded Helene, as gently as he could.

“Yes. Well, that was something of an understatement.” She blushed for shame, and something in his gut twisted. He wanted to take her hands and tell her she didn't need to say any more. He would take care of everything, so she'd never have to be ashamed or afraid again. But he knew better. Helene needed to speak. She would want to be absolutely open with him. It was her way, and he admired it.

“I have two sisters and three brothers,” she told him. Her words were coming faster now, and it was obvious she wanted to get them out before she lost her nerve. “None of them has been provided for in any way. It was always understood it would be my husband who would take care of them.”

“If I marry you, then I am undertaking to dower the girls and educate the boys, you mean?”

“Yes. As well as support my parents in style.” She met his eyes. “That, sir, is what is involved in marriage to me. You may now take a moment to reconsider your offer. Should you wish to withdraw, I will not blame you in any way, and I hope we shall continue as friends.”

Marcus's first thought was to make some joking remark. He might congratulate her for being the most businesslike person he'd ever met, but then he took another look at her. She was taut as a bowstring. Her face was pure white, and her eyes were bright with far more than the sunlight. Helene was on the edge of tears. She was terrified. She was determined to be honest about her situation, and her situation was horrible. It was, in fact, infamous. But she would not behave dishonorably. She could have said yes at once. She could have concealed the truth of the situation and let it be revealed in slow drips after the betrothal had been formally announced so that he could not back out without risk of scandal and perhaps even a breach of promise suit. But that was not her way, not even now, when she was so afraid that she'd just ruined everything between them.

She wanted to marry him, Marcus realized with a jolt. She wanted very much to say yes. The fact sent a wave of satisfaction through him that was far stronger than he had expected. All he needed to do was prove to her that she could.

Oh, is that all?

“Helene.” Marcus stepped closer to her. He'd avoided going down on one knee and holding out the ring he carried in his pocket. It was not the sort of window dressing that Helene would want. She preferred plain speaking, and he must speak plainly now. Everything depended on him removing that terror and that anger from her.

“Helene, I know your situation is bad. Nothing you have said is a shock to me, and you must believe none of it is a bar to my feelings for you. When we are married, your family becomes mine. I have the finances to support them. I also have . . . some experience dealing with difficult connections.”

“And what are these feelings you speak of?” she inquired. Her tone was bland, disinterested, but she was not. She was practically quivering, she held herself so tightly. He looked into her eyes, so hard and so determined. He thought about her in his arms, when they danced, when she'd fallen and needed him to catch her. He thought about her dry wit and her sharp mind and her stubborn insistence that he should follow the work that interested him. He thought about her kindness and her charity, even toward those who had none for her. In all these memories, he found his answer.

“I love you, Helene.”

She closed her eyes. A long, deep tremor shook the whole of her body.

“I did not believe anyone would ever say that to me,” she whispered harshly. “Not say it and mean it.”

“I will say it again as often as you like.”
I will say it until you are able to believe it.

Helene drew in a deep breath. She opened her eyes again. One tear trickled slowly down the corner of her cheek, and it took all Marcus's strength not to reach out to wipe it away.

“I believe I will be very glad to hear it,” she murmured.

She had begun contemplating him again. Marcus, with a certain difficulty, composed himself to patience. This was something else he was going to have to become accustomed to. Helene Fitzgerald did not hurry, not even in the extremes of emotion. It was then he noticed her eyes were not fixed on his face, but were traveling down his body, from his face to his boots, and back again. Marcus felt his eyebrows inch upward. Was she
looking
at him? With interest. Possibly even with admiration.

Deep, irrational pride swelled in him, and a surprisingly timid hope.

“There is one other aspect,” she said. Her voice was firm once again, and her eyes had dried.

Marcus spread his hands. “I am all attention.”

“The physical.”

“Physical?”

“Yes.” She lifted her chin. “We have danced. It was very pleasant.”

“Thank you,” he acknowledged.

“Pleasant enough that I believe we must share some compatibility, some sympathy.”

“But?” he said, because the “but” was clearly coming.

“We have not kissed, or anything of the kind.”

“No,” he agreed.

“Well?”

Despite all the unexpected paths this conversation had already traveled, Marcus still found himself taken aback by this. “You're asking for a demonstration of my skill as a lover?”

He was smiling. This was outrageous. It was, in its way, highly wonderful, because it was so in keeping with the extraordinary nature of the woman in front of him. Helene was not smiling at all, but then she wouldn't, would she?

“I am asking for an opportunity to kiss and be kissed,” she replied, “in order to determine how we both feel about the experience.”

Marcus glanced toward the door.

“It should not take long,” she said. “I am given to understand compatibility or lack thereof may be determined within minutes.”

“I was not particularly concerned about time. However, it does put me on the spot.”

“No more than it does me. I have never been kissed by a man. I may be repulsive. I may . . .”

“I cannot conceive of you being repulsive.”

She bowed her head in acknowledgment and thanks. “I may, however, give rise to feelings of extreme indifference. It has been known to happen.”

“No,” he said slowly. “Indifference is not the most likely result, either.”

“Well then?”

And she was standing there, waiting with stone-like patience. Absurdly, Marcus felt his palms sweating. He found he wished he could reasonably protest this was not the place or time. But he'd removed that option. He was proposing marriage. He could not argue it inappropriate to kiss the girl to whom the proposal had been issued.

It occurred to Marcus that it might not be his skills she meant to test, but her own. This supremely self-confident young woman, who had been through a wide variety of experiences, some of which had been far from easy or pleasant, had just confessed to being entirely inexperienced when it came to the expression of physical desire and affection.

That at least meant he would not suffer by comparison, which was some comfort.

Marcus took one step closer. Helene raised an eyebrow. He considered pointing out that this was hardly the expression to raise lover-like feelings, but he did not. Helene Fitzgerald was not and would not be a conventional girl. He could have had his pick of the conventional, and yet here he stood. And she, for her part, waited to see what he would do about it.

That makes two of us.

She had the most remarkable hair. The sunlight from the windows caught in it and brought out a wealth of colors—reds and browns and rich coppery gold. He lifted his hand and touched one stray curl. Her jaw, which she set so stubbornly, had a graceful, curving line. He ran his fingertips along it, noting how her skin was soft and warm. And that she shivered. It was delightful. He rested his thumb against her sharp, determined chin, and she shivered again.

He smiled softly. To look at her, she was formidable, even now she wore her dignity like a crown. But to touch her . . . she felt delicate, even fragile. He knew for himself she was graceful. In his mind he heard the strains of the waltz they had shared, and he moved closer, his hand slipping almost unconsciously around her slender waist. Her forehead furrowed, and that curious, dismissive brow lowered. He ran the thumb of his free hand along it. He liked her brows. They were dark and full, not plucked and redrawn. He felt a fresh tremor shimmer through her, but she did not shrink away.

She met his gaze. Her mouth was deeply colored. No coral pinks for Helene. Her lips were full, rich, red, without the help of cosmetics or pinches. He touched the corner of her mouth. It was lovely. She was lovely.

Marcus lowered his head. Helene raised hers. Somewhere in the middle, they met.

Soft, warm. Her scent surrounded him, lemon and soap and something strange and sweet that seemed to be uniquely hers. The delicate touch of her mouth, contrasted with the straight, strong stubbornness of her spine beneath his palm, was intriguing, exciting. He wasn't sure if he moved forward, or she did, or he pulled her closer, or she him, or what happened, but her body was now pressed tight against his, and her arms were around his shoulders, and he had speared his fingers into her silken hair and opened their kiss.

Sensation filled him, a straight burning line through vein and sinew. Nothing gentle or subtle. The simple movement of her mouth against his, the press of her body, her breasts, against his chest overwhelmed him. His groin tightened, and his member came to abrupt attention. His grip on her tightened. He didn't think about it. All he knew was that he wanted her closer, wanted to keep kissing her, tasting her, exploring the whole of her with his mouth and his hands. He kissed her jaw and her throat, he ran his hands up her sides, and the shape of her curves beneath his palms sent a fresh flash of feeling through him.

The thrust of her tongue into his mouth startled him, but he opened to it, and returned it, and slowly, he felt that stubborn spine loosen, that proud, delicate form melt and mold against him.

Slowly, in the midst of the frenzy, it occurred to his body that breath would eventually be necessary. He lifted his head and met Helene's startled eyes. For startled she undoubtedly was, at least as startled as he—startled, flushed, breathless.

And most definitely not shrinking back. If anything, she was pressing closer. Or maybe that was his fault, because he wasn't letting go of her. But then, she wasn't asking him to.

“Well,” he said. “I think that settles the question.”

“It certainly raises some interesting . . . possibilities.” She fluttered her fingertips across his lips, and the gentle sensation sent a fresh stab of pure lust through him.

Dear God, what was happening here?

“I think—” She stopped and started again. Her fingers trailed down his jaw, his throat, to the edge of his collar, which had grown almost as painfully tight as his breeches. “I think you had best let me go now.”

“You first.” For she had her arm had wrapped firmly about his waist, and she was digging her fingers into his buttock. He liked it. A great deal. As much as he liked the scarlet flush coloring her cheeks. He liked the furrow across her forehead and the fact that it seemed to be taking considerable effort for her to loosen her hold on his anatomy and that her palm caressed his thigh as she slowly withdrew her hand.