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

  “So you say,” he allowed coolly. “But you have already proven yourself capable of duplicity. Why should I believe a word uttered from your lips?”

  They stared at each other, having reached yet another impasse.

  “Oh, do forgive me, Lord and Lady Huntingdon,” said an unfamiliar voice then. “I did not mean to interrupt your tour. I thought to see some of her ladyship’s belongings settled.”

  He turned to find a female servant hovering uncertainly on the threshold of the chamber. Here was the invitation to escape he required. He had to remove himself from his wife’s presence before he did something desperately ill-advised.

  Like kiss her again.

  Or, worse, make love to her.

  “We have just finished our tour,” he said to the servant before bowing to Helena. “If you will excuse me, Lady Huntingdon, I will take my leave and allow you to settle in. I will see you at dinner.”

  With that, he beat a hasty retreat from the countess he could not stop wanting.

  The countess he should have never had.

  He needed time, distance, and a plan.

  Chapter Twelve

  I have yet to hear an excellent, or rational, argument opposing women’s suffrage. To those who suggest most women do not want the same rights accorded their male counterparts, I say show me their numbers. Men are, by nature, no more capable of making sound decisions than women are. Indeed, on many occasions, they have proven themselves far less capable…

  —From Lady’s Suffrage Society Times

  Huntingdon was not coming to dinner.

  Helena had always possessed a hopeful nature. Or mayhap she had merely clung to her naiveté with a little more tenacity than she should have done. Whatever the case, during the course of the afternoon, she had allowed herself to be distracted by the unpacking of her garments and assorted bric-à-brac which had been sent over to begin her new life. She had told herself she would see her husband again over their evening meal as he had promised when he had fled from her chamber as if Cerberus were nipping at his heels.

  When she had received his note one hour to dinner advising her that a matter was delaying his return, she had maintained her composure. In her first official act as Lady Huntingdon, she had requested Monsieur Mallette defer dinner for half an hour.

  In her second official act as Lady Huntingdon, she had asked Monsieur to postpone dinner an additional half hour.

  In her third official act as the Countess of Huntingdon, she had requested dinner be served at ten o’clock in the evening.

  And now, she sat alone, trying not to cry into her gelée à la Belgrave.

  Huntingdon’s chef was as excellent as she had expected. His dining room was decorated tastefully in subdued damask. The table was polished to a shine. The servants presiding over the lonesome affair were above reproach. If any of them pitied their new mistress for taking dinner alone on the day of her wedding, their countenances masked all such emotion. She could not find fault with a single detail. The silver epergne held nary a hint of tarnish.

  Everything was perfect.

  Except for the empty chair mocking her. The chair where her husband ought to be.

  He had neglected to send a second note after the first. She could read his silence in several ways. None of them were promising.

  Her dessert was sweet on her tongue. Realization, however, was bitter.

  “I do believe I have had enough of dinner,” she announced to the footman nearest her. “Please give my compliments to Monsieur Mallette.”

  The chef had outdone himself. Her inability to consume more than a few bites here and there was not in any way reflective of his culinary prowess. But rather, her lack of appetite.

  The only sensation gnawing away at her insides was apprehension, not hunger.

  Withdrawing from the dining room, she kept herself from making a discreet inquiry into whether or not his lordship had returned or if he had sent further word. Instead, she made her way to the library which she had only briefly had occasion to explore during her several attempts at delaying dinner.

  She sighed as she made her way toward the beckoning wall of books. Perhaps some reading to distract her…

  A strange sound cut through the stillness of the chamber.

  A sound that was low and growling and emanating from the chaise longue at the opposite end of the room. That was when she noted the unmistakable sight of large, stockinged feet and long limbs emerging from the scrolled back of the furniture piece.

  Someone was sleeping in the library.

  The sound had been snoring.

  Helena moved toward the trespasser. Surely it was not her errant husband who was the source. Surely he had not eschewed dinner with her to fall asleep in the library. But before she rounded the chaise longue to find Huntingdon sprawled on the green velvet cushions, her instinct told her it was him.

  And when she saw his handsome face relaxed in slumber, his sensual lips parted as he emitted another light snore, something inside her—the hope, the foolishness, whatever it was—broke. She had spent all evening wondering where he was, awaiting him, eating dinner without him, and here he was.

  Asleep like a babe in the library.

  She drew nearer to him, and the scent of spirits was redolent. As was tobacco smoke.

  Strike that. Make that asleep like a drunken babe in the library.

  That was when she took note of the almost empty decanter on the floor at his side. Helena’s irritation and disappointment turned to ire. The urge to brain him with the nearest available object rose within her. But doing him violence would solve none of their problems.

  She bent down and nudged his shoulder in an attempt at waking him.

  The man was harder than a boulder. Truly, was every part of him hewn from granite?

  “Huntingdon,” she said, giving him another nudge.

  He snored louder and shifted on his back, his eyes never opening. “Mmm, bubbies.”

  Had she misheard?

  “My lord,” she tried again, harnessing some of her irritation to give his shoulder a shake.

  He groaned again. “Sweet, lovely bubbies. Let me touch them.”

  Dear heavens, she had not misheard. Not only was her husband soused and asleep on the library chaise longue, but he was talking in his slumber. In quite inappropriate fashion. About bubbies.

  Whose bubbies was he speaking of? And just whose bubbies did he want to touch?

  They had better be mine, said a wicked voice within her.

  But never mind that voice, and never mind the nonsense Huntingdon was spewing in his sleep. Because none of that was her most pressing concern at the moment. No, indeed. Her most pressing concern was that he had abandoned her on their wedding night. He had left her to dine alone in favor of drinking himself to oblivion.

  She knew he was angry with her for forcing their marriage, and Helena understood his anger, appreciated it even if some of it seemed rather hypocritical in nature. She had been willing to allow him to cling to his resentment, to work on his ability to forgive her. But what he had done this evening was to humiliate her, before all his servants.

  She could practically hear the belowstairs whispers now. Lord Huntingdon got drunk in the library on his wedding night instead of joining her ladyship for dinner.

  Mustering all her outrage, she shook him more forcefully. “Wake up, Huntingdon!”

  Her voice carried, echoing from the high ceiling of the room.

  He gave a violent start, his eyes opening to reveal a bloodshot sky-blue gaze and big, dark pupils. The confusion on his handsome face would have been charming in any other circumstance.

  “Helena?” He blinked.

  “Indeed,” she said drily, standing to her full height once more.

  His gaze traveled over her, lingering on the fullness of her bosom. Her evening gown had been chosen with care. Red silk trimmed with lace and beads, the pointed bodice showing off her waist to perfection. One of her best gowns, a dress that never faile
d to make her feel lovely. Chosen with him in mind. Suddenly, she wished to tear it away and thrust it into the nearest fire.

  She would have done, had not it been the midst of summer, no fire in the grate.

  “What are you doing in my bedroom?” he asked thickly.

  The clod.

  “We are in the library, my lord,” she informed him. “I found you here following the dinner you neglected to join me for.”

  “Dinner?” More owlish blinks. “Not hungry.”

  “I dare say not.” She wondered if he had eaten anything since the wedding breakfast that morning, and then she told herself she should not care. “Only thirsty for whisky?”

  His brow furrowed. “Gin first, whisky second. There may have been a splash or two of Moselle somewhere along the way. And champagne, too. Celebrating my nupshells, don’t y’know.”

  His nupshells indeed.

  Helena entertained a brief fantasy involving overturning the remnants of the decanter on his handsome head.

  “You have a strange way of celebrating, your nuptials, my lord,” she observed coolly. “Where were you this evening?”

  “Egggshellent question,” he said affably. “Excellent queshtion. Er, question.”

  The fantasy returned.

  “You do not know where you were this evening?” she demanded. “The matter that required your attention, which initially caused your delay, must have been of great import.”

  “Hmmm.” He scowled. “You make my head ache, woman. Amongst other things.”

  As he spoke, he ran his hand casually over the fall of his trousers. To her shock, Helena could see, quite plainly, the outlined evidence of his words. Surely that was not…

  Yes, it most definitely was.

  “Lord Huntingdon,” she chastised, as the undeniable glow of desire began burning within her.

  There was something wrong with her, surely, to be seduced by the sight of a drunken husband who had avoided her all evening after announcing he was abandoning her in the morning and taking a train bound for Shropshire.

  She loved said drunken husband.

  That was what ailed her, she thought miserably.

  Fortunately, Huntingdon appeared to collect himself enough to realize the inappropriate manner in which he was palming his anatomy. He moved his hand on a gusty sigh. “Forgive me, hellion.”

  “Helena,” she corrected grimly.

  “I haven’t forgotten your name.” He closed an eye. “Hellion’s what your name ought to’ve been. Damnation, there’s still two of you.”

  Oh dear. Once, Shelbourne had drunk too much champagne and vomited in their mother’s prized orangery orchids.

  She frowned down at him some more. “Are you going to be ill, my lord? Shall I ring for a chamber pot? Your valet, perhaps?”

  His other eye fluttered closed. “Let me sleep, will you? I was having the most glorious dream.”

  And she knew what his dream had involved. She swatted his shoulder, perhaps a bit harder than necessary.

  His eyes shot open as he made a grunt of pain. “What the devil are you doing, hellion? That hurt.”

  “Helena,” she gritted. “And I am keeping you awake so I can get you to your chamber. If you sleep on the chaise longue, you will have an aching neck and back.”

  Once more, she was not sure she ought to care. A back and neck that pained him were well deserved at this point. Particularly if the breasts he had been dreaming of had belonged to Lady Beatrice instead of her.

  “I am comfortably perfect here,” he announced. “Off with you, hellion.”

  She gritted her teeth. “I do believe you meant to say you are perfectly comfortable, my lord. However, I am certain you will change your mind in the morning. Believe me, when you wake in the comfort of your own bed rather than cramped upon this small piece of library furniture, you will be more than thankful.”

  “This library furniture piece of small feels bloody lovely.” His eyes closed.

  Was boxing his ears out of the question?

  “Up with you, my lord,” she ordered in her sternest voice.

  “Mmm,” he answered, and promptly began to snore.

  She sighed and tapped his shoulder. “Huntingdon.”

  No response.

  “My lord.”

  Another snore.

  She decided upon a different tactic and moved to his stockinged feet. Careful to use only her fingernails, she trailed her fingers up the soles, tickling him.

  He kicked and jolted awake once more, looking like a surly bear. “What the devil?”

  “It is time to go upstairs.” She moved back to the other end of the chaise longue and offered him her hands. “Come along, my lord.”

  It was rather the same fashion in which she might have spoken to a recalcitrant child. But it seemed suiting in the moment. The dangerously seductive husband of earlier, the one who had kissed her breathless and then stalked off to get himself thoroughly inebriated, was nowhere to be found. Drat him if there wasn’t something ridiculously charming about him, even when he was thoroughly in his cups.

  Even when he was planning on leaving her in the morning.

  She still had not determined what she could do about that. She had been hoping to use dinner as a means of offering persuasion in her favor. It would have been an excellent opportunity to attempt to explain to him. Or to at least convince him to allow her to accompany him on his trip to the country. Instead, she had been left all but weeping into her soup course.

  “Playing the part of wife quite well, hellion,” he said then, grinning drunkenly at her. “What else do you have for me, concern from aside?”

  Once more, he was speaking nonsensically. But she knew what he meant. Her cheeks went hot at the frank innuendo in his gaze. She was not about to attempt to encourage him to consummate their marriage while he was so thoroughly sotted, however.

  “Come with me and you shall see,” she said, wiggling her fingers expectantly.

  At long last he accepted her offer, taking her hands in his. The shock of awareness when her bare skin met his was, as ever, electric. It seemed he could drink all the spirits in London, and she was still aflame for him. As helpless to resist this man as she had ever been.

  She pulled, steeling herself against the unwanted longing unfurling within her. Attempting to help Huntingdon to his feet was akin to pulling a piano uphill. He was making no effort to aid her. And his grin was wider than before.

  “Help me, drat you,” she snapped, giving him another tug, using all her weight to haul him to his feet.

  This time, he did as she asked, helping her to pull his reluctant body from the chaise longue. The haste with which he complied took her by surprise, and she stumbled backward, Huntingdon crashing into her. His hands settled on her waist, and his head dipped to her throat, his mouth finding her bare flesh.

  “Mmm,” said her husband.

  She knew the feeling. But this was neither the moment nor the place for lovemaking. She jerked away from him as if he had scalded her.

  “None of that, my lord. We must get you upstairs.”

  “Upshtairs,” he agreed, giving her a drunken leer. “Er, upstairs. Will you help me to disrobe like a good wife?”

  How convenient for him that he only wished to consider her his wife in more than name when he was soused.

  “You have a valet for that honor, my lord,” she said crisply, taking his arm as he swayed.

  As if she would not enjoy aiding him in the removal of his garments. As if she would not wholeheartedly delight in seeing what that sturdy male chest looked like, divested of his clothing. Or that pronounced rigidity outlined by the fall of his trousers…

  No, Helena. You must not think of that.

  “But what if I want you, hellion?” He stumbled into her, bringing with him his scent, which overpowered the faint tobacco smoke and spirits, and his infernal heat.

  What indeed? her lonely heart whispered.

  Before her head chimed in.

 
; Not with the hellion nonsense again.

  She wished she could say that she was entirely unaffected by his proximity. That his tap-hackled state had drained the river of longing flooding through her. But her body was intensely aware of his, and her heart still loved him desperately. Neither his avoidance and suspicion of her, nor his inebriation and plans to leave her on the morrow, affected the way he made her feel.

  Her heart was pounding just from his nearness. She clung to her anger and her resolve as she swept him toward the door.

  “You cannot have me this evening,” she informed him. “Not after spending our wedding night fleeing from dinner and drinking yourself to perdition before falling asleep in the library. To say nothing of the manner in which you are planning on abandoning me in the morning.”

  “Didn’t intend to imbibero—to over-imbribe—er, over-imbibe,” he said pleasantly, sliding an arm around her waist as if it were where it belonged.

  The most foolish part of her loved the possession in that touch.

  Possession he would both regret and abandon tomorrow when he woke, she had no doubt.

  “But nevertheless, you did.” Her voice was impressively firm and solemn as she steered him over the threshold and into the hall.

  The staircase was next.

  A footman hovered in the shadows, but Helena did not care for the intervention of servants who were unknown to her. She was certain Huntingdon did not make a habit of appearing drunk before his domestics, and though she wanted to believe his staff impeccable and incapable of wagging their tongues, she nevertheless found herself protective of him.

  Undeservedly so, at the moment.

  But he was a good man, the Earl of Huntingdon. An honorable man. At least, he had been until he had begun kissing her senseless all over London. A campaign which she could not truly offer complaint about. His kisses were wondrous.

  She dismissed the footman with a nod of her head, signifying that she would not require assistance. The footman bowed and made haste in leaving Helena and Huntingdon alone.