Lady Reckless (Notorious Ladies of London Book 3) Read online

“For once in your life, listen to me, Helena,” he interrupted. “I am taking my leave now. I shall see you on our wedding day.”

  How strange the words felt.

  Not as strange as they should.

  Huntingdon bowed, and then he turned and stalked away from her. He was going to have to figure out how in the hell he could gird himself against his future wife.

  Chapter Eleven

  The House of Lords must be won if we are to have any hope of victory.

  —From Lady’s Suffrage Society Times

  The last occasion upon which Helena had been at the Earl of Huntingdon’s townhome, she had been a trespasser, stealing inside for fear of what her brother would do. This morning, she returned as its new mistress.

  Impossible as it was to believe, she was the Countess of Huntingdon.

  Her fingers were clasped tightly in her lap as the elegant barouche, which had carried them from the wedding breakfast, halted before the imposing edifice. Huntingdon had not spoken a word to her for the duration of the journey from her father’s townhome.

  Wickley House loomed, her future.

  Or mayhap more appropriately, as Huntingdon had warned, her doom.

  “We have arrived,” he said grimly.

  Unnecessarily as well. She could see quite plainly where they were. But Helena supposed three words were better than none.

  She cleared her throat. “So I see, my lord.”

  His attention had been carefully diverted from her for the ride. But he looked at her for the first time since he had spoken his vows to her in the church, his baritone ringing low and clear and firm, despite the misgivings she knew must have been inwardly churning. His jaw was a rigid slash, covered in a dark shadow of whiskers to hide the bruising still evident. His blue eyes were cold.

  “I will introduce you to the household and make certain you are otherwise situated before I take my leave in the morning.” The tone of his voice was sharper than the blade of a knife. Cutting. Frigid, too.

  She knew he blamed her for the situation in which they found themselves. He had been willing to accept the responsibility of his own actions, but he had not been able to accept her betrayal. Helena could hardly fault him for the latter. She had lied to her brother, all to obtain her own freedom.

  But she was nevertheless startled he did not plan to spend time acquainting her with her new home and duties. “You will be taking your leave, my lord?”

  “Yes.” He raised an imperious brow, as if daring her to question him. “I will be journeying to Shropshire to attend to matters on my estate. I am taking a train out of Euston Square Station just after breakfast.”

  Shropshire? He was…leaving her? On the day after their wedding? No honeymoon, no time together to speak of? She understood his fury, but this must be a mistake. Perhaps she had misheard. Would he not wish to at least spend more than one evening together as husband and wife?

  “But…we have only just married, Huntingdon. Surely your trip can wait,” she ventured.

  “It cannot,” he clipped with finality.

  He was punishing her, she realized. Escaping her. But she refused to allow him to flee her with such ease. If he left in the morning, she doubted whether their marriage could ever recover. She knew him well enough. He would go away, wallow in his shame and his self-loathing over his own lack of restraint. His wounds would fester instead of healing.

  “Then I shall go with you,” Helena decided.

  “That will not be necessary, my dear,” he said smoothly, flashing her an insincere smile.

  “Of course it will.” She smiled back at him with forced brightness. “You are my husband. I travel where you travel, as a matter of course.”

  “Helena.” His sensual lips thinned to a forbidding line once more. “I do not want company. I wish to be alone.”

  She swallowed against a knot of emotion. This was to be expected, and she knew it. She had hurt him with her actions, wounded him by suggesting he had acted far more dishonorably than he had, that he had committed the ultimate sin against his friend’s own sister. And she had done that which no other before her had managed to accomplish: she had pierced his armor of honor. She had brought him low.

  Now, he wanted to make her pay.

  “But I am your wife now, Huntingdon,” she pointed out, trying to maintain her calm.

  “Yes, you are, thanks to your scheming. I find I require time to adjust myself to the notion of being tied to you.”

  Her thoughts churned with misery and unwelcome realizations.

  He did not want her as his wife.

  He never had.

  He did not love her.

  And now, after what she had done, he never would.

  She tried to tell herself it was just as well. That having him this way was better than not having him at all. But the protestation was a hollow one. Because it did not feel right. Because the Huntingdon seated in the barouche with her, the man who had stood with her at the altar and stiffly spoken his vows, was not the same man who had kissed her with such unexpected passion, even if he was now her husband.

  In his place, remained the detached stranger who had been so forbidding and cruel in her father’s library until he had given in and kissed her. He was a fortress, and she would have to determine the best way to breach his fortifications.

  “How much time?” she asked.

  “Do not ask more of me than I am willing to give, my lady,” he warned. “You have already taken more than enough.”

  They descended from the barouche in a decided lack of fanfare. He offered her his arm with practiced gallantry, but his expression remained aloof. Helena felt as if a fog of gloom had enveloped her. Little wonder the skies opened and a drenching mist began to fall as they made their way up the walk. The gray misery reflected her mood. Mayhap her future as well.

  “Huntingdon, you cannot be serious about leaving me in the morning,” she tried again.

  “I am as serious as you were about spreading your ruinous lie,” he countered calmly. “You wanted me for a husband, and now you have me. Mayhap you shall find you would have been more content with a different choice. However, the dye has been cast, and here we are. Do smile for the staff, if you please.”

  Before she could formulate a response, the door swept open to reveal his butler and a gathering of servants assembled in the entry hall. So many sets of eyes were upon her. Some of them had seen her before, and in a rather ignominious circumstance. The whirlwind of the last week had not left her with enough time to prepare herself for the reality of her new role.

  She endured the introductions in a state of semi-wakefulness, feeling as if she had just been dredged from a deep sleep. Although Helena had stood with Huntingdon in the church and exchanged vows before joining him at the wedding breakfast, nothing seemed more real than this—the affirmation that everything was about to change.

  Just how much remained the question.

  Because she had a husband who had no wish to be a husband.

  Or, to be more specific, no wish to be her husband.

  By the time the formalities were observed, her cheeks ached from the feigned smile she had kept upon her face. Huntingdon led her upstairs, away from the welcoming domestics. He remained silent and forbidding, stern and tall and strong. His presence seemed a rebuke.

  She waited to speak until they were alone in the hall. “Will you not change your mind about leaving me in the morning? What will the servants think? Or my family, for that matter? The rest of London?”

  Not that she cared what the rest of London thought. Or most of her family. She did care about Shelbourne. He was her brother. And she cared about her mother’s opinion as well. Indeed, part of her had hoped that in her marriage, she would be able to enjoy a closer relationship with Mama, apart from Father’s draconian marital plans for her, which had been hanging over them like a storm cloud for far too long.

  Huntingdon’s handsome mien still showed nary a hint of emotion. “Your family already thinks the wor
st of me, Lady Huntingdon. The domestics may believe what they wish, and the rest of London can go to the devil for all I care.”

  Lady Huntingdon. The title was unfamiliar. Unexpected. It was her—the Helena she was now, not the Helena she had been. The ultimate symbol she was no longer living beneath her father’s less-than-benevolent thumb.

  But nothing her husband had said gave her pleasure or reassurance.

  She supposed she deserved no less of a response. “And what of me? Do you not care what I think, what I want?” Something horrid occurred to her then. “Do you have a mistress awaiting you in Shropshire?”

  He smiled, but the expression held neither warmth nor mirth. “It is rather too late to concern yourself over such a question, do you not think, my lady? We are already wed.”

  She raised a brow, refusing to bend from this new question which would not cease nettling her. “I do not think it too late for such a query. As your wife, I have a right to know.”

  The mere utterance of the phrase your wife was foreign and unfamiliar. Almost unbelievable. And yet, real. True. Her foolish heart rejoiced anyway, because it loved him still. No one could persuade that stubborn part of her he would not one day return the sentiment.

  He studied her, his sky-blue eyes dark in the low light of the hall where they had paused for their impromptu discussion. “I have pressing matters awaiting me in Shropshire. That is all you need know, my lady. Now, would you care to see the countess’s apartments?”

  How dismissive he was. Pressing matters indeed.

  She swallowed down a rush of resentment at his iciness. “Of course, Lord Huntingdon. Proceed as you wish.”

  “Excellent.” He stalked down the hall abruptly, taking her by surprise as he hauled her along with him.

  They crossed the threshold of the countess’s apartments just as Helena’s slipper caught in her flounced hems. One moment, she was struggling to keep up with her new husband as he all but dragged her into the chamber, and the next, she was pitching forward.

  Huntingdon was there to catch her before she fell. He pulled her into his arms, against his chest. Her hands settled upon the fine fabric of his coat. His familiar scent washed over her, along with a startling rush of longing.

  She clutched his coat. “Forgive me for my lack of grace.”

  His lips thinned. “Intentional?”

  He thought she had thrown herself into his arms?

  Helena frowned. “Hardly, my—”

  His mouth swooped down on hers in the next breath, stealing her words.

  Dear God, her lips.

  Gabe had missed them beneath his.

  The feeling of them, soft and supple and warm, obliterated all his good intentions. There was a fever in his blood, setting fire to every warning he had painstakingly issued to himself for the last bloody week.

  Although he had told himself he must go into this marriage keeping his distance from her, that he must do everything in his power not to succumb to his fervent needs, he could not stop himself from kissing her. Kissing her in a way he had not permitted at the church, following their exchange of vows.

  As if she were finally his.

  Because she was.

  But that did not make this right. Nor did it ameliorate what she had done. He could not trust her and he knew it. He ought to stop. And he would.

  But first…

  First, his tongue dipped between the seam of her lips to taste her. He told himself she was a liar. That the goddess in his arms was the same conniving woman who had told his oldest friend—now likely his former friend, judging from Shelbourne’s coldness at the wedding—that he had gotten her with child. That she had forced him to betray his grandfather’s wishes and his own sense of duty and honor.

  Yet, her arms twined around his neck. Her breasts were two ripe temptations pressed to his chest. She smelled as delicious as ever, and she kissed with the wild abandon he longed for. And he could not keep himself from kissing her harder, from owning that mouth, from crushing her nearer, taking everything she so sweetly offered.

  Even if it was a lie.

  Yes, his darling liar was an elixir he could not seem to get his fill of. He could not shake from his mind an image of her in the church, standing before him in a slat of sunlight, her gown as golden as her hair. She had been the most glorious sight he had ever beheld. For a moment, he had forgotten he had not wanted her as his bride, forgotten the means by which she had landed at the altar with him. For a heartbeat, he had simply been in awe of her beauty.

  That same, foolish response reawakened in him now as he plundered her mouth. The urge to punish her was there, almost as strong as the urge to take her. He nipped her lower lip with his teeth harder than he ought to have done. Her surprised whimper into his kiss told him so.

  Gabe’s mind swirled with what seemed a thousand questions. What must the servants think, their master’s abrupt defection from one bride to the next, disappearing immediately into the bedchamber with his new Lady Huntingdon? Was the door still open? Could anyone see or hear what they were about? By God, did he care?

  Then, the most salient question of all.

  Why could he not cease kissing her?

  Just one taste of her, and all his determination was dashed, his resistance obliterated. He was made of sterner stuff than this.

  He tore his mouth from hers at last. She was so lovely, he ached just looking at her. Why should perfidy be so beautiful? He reminded himself he must cling to his anger, his distrust. Lust was a deceptive bedfellow.

  “Here are the countess’s apartments,” he said through a throat thick with need. “I will leave you to get settled.”

  That was when he should have gone, and yet he lingered. She appeared dazed, the fringes of her lashes fluttering over her vibrant eyes for a beat too long. In her wedding gown, she still dripped with golden, ethereal perfection. The rise of her bosom was a tantalizing promise only partially hidden by the blonde lace lining her décolletage.

  His cockstand—already rigid after those kisses—grew harder. He did not think he had ever wanted a woman more. Damn her.

  “No,” she said then, her husky contralto doing things to his senses no mere voice should be capable of implementing.

  “No, Lady Huntingdon?” he repeated, hating the title on his tongue, how right it felt.

  Mine, said the reckless part of him he had never quite been able to stifle from the moment he had so stupidly touched her.

  Stubble it, warned his common sense.

  “No,” she repeated, then paused, seeming to think better of her words. “That is, please do not go, my lord. I am not ready to be alone just yet, and I wish to have a frank conversation with you about your plans to leave for Shropshire.”

  Not this again. She could argue with him all she liked, but the maddening female was not accompanying him on his journey. A month or two of rustication in the countryside—hours of travel between them—was what he required to rein in his wild impulses and get his imprudence under control.

  He sighed. “There is no conversation to be had, my lady. I am leaving in the morning, and that is that.”

  “If you insist on leaving, I will follow you,” she countered, defiant to the last.

  Her stubborn little chin rose, making him want to kiss her again.

  Stupid cockstand.

  Mayhap he should leave tonight. Or spend the evening at a hotel. Far, far away from this maddening creature he had wed.

  “You will do nothing of the sort,” he told her. “I do not give you permission to trail along wherever I go, and since I am leaving because of you, it stands to reason that London is where you shall stay.”

  “You cannot keep me from following you.”

  The daring wench.

  “Of course I can keep you from following me,” he countered. “Why not remain and enjoy the misbegotten fruits of your treachery?”

  “Because I am your wife.”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I hardly need reminding of
that fact, my dear.”

  The color fled her cheeks, and he knew a moment of regret over the sharpness of his words. “Will you never forgive me?”

  “We have been married for—” he fished out his pocket watch and consulted the timepiece—“less than five hours, madam.”

  Her lush lips compressed to a firm line as she absorbed his words. For a moment, he thought he had won the argument and that he might reasonably extricate himself from this damned chamber before he did something more foolish than kissing her.

  “Would you have treated Lady Beatrice so coldly?” she demanded next, shattering the delusion.

  Her words sank their barbs into his heart, not just the reminder of his former betrothed, but the realization that he had not once thought of Lady Beatrice all day. His every thought had been of Helena. She consumed him.

  This dratted obsession had to stop. She had betrayed him, manipulated him. Why could he not stop wanting her, in spite of what she had done?

  Bitterness rushed through him. “I suppose we shall never know how I would have treated Lady Beatrice if she were my wife, shall we? You made certain of that, Lady Huntingdon.”

  “Cease doing that, if you please.”

  Her request had him grinding his teeth. “Cease doing what, forcing you to acknowledge the repercussions of your deceit?”

  “Stop acting as if I am the only one at fault between us.” Her emerald eyes were flashing with fire now. “I may have embellished upon the extent of my ruination, but you and I both know what happened in the lady’s withdrawing room.”

  Shame mingled with the maelstrom of other emotions warring within him. She was not wrong about that. He had lost control. He had touched her intimately that day.

  And he wanted to again now.

  No. He had promised himself he would not consummate their marriage today.

  He frowned at her. “That regretful interlude was dishonorable of me, and I gladly admit to my sins. However, I remain unconvinced you did not orchestrate your entire plan just to catch me in your web.”

  Like a beautiful, cunning spider.

  The color returned to her cheeks at last. “I never wanted you to take Lord Algernon’s place. Nor did I invite you to follow me about London, ruining all my opportunities to create a scandal. You took it upon yourself, my lord.”