The Madcap Marriage (25 page)

Now he knew better.

He’d experienced much rejection, but it had never before been personal. Hillcrest hated anyone who supported his wife. The strictest matrons decried his false reputation. Portland attacked him to shift blame from his own stupidity.

Now two women in two days had turned on him. Him. His core. His essence.

Alice’s words had plagued him since she’d cornered him on the terrace last night. When I saw your marriage announcement, I was filled with joy … you terrify me … your size … your intensity … your interests.

He’d been shocked, insulted, and so furious that he’d nearly tossed her through a window. Why hadn’t she protested years ago?  Only remembering that he had found a better wife in Helen had kept his temper under control long enough to warn her against Hillcrest, who was so obsessed with owning the Grange that he might force her.

That had led to the first serious talk they’d ever held, one that transformed his hatred to pity. Helen had been right to call Alice a victim. She deserved recompense for the harm inflicted by his family. Hillcrest would never pay, which left it to him.

But while Alice had pricked his pride, learning that Helen loved another shattered it.

He absently moved his bishop as he fought past the emotion fogging his mind.

He had to seduce Helen away from Portland. She was his, no one else’s. Whatever problems they would face – and he feared they would be massive – they must find a way to work together, which meant convincing her that he was her perfect husband.

Her rescue gave him a starting point. She could so easily have let him die. After all, she’d not known Portland was the victim. Remaining in the carriage with a pistol to fend off attack could have freed her from her rash marriage. Her impulse to follow him had to have been concern for his welfare – unexpected considering her coolness since reaching Hillcrest. And her request for a partnership might have been honest, not a ruse meant to bring him to heel.

“Check,” said Helen, sliding her queen through the opening he’d stupidly left.

He cursed, inching his king behind a pawn. “So Portland visited Somerset four years ago.”

“Sir Montrose hosted a house party.” She frowned, then again moved her queen. “Check. Why the inquisition, Rafe?  Alex lied. He lied to me. He lied to you. He lies so often, he can no longer tell truth from fiction.”

“He’s an honorable gentleman.” His defense of a longstanding enemy shocked him. But despite their differences, Portland was a better man than he was.

“Hillcrest is also a gentleman.” Helen crossed her arms and glared.

“What?”  Her movement drew his eyes to her bosom.

“For pity’s sake, Rafe, birth is no guarantee of behavior. No one would deny that a viscount is, by definition, a gentleman, yet Hillcrest lied about your betrothal. So how can you claim Alex is truthful because he was born a gentleman?  You can’t have it both ways.” She turned back to the board.

At least anger brought color to her face. “Very well, Portland lied,” he said soothingly, removing her queen with his remaining knight. It wasn’t likely, but argument would not achieve his purpose. So he would drop the subject of Portland and display interest in her affairs instead. Ladies loved talking about themselves.

“Check,” said Helen, moving a castle.

Devil take it!  He’d missed that move. Again he slid his king out of danger. Running away, just as he’d done most of his life – retreating into his head, moving to London, ignoring any unpleasantness…  But no more. “Could you tell from that glance at the books whether Steven interfered with the spring planting?"

“No.”

“How bad will it be if the crops are late?”

“We’ll manage.” When he tried to ask how, she continued talking over him. “Don’t worry about Audley, Rafe. Discussion is pointless before we see what he’s done. In any case, Audley is not your concern.”

The rebuff slapped him in the face. She was dismissing him as useless – just like Hillcrest did. “You are my wife, Helen. Everything you do is my concern. And you will likely need help. No matter how long you’ve run Audley, I doubt that you know everything.”

“I have to know everything,” she snapped. “If I don’t, I fail.”

“Helen.” He reached across to take her hand, but she jerked it aside. Somehow, he’d irritated her again. “I’m not trying to interfere, but you suggested we discuss our concerns. I can guarantee that the tenants don’t tell you everything – because you are a lady.”

“You would like to believe that, wouldn’t you?”  Her eyes flashed green fire. “You’d like to walk in and take over. Well, forget it. Audley is mine and will stay mine.”

“I never—”  He paused, drawing in a deep breath while clenched fists contained his growing fury. He hadn’t meant to start a fight – and certainly not one that invited her to rub her damned fortune in his face. Only last night he’d sworn to manage his temper. “Audley is yours. I have no interest in it. But like it or not, most men do not enjoy taking orders from a lady.”

“Perhaps.” She made an obvious attempt to relax. “But this is not the time to discuss it. Wait until I study the books.” Her tone told him hell would freeze before she revived the issue. “Check and mate,” she added, moving a bishop, then turned to stare out at the rain.

He growled, irritated at his bad play. He should not have suggested chess when his mind was mired elsewhere. This had not gone as he’d envisioned. He was tied to a woman who loved another, and he had no one with whom he could discuss the problem.

Grief welled, nearly blinding him. Grief for his mother, who had respected him and loved him unconditionally. Grief for Alquist, who had willingly discussed any topic, but never forced him to accept advice and never revealed his confidences to others. With Alquist gone, there was no one trustworthy left. Even Lady Alquist was not completely safe. Her tongue ran away with her when she was in the throes of gossip.

He had vowed to remain faithful to his wife, which should be easy. Helen was beautiful, passionate, and desirable, setting his blood on fire with every glance. She was spirited, intelligent, and capable, which was what he’d always wanted in a wife.

No wonder Portland loved her.

Rafe’s spirits plummeted. He’d bedded scores of bored wives who cared little for their husbands. Would Helen be any different – especially if Portland pressed?  Even if Portland had lied about loving her, he might dance attendance on her to repay Rafe for Lydia.

He flinched. That vow of fidelity would destroy him unless his wife was equally faithful. The only way to keep her from straying was to attach her affections. So he was back where he’d started, trying to control her with passion. It seemed to be his only skill.

Tonight he would drive all thought of Portland from her mind. She’d melted beneath his touch before. He’d make sure tonight was even better. Once he enslaved her, she would admit that he could provide everything she needed – home, family, passion, and a partner in her business ventures.

His libido approved the plan. It longed to trace the curl framing her ear, lick the bones accented by her jet necklace, peel her gown away so he could touch her breasts. Lust welled until he no longer cared about anything but branding her as his.

Two more hours
, he reminded himself as the sun set. They had to reach Hungerford tonight or they would never make Audley tomorrow. But at Hungerford, they would have the privacy he needed to enact the fantasies swirling in his mind.

Yet it didn’t work that way. By the time they reached Hungerford, he was too stiff to move.

Chapter Thirteen

May 26

As the sun cleared the horizon, Helen opened her eyes. It had not been a good night.

Rafe’s leg had collapsed as he’d stepped down from the carriage, pitching him to the ground where he lay gasping and holding his ribs.

“Idiot!” she’d snapped an hour later when the Hungerford surgeon finished strapping him up. “Whatever possessed you to sit in a bouncing carriage for ten hours with badly bruised ribs?”

“They were all right until those last ten miles,” he’d snapped back. “I’m complaining to the Surveyor General. The company responsible for that stretch of turnpike is not doing its job.”

“The road wasn’t that bad,” she’d murmured soothingly. “You just pushed yourself too far. You should have asked Mrs. Hawkins for one of her remedies.”

That had earned her the blackest scowl she’d ever seen. Rafe had fallen silent, though it was obvious that he remained in pain. If anything, binding his ribs made it worse.

But that had not been her only problem. The surgeon had dressed Rafe after treating him so he could join her in the private parlor for dinner, not realizing that Rafe had no valet to help him undress. He was too sore to do it himself. Thus Helen had to lend a hand.

Her cheeks heated as she recalled the ordeal. She couldn’t afford to risk her heart, so she’d set out to strip him as quickly as possible. Which turned out to be slow indeed.

She hadn’t realized how enticing broad shoulders could be when clad only in very thin cambric. No one had warned her that untying a man’s cravat made stroking the adjacent jaw irresistible. And how could she avoid meeting that molten silver gaze without seeming missish?

Steeling herself for another look at his chest hadn’t kept her knees from trembling, even though bandages covered half of it and bruises the rest. He had leaped into battle with no thought for his own safety, his only goal to uphold justice. Such a man demanded respect.

Helen carefully slid out of bed, moving slowly so she would not wake Rafe. He needed rest, for he’d awakened often during the night, moaning in pain.

Alex’s fault. The only damage inflicted by the highwaymen had been a twisted knee, and while ten hours of inactivity had let it stiffen, it should be right as rain in a day or two. It was Alex’s assault that had done the most damage. She’d like nothing more than to break something in return. Alex had no right to be angry.

Shaking her head, she forced her thoughts to her real problem.

Rafe would wake soon and demand that she help him dress. If he truly needed help, she wouldn’t mind, but she suspected that he was exaggerating his infirmity to seduce her. There was no reason why he couldn’t at least fasten his own pantaloons. His hands certainly had no problem gripping her waist. Or teasing her breasts. Or…

Again her face flushed, and not just because her own fingers had brushed far beyond his buttons. Despite his pain, he’d fondled her and pulled her against his manhood while he ravished her mouth. If his ribs hadn’t protested, he would surely have taken her.

She wasn’t ready for that. It was lowering to admit that with Rafe, her usually rigid self-control faltered, leaving her susceptible to his wiles, which could only lead to trouble.

Rafe shifted, again groaning.

He could not manage the twelve hours it would take to reach Audley. Yesterday’s ten hours had nearly incapacitated him. But if he could tolerate half the distance, they could at least catch up with the baggage coach and his valet.

“Come here, sweetheart.” Rafe struggled to sit up. “I’ll fasten your gown, then you can loosen this bandage. That sawbones is mad. I’ll never recover if I can’t breathe.”

“I’m sure the binding is necessary to—”

“Helen.” His tone froze her tongue. “Come.” His gaze slid down her throat to settle on her bosom. Her nipples surged to attention, sending heat raging through her body.

Cursing, she went to him.

* * * *

Sir Steven stared at his secretary, noting the nervous fingers, the lowered eyes, the stooped shoulders. Stone was bringing bad news.

“Well?” he asked, not inviting him to sit.

Stone cleared his throat twice before speaking. “Our men were arrested.” He shifted his weight to the other foot.

“Fools!” snapped Dudley from the corner, making Stone jump. “I warned you not to trust outsiders. We should have handled it ourselves.”

“What happened?”  Steven ignored Dudley’s outburst – the boy had always been too quick off the mark; Steven couldn’t wait to get a grandson he could raise to be a proper gentleman. Stone’s news was hardly a disaster. He had anticipated the possibility and made sure no one could connect him to the assassins. “Out with it,” he added when Stone again cleared his throat.

“As ordered, the men waited outside Hillcrest’s gates. When a horseman matching Thomas’s description emerged from the estate, they attacked.”

Dudley grinned in anticipation.

“As ordered, they beat him thoroughly,” continued Stone. “But instead of dragging him into the trees first, the idiots remained on the verge. Thus they were spotted by a passing carriage. Its occupants subdued our men and revived the horseman.”

“So he still lives.” Steven’s tone sent Stone back a pace.

“But battered,” put in Dudley.

“Thomas and his wife were in the carriage,” said Stone hesitantly. “Thomas shot one of our men and captured the other.”

“The horseman?” asked Steven over Dudley’s curses.

“A Mr. Portland, sir,” said Stone miserably. “Third son of the Earl of Stratford. He is with the Home Office and has personal ties to Home Secretary Sidmouth.”

It couldn’t be worse. “Tell me, Stone. When did this attack occur?”

Stone blanched. “Midmorning.”

“Then why did I not hear about it yesterday?” he roared.

Stone drew himself up. “I did not realize anything was amiss until our men failed to return to the inn last night. We agreed that I was not to follow them about. It has taken hours to amass the information, for I dared not ask questions.”

“What’s done is done.” Steven managed a calmness he didn’t feel. “We must accept it and move on.”

Stone straightened. “Which will be difficult. Portland is not stupid. Nor is Thomas, despite his reputation. The men will not remain silent. It was a mistake to involve them—”

Steven glared. “And if one of us had been caught?”

“—and a mistake to linger over Thomas,” continued Stone, cutting Dudley, who had insisted on the beating. “If we had shot him as I recommended, there would have been no interruption, and the job would be done.”