Winning Lord West (3 page)

Not yours.

Helena, Lady Crewe

P.S. As if I’d employ a heavy-handed groom.
The unhealthy Russian air must have rotted your brain.

***

Outside Moscow, 3
^rd
September
1820

My beautiful sweetheart,

How villainously those of high degree lie to
their humble servants. I’d hoped to be home by now and telling you
in person of my unending admiration. Even as an impossible brat who
was either hanging around the stables getting underfoot, or hidden
in the corner of the library with your nose in some dusty volume,
you were something special.

I know I have much to atone for—what I can’t
bear is that you feel I’m responsible for Crewe’s disgraceful
behavior. We were both disappointed in him, although as his wife,
you bore the brunt of his extravagance, drunkenness, and lechery.
In comparison, a friend’s disillusionment pales to nothing.

To Hades with me. I swore I’d wait until I
saw you to address the matters that rise like a wall between us.
It’s a wall I’m determined to scale. I imagine you waiting on the
other side, like a captive princess.

As you can see, all this Russian romance is
softening my head. Of course, my Helena is no captive princess, but
a warrior maiden. A man needs all his wit and weaponry to lay siege
to her.

The negotiations crawl along without
noticeable progress. Every day, the Tsar goes hunting through birch
forests, beautiful with coming autumn.

Next week, we travel south to the Crimea
without His Imperial Majesty. He feels his government—and the
English interloper—needs to know the lay of the land down there to
understand the full implications of this tangle. He’s off to the
Congress of Troppau to strut on the world stage and enjoy some
Western luxury. We might make headway without his royal
interference.

This is a strange, beautiful, stirring,
half-barbaric country, for all its wealth. I’d love to bring you
here one day. I think your untamed spirit would feel at home. As I
ride out every dawn, I imagine you galloping at my side, the way we
galloped at Richmond half a world away.

I hear Silas and Caro are more wrapped up in
each other than ever. He really should marry the girl. And Fenella
has a thousand admirers, but doesn’t give a fig for any of them. I
also hear you and Lord Pascal have been seen together several times
at the opera. I know he’s handsome, my darling, but the fellow will
bore you to death once you’ve stopped looking at him and started
listening to him. You need a man to keep you on your toes. A man
undaunted by your magnificent brain.

There’s a much more suitable lover available,
although he’s currently occupied abroad on international
affairs.

I hope when you sleep, you dream of me.

Your fervent admirer

West

P.S. When it comes time to put Artemis to
stud, allow me to suggest my stallion Perseus. They will have
beautiful, spirited offspring.

***

Cranham, Wiltshire, 10
^th
October
1820

Sir,

Despite repeated requests to refrain, still
you pester me with unwanted confidences and reflections. Again I
tell you they—like you—are of no interest. It seems cursed unfair
that you are much more annoying at a distance than you ever were in
London. The Russian doxies mustn’t keep you as amused as our local
variety always has. I hesitate to recommend sin, but, my lord, you
need to fill those long Russian nights with something other than
the cold ashes of an old dalliance. If sin has palled through
overfamiliarity, permit me to suggest that you take up
knitting.

Again, I insist that you cease this stupid
game and leave me in peace.

Hopefully for the last time.

Lady Crewe

P.S. Artemis remains your horse, even if
she’s been eating her head off in my stables for the last six
months. I begin to think you sent her to me as an economy measure.
The arrangements for breeding her are none of my concern.

***

London, 1
^st
December 1820

West, old chum!

Congratulate the happiest man in England.
Nay, the world. My glorious Caro has agreed to become my wife, and
I’m ten miles high in the sky as a result.

Can you tear yourself away from the bears and
the balalaikas and the Cossacks long enough to come home and stand
up with me? Our plan is to have a quiet wedding at Woodley Park on
Valentine’s Day. Forgive the sentimental choice of date, but I’ve
become disgustingly sap-headed since my beloved consented to marry
me. Then a short honeymoon before Caro and I leave with the
Horticultural Society’s expedition to China.

The dates are fairly set in stone, so I’ll
understand if noblesse obliges you to stay shivering in the snow
and ice, running the Tsar’s errands.

But given you’ve been my best friend since I
could walk, I’ll be dashed sorry if you can’t make it to
Leicestershire to raise a glass in my honor and make an
embarrassing speech at the wedding breakfast.

Anyway, let me know when you can. There’s
nobody I’d rather have at my side when I pledge my life to the
woman I love.

Yours, etc.

Stone

Woodley Park, Leicestershire, February
1821

Helena strolled out of her childhood home
into a perfect winter morning. The air was cold enough to make her
lungs ache, but the sky was pure blue and the light so clear that
everything looked new minted. She stopped in the empty stable yard
and sucked in a deep breath. The worries and stresses of city life
drained away.

She was a countrywoman at heart. Always had
been.

Instead of living in London most of the year,
she should spend more time on her estate, Cranham. Especially with
Caro and Silas traveling, and Fenella planning her wedding to
Anthony Townsend.

How she’d miss having her friends close by.
She didn’t exaggerate when she credited the other members of the
dashingly named Dashing Widows with saving her life in those dark
days after Crewe’s death in a hunting accident. Not that she’d
missed the philandering bastard, but nine turbulent years as his
wife had left her bitter and withdrawn. Caro and Fen had reminded
her she was more than just a foolish girl who had wed a rake and
lived to regret it.

Now Caro and Fenella looked forward to their
own happiness, which was wonderful.
Except…

Except Helena felt left behind, still mired
in the past. Sighing, she tapped her crop against her thigh. Enough
self-pity. She’d had a bellyful of that, married to Crewe. With her
friends embarking on new lives, she needed a fresh purpose,
something to carry her through the inevitable loneliness.

And she had plenty to be grateful for. She
was her own woman with resources to take any path she chose.

Luckily by the time her father drew up the
wedding settlements, he didn’t trust the man his daughter had
chosen. The late Lord Stone had made provision for Helena to have
exclusive use of a substantial portion of her dowry. Within the
first few years of marriage, Crewe had gone through his own
fortune, as well as every penny he’d gained in wedding her. Without
her father’s foresight, she’d have been destitute. Then last year,
an inheritance from a bluestocking aunt had turned her from
comfortable to wealthy.

There was time enough to decide which worlds
to conquer. Today she had a lovely morning, a fine horse waiting,
and familiar haunts to revisit.

With a light step, she headed for the
stables. “Good morning, Becket,” she said as the head groom
appeared, pushing a laden wheelbarrow.

“Miss Helena,” he said, forgetting that she
was no longer the family’s coddled daughter, but the much grander
Countess of Crewe. If only she could forget, too. “We’ve missed you
about the old place.”

His lined face creased in a greeting that
reminded Helena how happy she’d been growing up at Woodley Park.
The estate had been Eden until the arrival of a snake, in the form
of Gerald Wade, Lord Crewe.

Becket had put her on her first pony before
she could walk. He must be over eighty, but Silas couldn’t convince
him to accept a comfortable retirement. Becket vowed that while the
Nash horses needed care, he’d be on duty.

“Did Artemis settle overnight?”

“Aye. Like a champion. A right fine little
mare she is.” His eyes sharpened. “Comes from Shelton Abbey, don’t
she? Has the look of old Shah Persis.”

Helena’s sallow skin didn’t hold a blush, but
unaccustomed heat burned in her cheeks. “I bought her from Lord
West earlier this year.”

“The Granges don’t like to share their best
horses. You was a lucky ‘un, then.”

“Yes, I was.” She hoped that West, when he
returned, would reconsider selling the mare and change her lie into
the truth. Lord West might annoy and trouble her, but Artemis was a
joy.

Becket bobbed his head and trundled away out
of earshot. When Helena entered the stables, Artemis stretched her
neck over the loosebox door and whickered in welcome.

“Hello, lovely girl.” Helena extended half a
wizened apple on her palm and smiled as Artemis’s velvety nose
brushed her skin in equine greed. When she scratched behind the
Arab’s ears, they pricked forward in encouragement. “Did you miss
me?”

“Like the very devil.”

The baritone drawl made Helena jump and drop
the other half of the apple. Artemis wasn’t pleased.

Nor was Helena.

She closed her eyes, inhaled a breath of
hay-scented air, prayed for composure, and turned. A tall, dark man
leaned one broad shoulder against a post in the central aisle. He
watched her with unwavering concentration.

“Lord West,” she said coolly. “Still sneaking
up on people, I see. You could give a cat lessons.”

Sardonic humor curled his mouth and made him
dazzlingly attractive, damn him. Her silly heart had started to
race the moment he spoke. Sheer surprise, she told herself
staunchly.

“I’d rather give you lessons.”

She didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Better
take the time to learn a little humility. I told you I wasn’t
interested.”

“Even after I wrote you all those fascinating
letters?”

“You’re most welcome to go back to writing.
I’ll go back to ignoring you.”

“A little difficult when we’re under the same
roof until the wedding.”

Oh, no. Although she knew Silas had asked
West to be his groomsman, the coward inside her had hoped that her
bugbear would stay in Russia. “You make it sound so scandalous,
when you know it’s perfectly respectable.”

“A man can live in hope.” He straightened and
sauntered closer with that long, smooth stride that she remembered
so well. Except now she had a chance to see him in stronger light,
a gasp of dismay escaped her. “West, you’re not well.”

His winged brows drew together in annoyance.
“Like hell I’m not.”

“You look dreadful.” It wasn’t altogether
true. He’d lost a lot of weight in the months since they’d last
met, and he was worryingly pale. But extreme thinness emphasized
the purity of his bone structure, and in his striking face, the
dark green eyes glittered with familiar wickedness.

“Why, thank you.”

She reached to take his arm before she
remembered that they were no longer friends, hadn’t been friends in
close to a dozen years. “You shouldn’t be prowling around, trying
to prove your rakish credentials. You should be in bed.”

He was still smiling, but now she saw the
effort it took. “I thought you’d never ask.”

“Stop it, you fool,” she snapped, shoving
hesitation aside and grabbing his arm. She tugged him toward a
narrow bench against the wall.

“Ah, such a fond greeting, my love.” Despite
his sarcasm, he couldn’t hide his relief as he sat and rested his
head against the wall behind him.

He was a ghastly color, and he was breathing
unsteadily. Helena couldn’t vanquish a feeling of unreality. West
was a force of nature. He always had been. Surely no mere physical
weakness could sap that titanic energy. “I’ll fetch a doctor.”

As he closed his eyes, his long mouth turned
down. “Don’t you dare. I’ve seen more than enough damned quacks in
the last few months.”

“When did you get back from Russia?”

“Two days ago.”

“You traveled like this? You’re raving
mad.”

This time sweetness tinged his smile. “Had
to.”

“I know you’re Silas’s best friend.” From her
earliest breath, West had been woven into her life. He’d been her
first dance partner. He was the first boy she’d kissed. And when
he’d introduced a handsome young man to her family as a capital
fellow, nobody had bothered to check further into Lord Crewe’s
background. “But he won’t thank you for killing yourself to be at
his wedding.”

“Not here for Silas.” West’s answer emerged
in fits and starts. “Here for…you.”

With every word he spoke, she became more
concerned. He sounded like these short, staccato sentences were all
he could manage. With a pang, she recalled how he’d provoked her at
the picnic last spring. This was a different man.

Except apparently he was just as stubborn.
And just as set on seducing her.

“I’ll still be here in a couple of weeks,”
she snapped, then cursed herself for offering any shred of
encouragement.

Another faint smile. His color was a little
better, but he looked horridly ill. Fear coagulated in a cold lump
in her stomach. Not of his powers of persuasion this time, but that
she might lose him. For nearly half her life, she’d been angry with
West, but that didn’t mean she was ready to accept a world without
him.