Winning Lord West (2 page)

“Ouch.”

She studied West, as with unconvincing
nonchalance, Silas wandered off in Caro’s direction. “You don’t
believe me?”

West shrugged. “Explaining exactly what I
believe requires more time and privacy than we now enjoy. Even if
you insist on seeing me as the enemy, I hope you’ll still accept
Artemis as a gift.”

“Gift?” Helena stared at him, appalled. “What
on earth do you mean? I can’t take such an extravagant present.
Have some sense, West.”

He stood unmoved by her refusal, tall and
lean in his immaculate dark green coat and fawn breeches.
“Nonetheless, she’s yours.”

“That’s…” Helena struggled to understand what
lay behind this ridiculous and inappropriate gesture. West had been
out in society all his adult life. He knew how the world would
interpret his generosity.

His gaze remained unwavering on her face.
“Yes.”

“Yes, what?” she snapped, although she had a
sinking feeling she knew.

“Yes, it’s a declaration of intentions.”

Horror flooded her. She faltered back across
the grass as if he’d made an unwelcome physical advance. “This
isn’t funny.”

“I’m deadly serious.”

“Then you’re wasting your time.” She
straightened and glared at him. Her mind worked a thousand miles an
hour to make sense of this abrupt alteration in their dealings. “I
was a rake’s wife. Be damned if I’ll be a rake’s mistress.”

The tension vibrating between them upset the
mare and she shifted nervously. West patted Artemis’s glossy neck
in reassurance.

“I know you’re frightened, Hel.” His voice
was low and deep, and Helena resented that he sought to reassure
her, too.

Her temper sparked, not least because he used
her childhood nickname. “Devil take you, nothing frightens me.”

Despite her brave words, fear curdled her
stomach and tasted sour in her mouth. She didn’t want Vernon Grange
to pursue her. She wanted to stay safe in her lonely little eyrie.
Nine tempestuous, miserable years with Crewe had left scars that
had hardly healed in the eighteen months since his death.

“Love frightens you.”

“You don’t know what that word means.”

“Let’s not quarrel.” Calmly he offered
Artemis’s reins. “Not today when I’ve worked so hard for your
enjoyment. Come riding with me.”

She glowered at his hand as if it held
poison. “That’s it? ‘I want you as my mistress, but we won’t fight
about it, and now come for a canter?’”

His laugh made her itch to slap him. “Pretty
much.”

“That’s not good enough.”

“My dear Helena, if you require a more
emphatic declaration, I’m prepared to make my plans public. I’m
only holding back to protect your reputation and help you become
accustomed to my interest. If I kiss you in front of all these
people, your fate is sealed.”

“As if I’d let you kiss me.”

“As if you could stop me.”

Curse him, now he’d mentioned kisses, she
couldn’t stop staring at his firm, sharply defined lips, and
wondering what he’d learned since those clumsy, but pleasurable
experiments in the summerhouse.

She reminded herself that anything he’d
learned, he’d learned through unbridled lechery. To her shame, that
didn’t dilute her fascination.

“What about Caroline?” Her voice was flat.
“Or are you covering your bets and chasing both of us?”

Humor lit his eyes, and he glanced across to
where Caro fought a losing battle to avoid Silas. “On my honor,
you’re the only woman I’m interested in. Caroline has her own fish
to fry.”

Resentment and apprehension curdled in
Helena’s belly. “I’m not listening to this nonsense.”

With a contemptuous flick of her blue skirts,
she whirled away. She wished she’d never come to this cursed
picnic. Since reaching adulthood, she hadn’t spent much time alone
with West. That was clearly a good thing.

“Don’t go.” He caught her arm, holding her
without force. Of course, after all that worldly experience, he
knew how to handle a woman. “You’ll kick yourself if you don’t try
Artemis.”

She glared at him, loathing his effortless
confidence and unabashed sexual allure. Loathing that he was
right—about the horse at least. “I’d rather kick you.”

A huff of laughter escaped him. “I’m sure you
would. If I let you go, will you ride? Artemis is very sensitive.
She thinks you don’t like her either.”

“Fool.” Despite everything, a trickle of
warmth softened the insult.

“That’s not in question,” he said, and she
unwillingly remembered how once she’d enjoyed sparring with
him.

“I’m not dressed for riding.”

He glanced at her royal blue day dress with
its jaunty gold military braid. “You’ll do. And you’re wearing
half-boots.”

Good Lord, a man had a woman in his sights
when he noticed what she was wearing. This conversation became more
alarming by the second. “West—”

“I’m not suggesting we ride to Cornwall.
You’re adequately fixed for a short run. I’d say different if you
were done up in that devilish becoming red frock you wore to the
Oldhams’ ball on Tuesday.”

Good Lord doubled. West really was paying
attention. Perhaps he meant this tomfoolery about making her his
mistress. “I’m not—”

“Please.”

She sighed, the fight leaving her. He’d
always been a stubborn sod. She wouldn’t get rid of him—or manage
to finish a sentence—until she rode the mare. “If you promise to
stop acting like a lunatic.”

This time his laugh was free and untroubled.
“I promise to behave for the next half hour.”

Heads turned in their direction. Helena
stiffened with renewed wariness. She didn’t want their names
connected. After all, gossip was the fuel that powered the
season.

She let him toss her into the saddle. Helena
couldn’t control a shiver when his hands closed around her waist.
Blast him. And blast Silas and Caro, and their flagrant session
yesterday.

Artemis shifted, sensing her rider’s
disquiet, but settled when Helena took the reins. A groom brought
up the stamping brute of a bay familiar from the ride in Hyde Park.
That early morning when West had been indiscreet enough to mention
Helena’s adolescent passion to Silas and Caro.

Until that day, Helena hadn’t realized he
remembered that turbulent summer. Given that West had been
notorious for his wenching ever since, she’d imagined he’d long ago
forgotten those innocent embraces.

Because for all their heat and fervor, they
had been innocent. A year later, she’d gone to Crewe’s bed a
virgin. Not that the cur she’d married had deserved the honor.

Before West mounted, she urged Artemis to a
gallop. The mare responded gallantly, and the restrictions and
exasperations of London life vanished in a second.

Damn West, he was right. This was what she
was born for: speed, the wind in her face, freedom. Freedom most of
all. She gave a joyful laugh as Artemis settled into a steady run
that promised to take them to China and beyond. Helena was so
elated to be on the back of a spirited horse that she didn’t even
mind when West thundered up behind her.

Over the lush green grass they rushed, and
Helena tasted genuine happiness. She only drew rein when Artemis at
last began to tire.

Turning to West, she couldn’t contain her
exhilaration. “That was marvelous. Thank you.”

He stared at her as if he’d never seen her
before. For once, no devil of laughter lurked in his green eyes.
“This is how I always think of you. Strong and exuberant. The way
you were as an impetuous girl. This is how you should stay, rather
than wrapped up in stifling convention, pretending you’re like
everyone else.”

Abruptly her euphoria drained away. She
hadn’t heard him sound so sincere since those ecstatic weeks at
Woodley Park, when she’d imagined herself in love with him. He
didn’t sound like the shallow man she’d judged him to be. He
sounded like someone who took the trouble to know her.

The fermenting fear in her stomach built to
terror.

Long ago she’d placed Vernon Grange in a box
marked “hazardous
.”
And that was where she wanted him to
stay. “I had no idea you thought of me at all, let alone
always
,” she said repressively.

Something that might have been regret
shadowed his features, before he resumed his lazy manner. He hadn’t
been a languid boy. He’d been vivid with passion and enthusiasm.
But then so had she. Her verve hadn’t survived her marriage.

“What do you think of Artemis?”

Helena wanted to dismiss West’s choice of
horse, if only to avoid admitting that in arranging that glorious
gallop, he knew her better than she knew herself. But she couldn’t
lie about such a superb creature.

“She’s a dream.” Then went on when
satisfaction sparked in his eyes. “Can I buy her from you?”

“She’s not for sale,” he said curtly. The bay
snorted and shifted, as if West tightened his grip on the
reins.

“That’s a pity.” Helena leaned down to pat
Artemis’s satiny neck. “I love her already.”

“She’s not for sale because she’s already
yours.”

“West,” Helena began in a warning tone.

He raised a hand in a conciliatory gesture.
“But I’ll keep her for the moment.”

“You’ll keep her because I haven’t accepted
her,” Helena retorted, stifling a pang. If only the price of taking
Artemis wasn’t so high.

“No, I’ll keep her because you haven’t
accepted
me
,” he said. Then added with an edge, “Yet.”

Before Helena could muster the words to put
him in his place, he wheeled his great monster of a horse around
and galloped back toward his guests.

Dover, 25
^th
May 1820

My dearest Helena,

Man proposes, and God disposes. Or at least
Lord Liverpool does. According to our esteemed prime minister, my
private pursuits must play second fiddle to the nation’s needs.

I’m off to St. Petersburgh to solve a horrid
diplomatic tangle for the Tsar. A horrid tangle that threatens to
play havoc with the India trade, so you can imagine how the East
India Company is up in arms about it all.

I have no idea how long I’ll be away.
Liverpool said it could be as much as three months.

Damn it, Helena, the ship is about to sail to
catch the tide. I have so much to say to you, most of which I know
you’re not ready to hear. I’m sadly aware that we have years of
past hurts to bridge.

Write to me at the embassy in St.
Petersburgh.

Yours in haste.

West

P.S. I’m consigning Artemis to your care. If
you won’t accept her as a gift, consider her a loan. No, as an
expression of intentions that at present I’m too far away to make
reality.

***

London 26
^th
May 1820

Lord West,

I wish you safe and swift travels – straight
to the devil!

You have no right to call me your dearest,
and only a regrettable childhood association gives you the smallest
right to use my Christian name. Don’t bother writing to me. I won’t
read your letters. And I won’t set up a cozy correspondence as
though we’re anything more than the merest acquaintances. The
thought of the nation’s welfare in your careless hands gives me the
shivers. It’s even less likely that I’d entrust my person to
you.

Sir, as far as I’m concerned, the Russians
are welcome to you.

With no respect whatsoever.

Helena Crewe

P.S. Most unwillingly, I’ve found Artemis a
place in my stables. Inquiries indicate you have closed up your
London house for the duration of your absence. I’m now making
arrangements to send her down to Cranham. Your lack of care for her
is yet another indication that you’re the same irresponsible boy
you always were.

***

St. Petersburgh, 30
^th
June
1820

My lovely Firebrand,

Your sweet missive was waiting when I reached
St. Petersburgh yesterday. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.
Your words had the bracing effect on my spirits that I’m sure you
intended. In comparison, I found myself thinking fondly back on the
hellish journey across the Continent.

I hope the letters I wrote on the way have
warmed you up a little since then. It’s a good thing I like a
challenge—which must be why they sent me on this plaguy quest to
solve Russia’s quarrels in the first place.

We arrived last night, and so far I’ve had
little chance to see the city. We’re billeted in a pink and white
palace on the Neva, with icing sugar decoration and big china
stoves in every room. It doesn’t get dark at night at all. There
are canals everywhere. It’s a most elegant place. I wish you were
here to share your acerbic opinions and remind me I haven’t
wandered into a fairy tale. Although I imagine once the Tsar’s
negotiations start, any magic will vanish in a puff of bureaucratic
pomposity.

I also wish you were here because I find
myself missing you and all your prickles. I’ll think of you as my
dear little hedgehog. There, does that not melt your heart?

Tomorrow the ambassador presents me to his
Imperial Majesty, the Tsar. I’m sure you’ll want to hear about
that, so I hope you won’t tear up the letter the moment
arrives.

With my dearest wishes.

West

P.S. I hope you’re making sure Artemis gets
plenty of exercise, and you’re riding her, not some brick-handed
groom who won’t appreciate the highly strung miracle she is.

***

London, 28
^th
July 1820

My lord,

Kindly desist from writing to me. As I
consign any correspondence from you to the drawing room fire, all
you’re doing is supplying me with exotic kindling. Your activities
are of no interest and I’d prefer that we returned to being polite
strangers. That relationship has served us well since we both grew
up. At least I grew up. Nothing I’ve seen indicates that you
have.