The Contraband Courtship (The Arlingbys Book 2) (32 page)

Minutes later they stood, panting, Malcolm’s forehead against the door, Helena wrapped in his arms. Helena made a small movement, and he slid out of her, stepping back, looking down at her tenderly.

“I’ve missed you,” he said. “Not just that—though it was wonderful—but you.”

“I’ve missed you, too,” Helena admitted. “I thought—“ she paused.

“Whatever you thought, it was wrong,” said Malcolm gently. “I am always here for you—in this way, and in any other.”

He buttoned his breeches, and then turned to her. “You need another bath, my girl,” he said teasingly. He picked up her weary body and carried it back to the hearth.

“The water is not as warm as it might be, but it will do,” he said, lowering her into it again. He stripped off his coat and then, picking up a cloth and dipping it in the water, he ran it gently over her shoulders, then down to her breasts, and finally to the slick tissue between her legs, which he cleaned gently. At the slight pressure, she moved against his hand, and he smiled up at her.

“Not now. Later,” he said, his voice lavish with promise.

Helena subsided docilely and allowed him to finish his work. Finally, he drew her from the tub and dried her with one of the towels piled on a nearby chair, paying particular attention to her breasts and belly and the soft down between her legs. Helena sighed her delight.

“I am very fond of Sherburne, but this is quite a different experience,” she murmured.

“It will be a pleasure and a privilege to be your maid for the next few minutes,” Malcolm teased with an exaggerated leer. He swathed her in the towel, and then lifted her wrapper from the bed, helping her ease into it. When she was covered, he kissed her gently again and walked to the door, picking up a box that he had put down when he had entered. It was large, wrapped in printed paper with a blue satin ribbon tied around it, under which a card displaying the name Madame Celine was tucked. Malcolm handed it to Helena.

“I took the liberty of ordering a dress for you from London,” he said. “I know you have few occasions to attend balls, and thought a dress that would be the match of any of the gowns being worn by ladies visiting from London would be an appropriate thank-you for all your efforts.”

Helena looked down at the box, shocked. “Whatever we are, or are not, to each other, I cannot possibly accept clothing from you.”

“No one except you, Sherburne, and I need ever know I gave it to you,” Malcolm pointed out. As she still hesitated, he continued, “At least open the box, my sweet.”

It occurred to Helena that Estella would be wearing a gown of surpassing elegance that evening and she ought to at least look inside the box. She pulled on the bow and lifted the lid as the satin ribbon slithered to the floor. A sea of tissue paper covered the contents, and, placing the box on the bed, she pushed the layers aside to expose the skirt of a gown made up in eau de nile silk, its pale green shade, touched with blue, shimmering softly in the afternoon sunlight streaming through the window.

Malcolm watched as Helena lifted the dress from the box, revealing the bodice, which was made of a fine organdy in the same shade, lined in white silk, and ornamented with criss-crossing ropes of pearl beads. The tiny puff sleeves were organdy, trimmed with more pearls. She gave a tiny gasp at its extravagance, but lifted dress and held it to herself, gazing in the mirror, taking in the elaborate trim at the hem made of layers and layers of dagged organdy, like so many fluttering pale blue-green petals. Even holding it over her wrapper, she could see that the gown was the perfect length for her

She noticed Malcolm looking into the glass over her shoulder and surveying her reflection with pleasure. “A perfect fit, I think,” he said, pleasure in his voice. “I made a co-conspirator of Sherburne I fear, in my efforts to ensure it.”

Helena opened her mouth to scold him for involving her maid, but the sheer beauty of the gown made her change her mind. She shook her head. “I cannot possibly accept so costly a gift, Wroxton. Surely you must see that.”

“No expense is too great to show your beauty at its best, my dear,” Malcolm replied. “I think if you look a bit further, you will also find a head piece to match in the box. I hope very much to see you wearing them this evening.”

Helena hesitated. “I cannot.”

Malcolm turned her to face him, placing his hands on her shoulders and then running them down her arms to take her hands. He squeezed them softly.

“I don’t know what I have to do to convince you that I am yours. Indeed, perhaps you know that already,” he said, a touch of sadness in his voice. “Perhaps you only need to realize that you are mine.” He leaned over and kissed her forehead. “Either way, the dress is yours, to wear or not. I will leave you now, as Sherburne is doubtless tired of waiting for us.”

“Malcolm—“ said Helena in a small voice.

“It doesn’t matter, my dear. If you wear the dress I will be happy, if you do not, I will know only that I must spend more time convincing you that your life is tied to mine. Now, I must go and make myself beautiful as well.” Malcolm raised her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to it, and then walked silently from the room.

Helena gazed after him, feeling oddly bereft. Turning to the bed, where the gown lay, its pale green-blue sheen bright against the straw-colored coverlet, she ran a hand over it, admiring the fineness of the workmanship and the soft shimmer of the silk.

“It’s lovely, miss. Shall I dress you in it now?”

Helena turned to find Sherburne beaming at her. She withdrew her hand as though stung.

“Oh, Sherburne. You should not have allowed Lord Wroxton to do this. I cannot possibly wear this dress tonight—or ever.”

“As though I could stop him. That’s a gentleman who knows what he wants.” Sherburned bustled over to her and led her to the dressing table, where she urged Helena into a chair and began to comb her hair. “Such a tangle. It was neat when I left you, I can’t imagine what you have been doing.”

Helena flushed and did not meet the maid’s eyes in the mirror. “I can’t wear the dress because it is utterly improper for his lordship to buy it for me.”

“Who will ever know?” asked Sherburne sensibly. “It is not as though I will tell anyone, and he thought it would be a nice way to thank you for all your efforts these past weeks. Lord Wroxton is ever so gracious.”

“Yes, he is,” agreed Helena. “But I cannot let him think that I—that I will—“

Sherburne smiled at her. “It’s very silly you’re being, Miss Helena.” She stepped back. “There, I can put your hair up now. You think on it, and I hope you decide to wear that lovely dress. It would be a shame to waste it.”

An hour later Helena stood in front of the mirror, surveying her reflection in the gown Madame Favreau had sewn for her. Her hair was dressed in a topknot, from which glossy ringlets fell to frame her face, while a silver diadem fashioned to resemble bay leaves curled around the coiffure. The dress of jade green silk had tiny sleeves, in which white and green silk entwined to wrap her upper arms in fabric, leaving her shoulders bare. The bodice was cut deep, but was not vulgarly low, highlighting her creamy skin, and more of the twisted white and green fabric adorned it. The skirt fell straight from the high waist, the heavy silk draping in rich folds, while a simple band of the same material that trimmed the bodice and sleeves adorned the hem, adding weight that ensured that when she walked it clung to her, hinting at the excellence of her figure. The gown relied on its masterly cut to whisper of fashion, and became her tall frame and coloring admirably. Helena saw a woman, who if not a stranger, certainly bore little resemblance to the sensible, practical person who usually gazed back at her from the looking glass.

Sherburne approached with her pearl necklace and earrings to complete the picture. “You look perfect, Miss Keighley. None of those fine London ladies will have any reason to sneer at you in that dress.”

“I think you are quite right, Sherburne.” Helena turned slightly, admiring the way the soft drape of the fabric clung to her figure, not vulgarly, but certainly enticingly. “It is very reassuring to feel well dressed.”

Sherburne cast a regretful glance at the eau de nile dress, but said nothing.

Helena followed her gaze. “Put that back in the box, please. I will return it to Lord Wroxton sometime soon. It was very kind of him, but completely unnecessary.”

Sherburne reluctantly moved to obey her, and Helena picked up her fan and walked to the door. “I will go down now, and see that all is ready before dinner. Thank you, Sherburne.”

The maid gave her an encouraging smile as she packed the blue-green dress away in its tissue paper and placed the lid on the box. Refusing to feel regretful, Helena left the room and made her way through the corridors to the staircase, noting with pleasure the beauty of the floral cascade dropping from the gallery. As she crossed the main hall, the door of the drawing room opened and Estella emerged. Helena noted her elegant evening gown of red silk, carefully constructed to make the most of her voluptuous figure, and wondered if it had come from the same hand as the dress she had left upstairs in her room.

She gave Mrs. Lacey a tight smile, and continued to walk. But, to her consternation, Estella spoke.

“Miss Keighley, I wonder if I might have a word with you?”

Helena paused. She could think of nothing she wanted less than a word with Mrs. Lacey, but good manners made it impossible for her to flee. “Certainly, Mrs. Lacey.”

“In private, if you don’t mind.” Estella held open the door to the drawing room.

Helena inclined her head coldly and entered, turning to face Estella as she closed the door.

“What a beautiful dress.” Estella stepped back, surveying her. “I had no idea there were such fine seamstresses outside of London.”

“As you can see, we are not all rustics here in Kent,” said Helena sharply.

“Of course you are not,” Estella replied with a charming smile. “I did not mean to imply otherwise. Please, sit down. It is ridiculous to stand about like this.” Estella sank down on a settee, and indicated the spot next to her. Left without another choice, Helena perched gingerly beside her.

“Miss Keighley, I wished to speak to you about Malcolm,” began Estella.

Helena, though she had been expecting the words, jumped at the sound of the earl’s name. “Mrs. Lacey, I don’t think Lord Wroxton would be very pleased with this conversation,” she said hastily.

“Oh, he is quite accustomed to my way of speaking my mind,” Estella replied in a serene tone. “I know you feel awkward, but I hope to remedy that.” She paused, glancing at Helena from under her long, dark lashes. “First, I must tell you that Mr. Lacey is not troubled in the least by my little liaison with Malcolm.”

Helena’s eyebrows rose skeptically, and Estella shook her head. “You do not quite understand, Miss Keighley. My husband is not at all in the petticoat line. But he is wealthy, and there must be an heir to inherit the money and lands. For my part, I am quite content to have a rich and charming husband, who does not trouble me overmuch and is completely uninterested in my bed now that I have provided him with two sons.”

“I am sure he must be very grateful to you,” Helena mumbled, feeling rather at sea. She supposed these sorts of conversations must be very ordinary in London, but they were far out of her experience. She wished fervently that Damaris were with her.

“Of course he is,” Estella agreed happily. “I do him credit socially, do not pester him for attention, and am always delighted to have his excellent advice concerning the cut of a gown, or whether a new hairstyle will become me. In return he says nothing about my discreet relationships, and I do not inquire about his close friends.”

“It sounds very civilized,” Helena ventured. She glanced at the door, wishing fervently that another guest would arrive.

“That is the point, of course. Wroxton, however, is very different from Mr. Lacey. He is very much the man, as I’m sure you realize.” She shot Helena a conspiratorial glance. “But he also likes women, and not just for the pleasures of the bedchamber. He is interested in what they think, and converses with us as though we are sensible creatures. Surely you have noticed?”

Helena blinked, surprised by the turn the conversation had taken. She realized Estella was right; Malcolm did give more weight to her words than most men she knew. Arthur, she thought, was the only exception, and he was her younger brother, and used to her ways. “I suppose you are right,” she said reluctantly.

“Of course I am,” purred Estella. “Remember that Wroxton has been harmed by a great many men, but women, for the most, have taken his part. There have been dozens of them, of course, as he is so scandalously desirable, but Malcolm remains good friends with them all. He corresponds with the princess in Germany, and the comtessa in Venice, and Madame LaRobisseau in Nimes, and oh, several others.” Estella waved her hands as Helena wondered precisely how many women Malcolm wrote to on a regular basis. “And he adores his sister, who I find tiresome, but I suppose it is only natural. How many gentlemen can you think of who will scribble a note to their mother, let alone carry on correspondence over years with female friends?”

“It is indeed remarkable,” Helena replied, looking again at the door and willing it to open and admit anyone at all.

“Only think,” continued Estella, warming to her subject. “He was barely more than a boy, nearly penniless and wrongly exiled, trying to make his way in a world he did not understand. It was ladies who helped him, and he learned to value them in turn. He has had so many women in his life because he never stayed in one place, not because he is depraved at heart. I think he was always looking for a place to call home, and never found it.”

Helena looked at her thoughtfully, recalling Malcolm’s words in the rose garden.

“And so we come to you,” Estella went on, glancing at Helena’s dubious face. “Did you think I had forgotten what I wished to say? When he came to London, he wanted to enjoy his newfound wealth and fame. Of course, he wanted a woman friend as well, and I feel lucky he chose me. After all, he is handsome, and charming, and well, a delight in the bedchamber, is he not?” She smiled conspiratorially at Helena, who looked away. “But he was so restless in London, always searching for something. Then he came to Wroxton Hall and I ceased to hear from him. One day he was complaining about having to come down here to deal with a virago neighbor and a pack of smugglers, and then--nothing. So, I came here, and found him with you.”

Helena flushed. “I did not mean to interfere. After all, I had no idea that you—“

Estella waved one elegant hand. “I have no claim on Malcolm. That is what I am trying to tell you. We amused each other, and now—he is no longer amused. He has found someone important to him. Someone with whom I think he hopes to make a life.” She glanced at Helena’s stunned face. “Miss Keighley?” she queried.

“Are you saying you think I should marry him?” demanded Helena, finally finding her voice.

“I am saying you would be very stupid not to,” said Estella. “And I do not think you are at all stupid, Miss Keighley.”

Helena rose, clutching her fan. “I appreciate your advice, Mrs. Lacey, and will think well on it.”

“I hope you do.” Estella smiled up at her. “Whatever your decision, if we meet again sometime, I hope it will be as friends.”

“I—I would like that,” said Helena, surprised to realize she meant it. “If you will excuse me, I need to make sure all is ready for dinner.”

Estella waved one white hand and sat back comfortably. “Certainly. I will see you later, at dinner, and at the ball. If you get the opportunity, dance with Lord Queshire. He waltzes divinely.”

Helena nodded and fled.