An Exquisite Marriage (13 page)

“Now you,” she said, but the words were ragged, and as reluctant as the movement of her hand had been.

Slowly, Marcus withdrew his fingers from her hair. He let them linger on her neck, placing disordered curls carefully about the curve of her shoulders. He caressed that curve, not lightly, like she'd touched him, but heavily, as if he hoped to leave a permanent imprint on her skin, even through the muslin. He drew his hand down her arm, to her wrist, to her hand, which he raised and he kissed. He had to let her go. The door was not locked. Curious sisters and suspicious aunts were well known to return home early if they thought there might be something worth seeing. Not that it mattered. He'd already proposed, so there was no question of ruin, only a little embarrassment. And yet, Helene was sensitive to scandal. She had asked him to let her go, and he was a gentleman, even if these were not a gentleman's feelings that currently possessed him. He must take his mouth away from her sweet fingertips, and he must definitely take his other hand off her bottom.

But then again, she still hadn't pulled away.

“Ahem!”

Marcus whirled around, and there in the library's open doorway stood Patience, hands on her hips. Instinctively, Marcus moved between her and Helene. But not fast enough. The two girls saw each other. Both lifted their chins, but only Patience rolled her eyes toward Heaven.

“The Fitzgerald! Oh, honestly! Has
everyone
in this family lost their minds!”

She turned on her heel and stomped off into the corridor.

“I'd better go after her,” said Marcus.

“No,” Helene laid a hand on his arm. “Let me do it.”

Helene was out of the room before he could move to stop her. It wasn't until he heard the door's latch snap into place that it occurred to him that he had told Helene he loved her, but she had not said the same to him.

Then he remembered that she had not actually said she would marry him, either.

***

“Lady Patience!”

Patience had reached the grand, curving stair. Helene's call stopped her on the first step. While she watched, Patience straightened her shoulders and shook herself, obviously trying to recover her practiced, icy poise.

Rather too obviously.

Patience turned, her nose in the air. “Lady Helene.”

“There is no pretending this is not somewhat awkward.”

Patience had never responded well to understatement, which was why Helene used it now. It was best to have the blowup immediately. It left Patience with nowhere to go.

“Awkward!” Patience shouted. “It's revolting! What on earth were you thinking?”

“That your brother just asked me to marry him.”

Patience stared. Helene had heard of the phenomenon of someone's eyes attempting to start out of their heads, but she had never actually observed it. It was much less charming than twinkling.

“No, he did not.” Patience lifted her chin in the air, ready to defy reality itself. Helene did not let herself smile.

“I'm afraid he did.”

“What did you answer him?”

“You interrupted before we could reach that point.”

“Well, thank goodness for small mercies,” Patience sighed, and Helene wondered if she realized how much she sounded like her aunt in that moment. Probably not. “You will tell him no.”

“Why?”

Patience stared at her as if she'd missed something entirely obvious. “Because I do not want to have to spend the rest of my life as your sister!”

“Why?” asked Helene again.

“Because you're a disgrace and a bluestocking and everyone will laugh at me!”

This was entirely expected, and Helene brushed it off. “No one laughs at you now, and you've been ashamed of your own sister for several seasons before this.” In fact, one of her primary occupations in public had been teasing her plainer, more awkward sister mercilessly.

“That's because I've made sure no one dares laugh at me.”

“Good. That means you are practiced. Between your skill at being formidable and my change of reputation, I think we shall manage this trick rather well.”

Patience's brow furrowed in confusion. She'd most likely been expecting protests of affection, or appeals to her softer feelings, or assurances that Helene's future conduct would entirely erase the stains of her past. The current line of reasoning had caught her unprepared.

“You hate me,” Patience said.

“I don't.”

Another surprise. Patience's hand curled around the newel post, as if she was afraid she might stagger. “Yes, you do. I've never been anything but unpleasant to you.”

“You've needed to make sure no one thought you were like me. You chose the obvious path. You're angry and frustrated at the constraints of society, but you have to live in it, and you've done everything you can to make your life as successful as possible. I've seen what happens when a girl fails to do that. How could I hate you for trying to avoid my fate?”

Now Patience did stagger, or at least she swayed. She also switched from glaring at Helene to glaring at the wall. Probably no one had ever confronted her with a succinct summary of her own motivations before, and the poor girl had no idea what do to with it.

“You are serious?” Patience said at last.

“Very,” Helene replied.

“And you're going to . . .”

“It is quite possible.”

Patience rubbed her forehead, probably trying to smooth out the furrows before there was a risk of wrinkles forming. “I'm going to lie down.”

“I think that's a very good idea. And I suggest you don't say anything to your aunt. I anticipate an attack of the vapors when she hears.”

Patience glared at her. Then, she stomped up the stairs, as well as one could stomp in slippers.

Helene felt herself smile. She straightened her spine. She needed to return to the library.

She wondered what she would do once she got there.

***

Marcus was standing by the fireplace, drumming his fingers on the mantel. He straightened at once as Helene entered.

“How did things go with Patience?” he asked.

“Rather better than I expected,” Helene replied. She considered making a large circle around him. That picture had gone crooked again, and straightening suddenly seemed an urgent priority.

She did not. She stepped close to him. She lifted her eyes to his. It was both easier and more difficult this time, because the touch of his gaze reminded her instantly of the touch of his mouth and his hands, and that sensation took hold of her reason and tore it to bits.

“I hope,” said Marcus, “that you didn't tell her you were going to marry me, because it would be rude of you to let her know before you've told me.”

“I said nothing definite to her.”

“Do you intend to say something definite to me?”

Do I?

Helene opened her mouth. She closed it. Marcus smiled, and had her heart not already been pounding madly, that would have set it off.

She expected him to move away, to give her some room to think and breathe, because that was what he had done so far, and as she had had several occasions to observe, he was a gentleman. But evidently, the Duke of Windford had decided the time for gentlemanly behavior was over. Instead of retreating, he advanced, slowly, taking his time, making sure she could see each movement. Especially as he reached out his hand to take hers and raise it to his lips.

“I might not make a very good duchess,” she said, or rather she gasped, as his warm mouth pressed against her fingers.

“You will make the best duchess.” He was looming. It wasn't fair of him. Looming and smiling and cupping her cheek with one hand so he could more conveniently press a kiss against her jaw.

How had her fingers come to be digging into his shoulders? She had no memory of having raised her hands.

“My family . . . my mother . . .”

“Will be clamoring for preference and place.” Several strands of her hair had come loose, and he brushed them back. He also let his hand rest on the curve of her scalp. “You've
told
me, Helene. We will cross every one of those bridges when we come to it. I've been the duke for a long time already. I know my responsibilities, and my powers.” He hesitated. “You will have to learn to trust me.”

“I do trust you,” she whispered, and her voice trembled and she hated it. “It's the rest of the world I fear.”

“We will face the rest of the world together.” He spoke seriously. He spoke softly. He spoke so that all she wanted to do was accept each and every word as the absolute truth.

“Marry me, Helene,” he said again. He also kissed her. He began gently, but soon the kiss deepened and grew insistent, and not just on his part.

And now her arms were around his rock-hard waist and her breasts were rubbing his chest, and really, she did not ever want to stop, but she needed to breathe!

He lifted his mouth from hers, and he was grinning, and twinkling. Drat the man!

“This is a tactic commonly used on a reluctant girl, I believe,” she muttered, as soon as she had enough breath to do so.

“Is it working?” He stroked her hair, plainly reveling in the touch of the strands under his hand.

“Ph . . . physical desire, no matter how strong, is not a reasonable foundation . . .”

“You were the one who wanted to find out if we were compatible, Helene,” he reminded her. “By the way, do you think we are?”

Considering the fact that some previously unknown part of her had become unreasonably annoyed that they were both still wearing clothes, the answer to that was probably yes.

Marcus did not seem inclined to press that issue, or let go of her.

“This is not about desire,” he said. He also ran his fingers down the side of her throat. “Not entirely, at least,” he chuckled, but then quickly grew serious again. “I ask you to marry me because I love you and because I am convinced there is no one else I could want for my wife.”

She touched his hand. She lifted it away from her. She ran her thumb across the back, and she kissed the same spot. Then she walked away to the window, but not before she saw the distress that showed so plainly on his face.

She was frightening him with her delays. She was frightening herself. He'd asked an honest question, and he deserved an honest answer. Why couldn't she give it?

“I won't change, you know.”

“Have I asked you to change?”

“No. Not yet. But.” Her hands were shaking again. She pressed her fingertips against the windowsill. She was not in the garden. This was
not
Broadheathe she spoke to. She should not even be thinking of that other, odious man, or that unspeakable night. Marcus was good and honest and intelligent and could dance and, it seemed, drive her to distraction with a single kiss. “When a girl, when a woman, expresses interest in the rights and troubles of her own sex, the common assumption is she just needs a man to settle her down. Or that she's suffered a disappointment and needs a man to take her in hand. Well, I have suffered disappointment, but I will not stop caring about the lives, the rights of others, because I am married.”

“Good,” he answered. “A wife who is quiet, homebound, and dutiful is of no use to me. Your willingness to become involved in the charitable boards and committees and to rub elbows with society's matrons—not to mention your careful study of the natural order of the ballroom—all will be of very great service to me, and our family.”

She turned. “You'll be teased. Men will tell you I'm an ice princess and a thousand other things.”

“And the man who says such a thing to me is risking his neck.”

“They'll think . . .”

“Helene, what are you afraid of?” demanded Marcus. “I've seen who you really are. You are fierce and independent, intelligent, ardent, passionate, kind, and loving. You are loyal to your friends and generous to those less fortunate. You believe in justice. You have a sense of humor like none I've ever known. In my arms . . . when you're in my arms you make me long to be the finest man alive so that I can deserve you.”

Her eyes were burning, her heart was burning. He saw that. She could hide her feelings from the whole world but not from him. He was across the room and wrapping his arms around her before she was even truly aware he moved. She pressed her forehead against his shoulder and her hand against his chest.

“You ask what I'm afraid of,” she breathed. “I'm afraid because I love you, too. I want you more than the breath in my body. That frightens me. Because if I lose you . . . I will smother up.”

“But you will not lose me, Helene.”

She reached up one trembling hand and stroked the side of his face. She touched his brow, his mouth. She wanted to assure herself that he was real, and to somehow feel the truth her mind would not yet allow her to believe. He caught her hand, and he kissed it until her fingers uncurled. Then, he pressed her palm over his heart.

“Feel it. Trust it. Trust yourself, Helene. Trust me. This is real. I want you to marry me.”

“Yes,” she answered. “Yes, Marcus, I will marry you.”

“Helene! At last! What happened! What did he say? Did he propose? I'm going to murder him if he didn't. What did you do? What did you say?”

Helene returned from Windford House to No. 48 to find Adele pacing the length of the green parlor. Madelene followed behind, pleading that if Adele exhausted herself she was going to be of no use to anyone. Only Miss Sewell in her chair by the fire kept up any semblance of calm.

“Yes, he did propose,” said Helene, selecting the most essential questions from Adele's outburst. “And I said yes.”

“I knew it!” crowed Adele. “Oh, Helene, I'm so happy!”

Adele embraced her, almost crushing the breath out of her in fact, and Madelene took her hand to add her much quieter congratulations underneath Adele's exultant cheers. Helene knew a moment's guilt. Madelene returned a tremulous smile, and the distance in her eyes said she was thinking of her own still uncertain future. Lord Benedict was giving her a difficult time. This might be something else that needed to be organized, and soon.

Adele, however, was not paying attention to any of this. “I'll make you the most splendid wedding dress ever! Oh! And you'll be married from our house, of course, and—”

“And,” Helene cut her off firmly, “we have enough to plan at the moment. We will have plenty of time to organize any weddings
after
our ball.”

But although she spoke to Adele, Helene did not look at her friend. She looked instead to their chaperone, who had not moved from her chair or spoken one word in congratulations. Her eyes as she gazed at her trio of protégés—no, at Helene specifically—were not just calm, but concerned.

A cold knot of worry formed in the pit of Helene's stomach. She set this aside and worked toward turning her friends' attention back to the visiting books, the guest lists, and the form of the invitations they planned to issue, not to mention the fact that they had an appointment to meet Mr. Henry Cross for one of their dancing lessons.

These tasks proved extremely difficult.

***

The livery stable two streets over from Miss Sewell's had become used to Helene, and the owner knew to have a carriage and driver ready for her at about this time. The man drove her through the crowded streets with professional efficiency and speed. But when her conveyance arrived, Helene saw with a start that hers was not the first carriage in front of Anandale House.

This other was shining black and dignified, with four roan horses in its harness, its lanterns lit and immaculately liveried postilions in attendance. She recognized it. She'd ridden in it. That was the Windford carriage.

Marcus was in her house
.
Her ruined, half-empty house. He was in there with her parents, who might say anything, might do anything . . .

Helene snatched up her hems and ran inside.

“Helene!” cried Suza from the stairs as she dashed past.

“Helene! My darling!” cried Lady Anandale from the claret parlor as Helene paused just long enough to determine that Mother was alone before darting out again and dashing for Father's private study.

She threw open the door.

Marcus rose to his feet. He had a wineglass in his hand. Father, who was in the room's only other chair, also rose.

Marcus bowed. Helene curtsied and struggled to regain her breath.

“My dear!” Father set his own glass down on the floor, because there was nowhere else, and came forward to take both her hands and plant a kiss on her cheek. “My heartiest felicitations, my dear. We are so very, very proud of you!”

He beamed at her. Helene was reeling from the force of the emotions colliding within her. Anger, fear, not a bit of disgust at her father's beaming pride. She could not force out a single word.

Marcus stood calmly, his hands folded behind him. He'd put his own glass on the sill of the uncurtained window. His face was perfectly composed, except for his eyes.

He could not possibly be twinkling at her, not here. Not now.

“You will excuse us, Father,” Helene said. “I would like a word with His Grace.”

“Of course, of course. It's perfectly proper and expected that you should . . .”

He was still talking as she snatched up the lamp from the one table by the door and led Marcus out of the room and down the side hallway to the library. Her wretched, empty library.

She set the lamp down on her desk. She couldn't even lock the door. She had to move her chair in front of it.

“You're upset,” said Marcus.

“Upset.” Helene reached up to untie her bonnet. She placed it carefully on her desk. “I suppose that's as good a word as any.”

“Why? After I had your consent, the next step . . .”

“Was to do something utterly high-handed without even consulting me!” she shouted and then clapped her hand over her mouth. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry.”

“It's all right, Helene.”

“No. It isn't.” She shook her head violently. “It's not reasonable. It's not rational.”

“But it's still all right.” He was smiling, drat the man, kindly. He was coming to her to take her hand away from her mouth and turn it over, and look at . . . her gloved palm? Her buttoned wrist?

“I just wish you'd waited,” she whispered. “I would have arranged . . .” She gestured helplessly around the room with her free hand. “I never wanted you to see this.”

“Perhaps I should have waited.” He was undoing the button on her glove. His gaze was fixed on his careful fingers, as though he could not fathom what his own hands might be up to. “I was thinking to spare you.”

“Spare me?” Now it was she who was watching in fascination as he drew her glove off.

“From what you said, I imagined my suit would be met with a great deal of haggling and some of it less than dignified. I thought I might have to be firm, even brusque. I did not want to subject you to that.” He ran his fingers across her palm. It tickled. She liked it. She liked every touch from him.

She raised her other hand. He paused, and he swallowed, hard. Then he unbuttoned that glove as well.

“Has something happened, Helene?” he asked. “Did Patience or Aunt Kearsely say something?” He drew her glove off in one sensuous brush of worn kid across her skin. “Surely it wasn't something Adele said.”

“No. No. Adele is thrilled. I . . . I was just afraid.”

He was standing back, her second glove crushed in his hand. He was breathing like he'd run here. But then, so was she.

She reached up and undid the first button of her coat. Now it was her hands he stared at. She liked this. She liked that she could paralyze this powerful, handsome man. She liked that she could make him forget how to speak, and how to breathe.

“Can I do anything?” he asked huskily.

“Hold me,” she breathed.

Marcus smiled. At last he raised his eyes to hers. “I didn't hear.”

“Hold me, Marcus.”

“Gladly.”

He wrapped his arms around her, and she pressed herself against him as if she sought to merge their bodies. She kissed him, directly and firmly. He answered, surprised at first, but gradually giving himself over to the act. His strong hands clasped her derriere, lifting her up onto her toes so he could reach her mouth more easily.

“We're going to have to stop this,” he gasped when they finally parted.

“Why?” she asked, brushing the hands he'd bared across his shoulders. She loved his shoulders. She wondered what the skin there felt like. She wondered what his chest looked like. Did he have a great deal of hair? Fair men sometimes did not. But then his brows were so very dark . . .

“Because I can't seem to start without wanting to ravish you.”

Helene's wandering thoughts stilled and turned and repeated his words for her further edification. Warmth and triumph poured through her, both wicked, both dangerous, both so sweet she could not help but smile.

“Well then,” she said, caressing his shoulders once more, and his arms, and taking up both his hands. “We will simply have to arrange a more private location.”

“You're serious?” His voice broke, and she smiled again at the absurdity of it. Oh, she was going to enjoy surprising him.

She also shrugged. “Yes,” she said simply. “We are engaged, are we not? You have spoken to my father. You've seen . . .”—she gestured around the empty library—“and you're still not running away. We are in agreement and both clearly want to complete the act.” She curved her hand around his hip, delighting in the sensation of it. “As long as we are discreet, there is no reason why we shouldn't.”

Marcus sucked in a deep shuddering breath. He wasn't smiling anymore, let alone twinkling. In fact, if she didn't know better, she would have thought he was suddenly afraid.

“What is it?” she asked him. “What's the matter? Have I shocked you? Did I . . . do something wrong?”

“No. Not in the least. That is . . .” He put both his hands on her waist, resting them on the edges of her hips. Warmth spread up from the place he touched, sinking through her skin and into her blood.

“What? Please tell me.” An absurd shortness of breath seemed to have come over her. She couldn't keep her hands still. She had to touch him, brush her palms across his shoulders and down his arms. She thirsted to know what she would see once he removed his coat, his shirt. She ran her fingers across his chest and down to his flat, hard stomach. She should stop. She, they, needed to talk sensibly. But she could not, and what was more, she did not want to.

Marcus seemed to be suffering a similar restlessness. He brushed a stray lock of hair from her forehead. He let his blunt fingertips linger along her brow and softly trace the line of her ear as if its simple shape fascinated him. Then he did the same to the line of her throat. Oh, how could so small a touch be so exquisite?

More
, begged every part of her.
Please, more.

“It's not something I ever thought to tell,” whispered Marcus. Helene started a little. She had entirely forgotten they were in the middle of a conversation. “It is not something a gentleman is supposed to . . . confess to a lady.”

“You may tell me anything. You've certainly heard a great many shocking things from me already.” She was pleased that she was able to keep her voice so calm as she spoke. Inside, a cold thread of fear rose up from her stomach.

“Helene.” Marcus's fingertips were resting on her collarbone. It was doing the most remarkable things to her pulse. And the library, which was always so cold, had grown impossibly warm. “Helene, I've never . . . been with a woman. Not really.”

Despite recent extreme and embarrassing lapses, Helene remained sufficiently practiced at controlling her own emotions that she managed to confine any shift in expression to a slight lift of her eyebrows. “Do you mean you are a virgin?”

“Technically, no.” Marcus touched her coat lapels and the wrinkles where her sleeve covered her elbow. “I . . . that is to say . . . I've been with . . .”

“Prostitutes,” she filled in, otherwise they were never going to get anywhere. It was the accepted manner for a young man to learn how his sex functioned.

“But not since I was a youth. They were brief encounters. And, to tell you the truth, I found them distasteful. Since then . . .” He shook his head.

Helene had many opinions on men and women and their relations. The rules of conduct insisted upon by society were arbitrary and unfair to everyone involved. This, however, was probably the wrong time to launch onto that subject. Marcus was obviously afraid of how she would respond. The strength and suddenness of their mutual physical attraction was enough to disorder anyone's wits. It had certainly left hers in tatters. But, she suspected it was somewhat worse for him. As a man, he was supposed to be experienced and in command. The idea of what Marcus might command of her was thrilling, which should have left her feeling appalled and wanton. Really, there were too many contradictions. She must set them aside.

What she did do was cover his hand with hers.

“Since then, I've mostly avoided the situation,” he said. “People think I shun society because I'm high in the instep. The truth of the matter is, I'm not always certain I will be able to hold out against temptation.”

Helene nodded. There must be dozens of women ready to throw themselves at the Duke of Windford, whether they were looking for marriage or merely a rich protector. A chill ran through her.

“Now I've shocked you,” he said.

“No.” She must control herself. Her own past could not play any part in this moment. She could not risk Marcus thinking that it was his conduct, or this confession, that disturbed her. “You are being honest with me. I esteem that above all things.”

He smiled, although uncertainty remained in his eyes. “All things?” He touched the corner of her mouth.

She lifted her chin. “It is inappropriate for you to begin teasing in the middle of a serious conversation.”

“I suppose it is. I apologize.” He also kissed her, softly, slowly, so that the impossible warmth pooled low in her belly.

“I accept,” she murmured when they parted for breath. “And as for your . . . limited direct experience with physical matters, would it help to know I've read a few books on the subject?”

He pulled back and stared. Helene forbore to tell him how very ridiculous his current expression looked. “You have not,” he said.

“I have,” she replied indignantly. “It's amazing what one can acquire by writing to the correct shop.”

“No one would sell such books to a woman, not for any money.”

“They would if they didn't know the customer
was
a woman. As I said, the transaction was conducted entirely through the post. I signed an assumed name. Mister Paris FitzGibbons, at your service.” She performed a gentleman's bow.