Winning Lord West (5 page)

All the Nashes were dauntingly intelligent.
Silas was a famous botanist. Helena devoted her leisure time to
higher mathematics, and funding charity schools for bright, but
indigent children. Robert put his navigational and engineering
gifts into service in the navy. Silas’s youngest sister Amy wrote
papers on the new agricultural practices.

“No lass is too clever to object to sweet
talk from a lad she fancies. I shouldn’t have to tell you that.
You’re the one they call a devil with the ladies.”

“Damn it, Hel’s different.”

Townsend’s disapproval melted into
disappointment. “I wouldn’t be too sure about that. And if her late
husband was half the lout I thought him, she’s in dire need of
tender handling. Kindness might even make her believe you’ve turned
over a new leaf.”

West frowned at this man who promised to
become a friend. “You don’t mince your words.”

“I’m no milksop aristocrat, you mean.”

West’s lips twitched. “I think I meant more
than that.”

“You can’t punch me in the nose with the
ladies present,” Townsend said placidly. “And you’re no fool
either. Think about what I said. You’ll see I’m right.”

***

“He looks terribly ill,” Fenella said, her
embroidery lying forgotten on her lap. Helena who wielded a needle
with the finesse of a drunken axman, cast an envious glance at the
tracery of violets and ivy on cream silk. “It’s so romantic that he
risked his health to rush to your side.”

All thoughts of feminine accomplishments fled
Helena’s mind, and she stared appalled her friend. “What on earth
did you say?”

Four pairs of curious eyes leveled on them.
“Helena, are you all right? What’s happened?” Silas asked from
across the room.

“Nothing,” she muttered. “Go back to gazing
into Caro’s eyes and whispering romantic inanities.”

Caro gave a soft laugh. “She jests at scars
who never felt a wound!”

Helena slitted her eyes at her besotted
friend and returned her attention to Fenella. This time, she kept
her voice low. “What utter balderdash. He’s here as Silas’s
groomsman. They’ve been friends since childhood.”

For such a fairy-like creature, Fenella had a
good line in unimpressed looks. “Don’t be a nitwit, Hel. He’s fond
of Silas, but he crossed Europe to see you.”

I don’t want you to be my mistress. I want
you to be my wife.

The words had haunted Helena since West had
spoken them in the stables. They were no more acceptable now than
they’d been then.

“You’re wrong.” The last thing she needed was
her friends promoting West’s asinine courtship. “We don’t like each
other.”

“He likes you.” Fenella picked up her tambour
and calmly began stitching as though she discussed the weather and
not the prospect of a lifetime of misery for Helena. “He hasn’t
taken his eyes off you all evening.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.” Helena’s hands
clenched on her lap. “Since you’ve fallen head over heels with
Anthony, you see romance everywhere.”

“I see it when I look at you and West.”

“Then your eyes deceive you. You’re living in
a fantasy world where each of us finds true love and sails into the
sunset clasped to a manly bosom.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing, when it’s Caro and Silas, or you
and Anthony. I couldn’t be happier for you.”

It was true, she told herself, even as she
stifled an unworthy twinge. She’d never do anything to jeopardize
Caro or Fen’s happiness, but it was no fun sitting on the sidelines
at a party.

As if Fen picked up her shameful envy, she
went on. “You’d be happier if you had something new to look forward
to. We’ll always be friends, but Caro and Silas will be away at
least a year, and Anthony and I plan to live in Hampshire with the
boys. You’ll be all alone in London.”

“I have other friends,” Helena said, and
cringed at how defiant she sounded.

Anyway, it was true. A wealthy widow with a
witty tongue could always find company. But since they’d met, she,
Caro and Fenella had been inseparable. The other two Dashing Widows
understood her in a way that nobody else, except perhaps Silas—and
damn him, West—did.

Her hand trembled as she lifted her brandy to
her lips. Here on the family estate, strict propriety was relaxed.
Even completely tossed out the window. She could have a drink after
dinner without raising eyebrows. And while all six people under
this roof had been assigned bedrooms, she’d lay good money that
neither of the engaged couples slept separately. The only guests
sleeping alone tonight were Helena Wade and Vernon Grange. And
given a rake’s ability to find a bedmate, she wouldn’t wager on
West remaining lonely.

Stop it, Helena. You don’t care who West
tups, as long as it’s not you.

Sometimes being understood had its drawbacks.
Fenella’s blue eyes softened with compassion. “You have your
schools, and your work, and all the intellectual life of London to
occupy you, too.”

Oh, dear Lord. At this rate, she’d be sobbing
into her brother’s best French brandy. She scowled at Fenella.
“Don’t you dare pity me, Fenella Deerham.”

“I want you to be happy.”

“I’ll be happy.” She hoped that Fenella
missed the hollow ring beneath her claim. “I have the world at my
feet.”

“You do.”

“Gentlemen vie for my attention.”

“Lord Pascal has been most attentive.”

“He’s a very nice man.”

“He is.”

Helena’s eyes narrowed on her friend. “Stop
agreeing with me.”

Fenella bit back a smile. “But everything you
say is true.”

“I’ve always wanted to travel. Why should
Silas and Caro have all the adventures?”

“No reason at all.”

“Fenella…” she warned.

Fen shook her head. “There’s no pleasing
you.”

No, there wasn’t. And Helena didn’t know what
in Hades was wrong with her. Life was good. She led a busy and
useful existence. She was delighted her friends had found
love—she’d all but cornered Caro into agreeing to marry Silas,
hadn’t she?

She blamed all this blasted love everywhere.
It made a woman restless and discontented. Perhaps when she
returned to London, she’d do something about turning her agreeable
friendship with handsome Lord Pascal into something more. A lover
might help to heal the scars left from her marriage.

Pascal was kind and clever, and pleasant
company. In subtle ways, he’d made it clear that he’d welcome a
closer connection. Dear heaven, half London already thought they
shared a bed—and the gossip about that had reached as far as
Moscow.

She’d take a lover. She’d see Italy and
France and Greece. She’d meet interesting people and do exciting
things. And she’d ignore the snide little voice that whispered in
her ear that she’d do all those wonderful things alone.

It was natural to feel out of sorts with so
many changes around her. She’d find her balance again. And life
would become the rich banquet she’d always hoped it could be.

With sudden determination, she emptied her
glass and set it on the side table.

But shaky self-confidence dissolved into
trepidation when she met West’s unwinking green gaze across the
opulent room.

It was late when Helena made her way to her
bedroom by the light of a single candle. A headache pounded in her
temples and she was so keyed up, she knew she wouldn’t sleep a
wink. The familiar house, with its happy childhood memories,
settled around her.

Returning to Woodley Park was a bittersweet
experience. Inevitably she remembered the lively girl she’d been,
and her gentle, intellectual parents, and how close she’d been to
her brothers and sisters. She also remembered her first fumbling
forays into love with West. Except back in those days when every
heartbeat had echoed his name, he’d been mere Mr. Vernon
Grange.

Compared to that vivacious, warmhearted girl,
she felt old and tired and desiccated.

She’d been looking forward to the house party
before Silas’s wedding as a chance to spend time with her brother
and her friends before everything changed forever. But if tonight
indicated what lay ahead, she wished she’d stayed in London. West
had made no secret of his interest, and not only had she needed to
defend herself against Fenella’s matchmaking, Caro tore herself
away from Silas long enough to weigh in on the subject, too.

Helena placed the blame on West. Damn him for
telling Anthony he wanted to marry her. In the way of lovers,
Anthony had told Fenella, who told Caro, who told Silas. Now Helena
heartily consigned all her dearest friends to perdition.

When she pushed open the door, her room was
aglow with candles. Without surprise, she looked across to the man
sitting beside the tall window. Eleven years ago, a snake had
poisoned her particular Eden, and his friend was still very much
alive to cause trouble.

“Lord West.” Her voice was cold.

He bowed his head without standing. She
supposed given he’d invaded her room, lesser courtesies hardly
mattered. At least he remained fully dressed. “Lady Crewe.”

His mockery of her formality was the last
straw. “Get out.”

“Helena—”

Her hand curled around the doorknob behind
her. She wished she hadn’t dismissed her maid for the night before
going down to dinner. “You heard me.”

He raised his palms in a conciliatory
gesture. “I want to talk.”

“We can talk. Downstairs. In the full light
of day.”

“Except you’ll go out of your way to avoid me
again.”

“Doesn’t that tell you something?” Her heart
raced like a bolting horse. She wanted to say it was with fear,
except she wasn’t really frightened. At least not that West
intended to force his attentions on her.

“It tells me I make you nervous.”

“You’re making me nervous now. Please go
away.”

His lips twitched. “You know I mean no
harm.”

“It depends on your definition of harm. If I
shriek for help, Silas and Anthony will hear me.”

“They’re happily engaged in their own
affairs. Pun intended.”

“They’d still come to my rescue.”

That prompted a quizzical look. “You don’t
need rescuing.”

He stood, and her large, luxurious bedroom
turned into a trap. Any confidence that she could bring this
unexpected encounter to a speedy end dissolved like sugar in hot
water.

“I’ll scream.”

“You wouldn’t be so gauche.”

She backed away until she hit the door. “I’m
extremely gauche when it comes to ejecting undesirable intruders
from my bedroom.”

Except he wasn’t undesirable, blast him. Damn
all the love in the air. It sparked reckless ideas in a girl’s head
when she found herself alone with an attractive man after
midnight.

West sighed and brushed his hand through his
thick black hair, making it tumble forward over his high forehead.
“Hel, for pity’s sake, give me ten minutes, and if you still feel
like a vile monster has cornered you, I’ll go.”

Despite herself, she laughed shortly. “You’re
not a vile monster, and you know it.”

He’d been a beautiful boy and her first love.
He’d grown into a striking man, the perfect picture of the dark,
dashing aristocrat with his chiseled features and athletic body.
Her husband had been another such classic English gentleman, but
mature judgment found signs of character in West’s face that Crewe
had lacked.

When Crewe died at twenty-nine, debauchery
had turned him into a wreck. He’d been fat and shaky and sick.
Despite his recent illness, Vernon Grange at thirty was in the
prime of life. He might be pale and too thin. But his eyes were
clear, his jaw was firm, and his mouth expressed humor and
intelligence, not petulant self-indulgence.

His mouth…

“Helena?”

She blinked and realized that she’d drifted
off. A bad idea when she shared a cage with a tiger. West mightn’t
be as bad as Crewe—the fact that he was alive to pester her
testified to that—but he was still dangerous. “I’m sorry. I’m
tired.”

“Please sit down and listen to me.” He
gestured toward the bed.

Helena cast him a narrow-eyed look and moved
toward the chair on the other side of the window. “As long as
there’s no marriage nonsense.” She blew out her candle and set it
on the windowsill between them. “And I’ll hold you to the ten
minutes.”

“You don’t give an inch, do you?” He angled
his chair so he could watch her. Which wasn’t what she wanted. He’d
watched her all night, and she had the shredded nerves to prove
it.

“Why should I?”

“Because you’re missing out on so much.”

Her sigh was longsuffering. “I can live very
happily without marrying again. I can’t see why you’d think to ask
me. We don’t get along.”

“We used to.”

“Maybe I should have married you at sixteen,”
she retorted.

To her disgust, he treated her sarcastic
rejoinder as a serious suggestion. “We were too young. I needed to
see the world to discover how special you are.”

His compliment angered rather than pleased.
She made a dismissive gesture. “Don’t talk such rubbish. That might
work on your usual witless inamoratas, but I know you too
well.”

West’s regard was steady as he leaned back
with every appearance of relaxation. “Knowing someone well is good
grounds for marriage.”

She shook her head. “Not when I don’t like
what I know.”

“Is that really true?”

“Yes,” she said, and didn’t believe it
herself.

Curse him, why couldn’t he lose his temper
and march out in a huff, instead of acting like a sensible man?
She’d spent eleven years telling herself she despised him. Except
that, if she was fair—as she very much didn’t want to be—he wasn’t
quite the thoughtless brute she’d painted him. He took care of his
estates, and he could sound intelligent when he felt like it. His
negotiation skills had gained international respect. When the
government sent him to Russia to sort out that diplomatic mess, it
wasn’t the first time they’d turned to him for help.