Tempting the Bride (7 page)

“Yes, elopement,” said Hastings. “Surely you don’t think I would consign my best friend’s sister to this sort of situation, where apparently any nosy woman could interrupt us, without marrying her first.”

Butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

Helena clamped her right hand over her left. She was only trying to restrain herself from saying anything foolish or compromising before Mrs. Martin and Mrs. Monteth. But with this show of seemingly hand-wringing mortification, no one could see that she was not wearing a wedding band.

Mrs. Martin squared her shoulders. “Our apologies, Lord Hastings, Lady Hastings. We wish you much happiness in your union.”

Mrs. Monteth still sputtered. “But—but—”

Mrs. Martin took her by the arm and yanked her out. Hastings closed the door and leaned his weight against it.

Helena counted to ten, to give the women time to walk down the passage, out of hearing. Then she counted to another ten.

Eight. Nine. Ten.

“Eloped?” she erupted, barely managing to keep her voice to a reasonable volume. “
Eloped?
What in the world caused you to say that? Have you lost your mind?”

He looked incredulous—and none too pleased. “You wanted me to tell them that we were having an affair of our own?”

“Yes!”

His expression turned sober, then blank. “The result
would have been exactly the same: I’d have to marry you. So I decided to spare us the scandal.”

He did not
have
to marry her. Or rather, she would not have married him under any circumstances. “You can’t make such decisions for me.”

“I’ve been telling you ever since you came back from America not to put me in this kind of situation.”

“Nobody put you in anything.” Her voice rose with her exasperation. “You inserted yourself into the situation.”

“And where would you and Mr. Martin be if I hadn’t come along?”

She shivered. “The worst would have happened—I will admit that. But that doesn’t mean the two matters are related. To save Mr. Martin, we had to create an illusion that you, not he, were my lover. That was it—nothing more.”

“To save
Mr. Martin
? What do I care about—” He stopped. “And what then? What do I tell Fitz?”

“The truth, of course. Tell him Mr. Martin and I were ambushed by Mrs. Monteth, and to shield him we chose to make it look as if the two of
us
were meeting illicitly.”

“And you think that would be the end of the matter? That Fitz would allow such a state of things to stand, for Society to believe his best friend and his sister are sleeping together, without doing something about it? He would have compelled me to offer for you.”

“And I’d have gratefully declined your offer.
I
will deal with Fitz.
I
will deal with the consequences of my own actions. I do not need any man to save me and I particularly do not need you.”

His voice hardened. “So you will become a fallen woman? As you so often like to remind everyone, there
isn’t just reputation to consider; there is also happiness. Do you not realize that you would not only tarnish your family’s reputation, but forever taint your brother’s and sister’s happiness? It doesn’t matter whether you stay in London and keep running your firm or repair to the country to rusticate; they could never be seen with you in public again, never talk about you, never let you see their future children except in utmost secrecy. And they would worry about you every hour of the day and pull their hair out over your obstinacy for the remainder of their natural lives. You would subject them to that?”

The trap was closing about her. Her family was her Achilles’ heel. She did not fear consequences for herself, but she could not bear to hurt her loved ones.

She thought she’d steeled herself for this moment—still she had to put a hand against the wall to keep herself upright. She wanted to rail against the unfairness of life: that he, with his debauchery and his illegitimate child living under his roof, was still accepted everywhere, but she, unless she accepted his suit, would suffer the harshest punishments for this one small overreach.

But there was no point blaming the rules of the game when she’d known them all along.

A timid knock came from the door of the bath. “May I come out now?”

Andrew. She’d forgotten him. “Yes, do come out.”

He opened the door and slunk into the parlor, his hand clutched around his hat. Her heart gave an awful throb at his red, disconsolate face. Her poor darling, he must think it was all his fault.

“It’s quite all right, Andrew,” she said encouragingly.

“No, it’s not.” His voice shook. “It’s all gone wrong—like your brother said it would.”

She took hold of his hands, the brim of his hat hard in her palm. “Listen to me. This is not your fault.”

Behind her Hastings rolled his eyes—no doubt he meant for her to see it in the mirror opposite. She clenched her jaw and repeated herself. “None of this is your fault.”

Hastings shrugged into his waistcoat. “Stay here for now, Martin. Let me make sure it’s safe; then I’ll smuggle you out through a service door.”

“Thank you,” Andrew said, his voice barely audible. “Most kind of you.”

“And, Lady Hastings, I trust you will conduct yourself with some decorum.” Hastings shot her a look that was almost hostile in its intensity. She stared back, but had to break his gaze when her heart started to thump unpleasantly. “When I return, we’ll speak to your family, my love.”

H
astings’s soon-to-be wife looked out the window of the hansom cab, her back straight, her jaw set, her hands clasped tight in her lap, as if she were Napoleon arriving upon the stark shores of Saint Helena, understanding deep in her bones that this time there would be no escape.

The interior of the hansom cab was narrow. They sat shoulder to shoulder, the expanse of her skirt brushing against his knee. In the seconds before the scandalmongers had burst in on them, she had been anything but frigid. He could still taste their kiss upon his tongue, still feel the heat of her slender body pressed into his. But now she might as well have been on the far side of Siberia, as cold and remote as the Bering Sea.

He had not meant to force her into marriage: It simply had not occurred to him that there were any other possible
explanations for him to be seen making love to her. Apparently she thought him the sort of man who entertained himself by ruining unmarried young ladies from good families.

And she’d rather become a pariah than his wife.

It did not console him that he was largely to blame for her antagonistic views. She was blind, this girl, as blind as Justice, except her set of scales had broken years ago, and all she weighed in her hand were her prejudices.

He looked down at his own hand, at his index finger poised atop his walking stick, applying the merest pressure to keep it upright, as if he hadn’t a care in the world beyond the balancing of this gentlemanly accessory.

“It’s unfortunate that maid of yours left,” he heard himself say, in a tone as insubstantial as his hold on the walking stick. “She would have tied you to the bedpost without blinking an eye.”

Her skirts twitched. She said nothing.

“No matter,” he continued. “I’m sure I’ll find someone for the task. Perhaps I can teach you a few knots myself. You are a clever girl. There’s no reason you can’t truss yourself in a most satisfactory manner.”

Her voice was a low growl. “The man I love is beyond my reach. I must marry a man who holds no appeal for me whatsoever. Have some decency, Hastings. Save your gloating until after the wedding.”

There, he’d successfully provoked her again, out of habit—out of pure reflex, almost. And his satisfaction was emptier than ever, his heart all but losing its beat.

He’d gone too far. Well before he opened his mouth, he’d known he’d go too far. Yet he hadn’t been able to help himself, the way a man who’d lost his footing on a steep
hill only gathered speed as he stumbled toward a precipice.

“I never do anything for as silly a reason as decency. I will, however, grant you a reprieve of silence, but that is only because now I shall expect even greater gratitude from you, once we are married.”

His words were met with silence. For a stretch of several minutes, he looked out the window on his side of the hansom cab, dumbly noting their progress. Then he glanced back toward her.

For the first time in their long acquaintance, he witnessed her with her shoulders slumped. And then a shocking realization: She was crying. He could not see it or hear it—her face was turned completely away from him and she made not the slightest of noises—but her despair was palpable, leaden, a thing that choked the air from his lungs.

He looked away from her, back to the window, to the street outside overflowing with carriages and pedestrians. His own eyes were quite dry, but that was only because he’d long grown accustomed to despair, that old companion of his.

I
’d like to speak to my family alone, if you don’t mind,” said Helena, as the hansom cab turned onto the street where the Duke of Lexington’s town house stood.

Her tears had dried; her voice was even enough. Her turmoil she would keep to herself: If this was the bed of nails she’d made, then she would lie on it with all the dignity and impassivity she could muster.

Hastings cast her an inscrutable glance. “I’ll wait outside for some time, but no more than ten minutes. And I
trust you will sing my praises properly—I am the hero of the day, after all.”

He would be heralded as such, wouldn’t he? And Andrew, who was guilty of nothing more than the desire to see her, cast as the dastardly villain.

“You will be acknowledged as you deserve,” she answered.

As she stood before the door of the town house, she couldn’t quite feel the granite beneath her feet or the bellpull in her hand. Her whole person was numb, except for a dull burning in her heart.

“Right on time, Helena,” said Venetia, when Helena was shown into the drawing room, where Venetia had been chatting with Fitz and Millie.

Her raven-haired, blue-eyed, and ineffably beautiful sister was, if possible, even more dazzling than usual. Fitz, though he was Helena’s twin, shared Venetia’s coloring and bone structure, and had always been considered by Helena’s friends as swoon-inducingly gorgeous. As for his wife, Helena vaguely remembered thinking Millie somewhat mousy when they’d first met, but now she couldn’t remember why she’d ever thought so, for Millie, petite and fine featured, was extraordinarily lovely in her own way.

“Fitz and Millie were just telling me all about the Lake District.” Venetia winked at Helena.

They were all thrilled that Fitz and Millie, who’d known some heartbreaking years, had finally found the happiness they deserved. Without waiting for Helena to respond, Venetia waved her to a chair. “Sit down, my love. I’ve been bursting to share the news all day. Now that we are at last together in the same place—”

“I—” Helena began.

“The duke and I will be parents soon.”

Helena’s jaw dropped, as did Millie’s. It had long been thought that Venetia was barren. No wonder she had glowed so beatifically of late.

“Congratulations,” Helena, Fitz, and Millie shouted in near unison.

But Helena was the first one out of her seat to embrace Venetia. “I’m so happy for you I can scarcely stand it.”

A round of hugs and kisses followed, then another round, amidst laughter and squeals of delight.

“Where is Lexington?” asked Fitz. “He ought to be congratulated, too.”

“He has decided to arrive a few minutes later, in case there are questions you’d rather not ask in front of him.”

Fitz cocked his head. “Such as when the baby is due?”

Venetia blushed slightly. “Yes, that one.”

Millie raised a brow. “So, when
is
the baby due?”

“End of the year.”

“End of the year? But you’ve been married only—” Millie covered her mouth. “The duke’s mysterious lover during his crossing on the
Rhodesia
—you were
her
!”

“And when you fainted and we had to call in Miss Redmayne, you weren’t suffering from some mysterious illness. You were with child!” exclaimed Helena.

“He never knew who I was while we were on the
Rhodesia
. And I never told him until after I found out that I was in a delicate condition.”

Helena bit her lip. “My goodness, he must have been furious.”

“He was, but we have patched things up rather nicely since then, and we couldn’t be more thrilled about the baby.”

The duke walked in, a coolly handsome man—and a celebrated naturalist who shared a love of fossils with his wife. “Is it safe for me to join the conversation?”

“Yes, my dear, quite safe.”

Fitz offered his hand. “Congratulations, Lexington. Shall we drink to an heir?”

“And to the possibility of a girl as generous and capable as my wife,” said Lexington.

Helena’s eyes misted. It was a lovely thing to say to a woman who had struggled at times with the possibility that perhaps she was nothing more than a beautiful face. Venetia had chosen well after all.

“Shall I send for champagne—and some champagne cider for Lord Fitzhugh?” asked Lexington.

Fitz abstained entirely from intoxicating beverages and usually contented himself with champagne cider at celebratory occasions.

But before anyone could answer, a footman announced, “Viscount Hastings.”

In swept the realities of Helena’s life; all the gladness drained from her heart. “Perhaps not just yet,” she muttered under her breath. “The champagne, that is.”

F
itz and Lexington both shook hands with Hastings, with Fitz looking openly puzzled.

“I didn’t expect to see you until later this evening, David. But I’m glad to see you now.”

Hastings glanced at Helena, then at the gathering, perhaps noticing for the first time the general good cheer. “What did I miss?”

“The duke and I will soon be parents,” a still giddy-looking Venetia told him.

“My goodness, this is the best news I’ve heard all day. I shall spoil the child rotten.” He kissed Venetia on her cheek and shook hands again with the duke. “Well done, old fellow.”