A Home for Helena (The Lady P Chronicles Book 2) (16 page)

He hadn't, until the ball. But now that he'd had some time to think about it, it didn't seem quite so shocking that she had kissed other men before him. Was that what she meant?

"If you are speaking of my boorish behavior that night, then yes, I do regret offering you such insult, particularly over such a pleasurable experience." His voice turned husky at the memory of it.

She blushed, but her expression was troubled. "Nevertheless, I should not have slapped you. I should have known better than to kiss you. I didn't come here to get involved in a romance, and frankly, it's a distraction I can't allow, Mr. Walker."

His brows furrowed. It wasn't like he hadn't suspected she had some other purpose in coming to England besides visiting her mother's old school friend. One that had nothing to do with husband-hunting, which was the usual reason for such visits. He was determined to find out Miss Lloyd's secrets. But he was pleased to know that she
did
like kissing him. He made the impetuous decision to kiss her again. Distraction or no.

"It's James, remember?" he said with a gleam in his eye. "Perhaps we can begin our acquaintanceship again, on a more equal footing."

She smiled and nodded. "I would like that, James. And I'm Helena. But not around the children, of course."

Their horses were close enough that he could breathe in her lavender scent, and the expression in her eyes told him that in spite of her denial, she wouldn’t object to a repeat of their kiss.

“Hurry, Papa!”

His daughter’s voice brought him back to his senses. Was he really about to kiss Miss Lloyd—Helena—again? When he was still at least somewhat involved with Mrs. Rhodes—whom he had not the slightest inclination to think of as “Adele.” Or kiss, scandalously or not.

At the same time, he was disappointed. He really wanted to kiss Helena again. So much that it clouded his judgment, and he didn’t care a jot.

“Come race with us, Papa! Whoever gets to the fence and back first wins an extra biscuit for luncheon.”

James sent an apologetic look at Helena, who shrugged and smiled.

“Sally and I will stay behind and cheer for the competitors,” she said brightly. “And don’t
let
them win. It must be a true competition or not at all.”

He grinned and urged his horse to a gallop, feeling as though all was right with the world. When he won the race, his gaze went immediately to Helena, where he was rewarded with a mischievous smile.

He thought his heart would burst out of his chest.

J
ames
—she still felt a little presumptuous calling him by his Christian name, even though she’d been doing it in her thoughts for quite some time—spent much of the morning practicing jumping technique with the children. Helena declined to take part, but she enjoyed watching his interaction with them. He smiled at her frequently, which never failed to flood her with warmth, and she found herself reluctant to pull her attention away from him.

“That was lovely, Theo!” “You’ll get it next time, Annabelle!” “You’ve really improved on that one, Emily!”

But she was well aware—and she thought he knew it as well—that it was James who had her in his thrall.

Annabelle, too, wore her heart on her sleeve, so pleased and proud of her father’s popularity with the Newsome children. For once, she wasn’t the poor, neglected child with no parent of her own to tuck her in at night. While she still had no mother, she had a fabulous, doting father.

Following the jumping lessons, the procession rode over to the their favorite picnic spot near the lake, where the footmen had set out a spread of cold chicken, ham, rolls, cheese, peas, strawberries, and Cook’s special strawberry tarts. James spoke to one of the footmen about procuring some of Sir Henry’s fishing gear, and by the time they had finished their meal, three fishing rods and a metal box of fishing paraphernalia had arrived.

As the only one in the party who had never fished before, Helena balked at digging for worms, but decided to forage for larger insects like crickets and grasshoppers instead. In Florida where she’d grown up, even a city girl became accustomed to quarter-size or larger cockroaches and spiders, not to mention the lizard-like anoles that could scramble up a tree in what seemed like a fraction of a second.

“As long as I don’t have to touch them.” Just because she wasn’t afraid of them didn’t mean she was eager to pick them up with her hands. James scoffed good-naturedly at her scruples, but pulled out a glass jar from the tackle box and showed her how to scoop up a cricket with the jar and quickly plop on the lid to keep it from escaping.

Of course, there was no way to avoid touching the bait when it came to baiting the hook, and Helena shuddered as the three girls, showing no sign of reluctance, baited their hooks and tossed their lines into the lake.

“Whoever gets the biggest fish gets to play with Granny’s toys tonight,” said Theo.

Helena and James looked at each other questioningly. Granny’s toys?

Annabelle’s brows furrowed. “Granny’s toys? What are they?”

“Theo!” Emily gave her sister a warning look. “They’re just some toys Granny bought us that we aren’t allowed to play with unless Granny’s here.”

“What are they?” Annabelle queried. “Can I play with them too?”

Theo bit her lip. “Nothing special. They’re just silly toys.” She shaded her face with her hand and surveyed the lake. “Oh, I think I saw a fish jumping on the other side. I’m going to try my luck over there.” And she was gone.

Annabelle looked confused. “But—“

Emily took her hand. “Never mind, Annabelle. You know Theo. She just likes to cause trouble. Let’s make sure it’s one of
us
catches the biggest fish.”

Annabelle sighed and let it go. Helena and James retreated to the picnic area to supervise the fishermen.

“What do you suppose she meant by ‘Granny’s toys’?” James asked.

Helena bit her lip, recalling an earlier conversation with the Newsomes about Lady P bringing home toys from the future. "I haven't seen them," she answered truthfully. "They’re probably just some expensive gifts she bought that she doesn’t want the girls to spoil.” Although that didn’t sound at all like Lady P, she thought, as she smoothed out her skirt and lowered herself to the ground.

James didn’t seem to think so either. He gave her an inscrutable look and plopped down beside her on the soft grass.

“By the way,” he said casually, “I chanced upon Fiennes Wykeham when I was in Town, and mentioned the matter of his son Charles and the maid.”

“Oh?” Helena tilted her head to the side and gazed at him expectantly. “It doesn’t seem like a topic most gentlemen would bother their heads about.”

He winced. “Must you always assume the worst of us gentlemen?” he said mildly. “I took him aside and told him what we’d overheard that day. He said that he and his wife knew of the situation and are quite distressed by their son’s perfidy. Wykeham has decided to purchase him a commission in the army, ‘to make a man of him.’”

Helena rolled her eyes. “As if
that
will do anything. I’m sure the army has plenty of rapists already.” She sighed. “But at least he won’t be able to molest that poor girl anymore.” She gave him a quizzical look. “What will become of her and the child?”

He shook his head and smiled bemusedly. “You have such an—original—manner of speaking. Quite unlike that of any other American I’ve encountered.”

Helena plucked a few spears of grass and tossed it in his face. “As though you've met so many of us, stuck out here on your farm so much,” she said, eyebrows raised. “Stop teasing and tell me the rest of the story, you rogue."

He burst out laughing. “Rogue? Me?” His hand went to his chest, feigning distress. “And here I believed you had forgiven me. Must I grovel at your feet to regain your good approval, Helena?”

Helena snorted. “Groveling is always good, but right now I’d be satisfied if you would just spill the beans, my lord. What is happening with the maid?”

“Spill the beans?”

“Let the cat out of the bag. Talk,” she said impatiently.

“What boon will you grant me in return?”

“Men. They’re all the same. I ask you a question and you demand something in return.”

He laid a hand on his chest. “You have wounded me, my lady. I would not dream of demanding anything from you that you did not freely give.”

He leaned closer to her, his eyes serious. “Can you truthfully say that you would not like me to kiss you?”

Helena moistened her lips at the warmth in his eyes, so close to her own. Of course she wanted him to kiss her! She’d been craving for it ever since the last one, to be honest, in spite of her better judgment.

“No,” she whispered, and then forced herself to pull away. “But we can’t. The children…“ She waved toward the young anglers.

“Not here, perhaps,” he said softly. “But later, when we have some-er-privacy.” His eyes burned into hers. “Did I mention before how lovely you looked this morning with your hair down?”

Helena swallowed hard. “You need to stop. Now.” She leaned back on her elbows. “All right. It’s a deal. Now tell me.” Why was she such an easy touch for this charming rogue? Normally she had way more control than that.

He gave a triumphant laugh and dropped down to his side, leaning on one elbow while he handed her a small white flower he’d plucked from among the tall grasses.

“A reminder of your promise,” he said gallantly. “As to the maid: she’s to marry one of the gardeners and set up housekeeping with him in a cottage near Hollingbourne.”

“A gardener? What kind of man is he? Does she like him?” Arranged marriages didn’t appeal to Helena either, although she supposed it was better than living with the stigma of bearing an illegitimate child.

He shook his head and stared at her. “I didn’t think to inquire. Surely marriage is the best resolution for both mother and babe.”

Helena sighed and slumped backward into the grassy bed. “I suppose it is, when you consider the alternative. But… you don't think he will grow to resent her, do you? I shouldn't like her to be abused."

He tipped his head to one side and studied her face. "I should think the young man grateful to have a comely wife, a cottage, and the favor of the master of the house. I-uh-understand that he's been sleeping in the stable until now."

"So you don't think he'll resent her for not being a virgin? And that his first-born will be another man's child?"

He winced. "Do you find us so bereft of common decency that we cannot recognize a victim when we see one? I have no tolerance for men who molest women, Helena. Whether they be gardeners or noblemen. In any case, this child is a Wykeham, and I have no doubt his grandparents will see to his welfare… and that of his mother."

Helena tried to clear the jumbled thoughts in her head. It wasn't fair to judge this man guilty of all she knew of nineteenth century men's transgressions toward women. He was a product of his time, but that didn't mean he was couldn't be compassionate. Or trainable.

Trainable? For what? She closed her eyes and opened them again.

"I suppose so," she muttered. "And I didn't mean to imply that all men are scoundrels. You have a better knowledge of Mr. Wykeham's character than I do. It's just that I've seen too many women victimized by men who should be protecting them. After awhile, one gets to expect it."

He was still for a moment, brows furrowed as he studied her face. She knew he was wondering about her background. A gently bred young woman would have been shielded from such things. She could hardly tell him she was a product of the Florida foster care system.

"Marriage for a woman isn't always a happy-ever-after," she said. "And when it fails, it's usually the woman who suffers most. The system is skewed in favor of the male sex." To a lesser degree, that was true even in the twenty-first century.

He shifted his head and gazed into the distance. "You're right," he said at last. "It's not at all fair. We are raised with the idea that women are the weaker sex, that it is our duty to protect them. But I suppose protection can become a sort of tyranny."

Helena sat up in surprise, and he didn't seem to notice, so absorbed was he in his thoughts. What was he thinking about it?
Who
was he thinking about?

"Exactly. The Bible verse that says women should obey their husbands gets used by men as an excuse to bully and abuse them when they ignore the very next verse orders men to love their wives as Christ loved the church. If you love your wife even a fraction of that, wouldn't you consider
her
opinions and wishes important?"

When he didn't answer, she glanced over at his prostrate form and saw that his hands were tightened into fists as he stared sightlessly into the heavens.

H
elena's words
had a profound effect on James. He'd loved his first wife, Anne, but what sort of love was it that judged it appropriate to ignore her wishes and treat her like a child? Particularly after seeing his father blithely ignore his mother's pleas as he recklessly gambled away nearly everything he owned. When his own turn came around, James had vowed to become the antithesis of his father, to work hard and live frugally until the estate became profitable once more.

A noble goal, perhaps. But why had he assumed that his young wife would share his dreams? He'd blithely ignored Anne's wishes much as his father had his mother's. A sober thought indeed.

"I'm not sure I could bring myself to get married in this time period. Even if I fell head over heels in love. I mean, who's to say what could happen afterward when the bloom of the rose tarnishes."

James snorted. "Fades, rather. Brass tarnishes, but a rose fades." He sat up slightly, on his elbow, as he studied Helena.

She grinned. "Whatever. As long as they love each other—truly love each other—that will get them through the rough patches. But if—when—that ends, and there's no divorce, there's nothing but misery. Especially for the wife, who is legally under the thumb of her husband."

James frowned. “Is
this
what you think of marriage? That it’s nothing but a prison for women?”