Lady Reckless (Notorious Ladies of London Book 3) Page 3

  “Do enjoy the rest of your day, my lord.” With that, she clasped her skirts in her hands and leapt to the street.

  Her landing was effortless and flawless. Not even a side step. There. He could take all his good intentions and cast them straight to the devil where they belonged. She would not marry Lord Hamish, and she would not be diverted from the path she had chosen.

  Ruination would be hers. And after that, liberty.

  “You neglected to give me your promise, my lady,” Huntingdon called after her, sounding aggrieved.

  She turned back, allowing herself one last moment to drink in the sight of him. “You will not be getting a promise from me. It would only be a lie.”

  He pinned her with a glare.

  She pretended not to care and spun away, making good on her escape.

  It was only later, when she returned home, that she realized her favorite necklace—pearl strands accompanied by an emerald pendant—was missing. She must have lost it somewhere in the madness of her dash to and from Lord Algernon’s rooms.

  She may have lost her necklace, but she still had her ambitions of freedom. Those could not be lost or stolen. Indeed, they were all she had left.

  Chapter Three

  Our struggle, I am sad to say, is not a new one. Woman’s suffrage has been brought before parliament ceaselessly since 1867. Some nearly twenty years later, we fight on.

  –From Lady’s Suffrage Society Times

  “The female constitution is frail and delicate, prone to hysteria. Imagine the ruinous danger to our society were we to enable such wild creatures to have a vote in matters of grievous national import.”

  Helena looked at the polished silver knife on the table before her and envisioned curling her fingers around it, taking it from the snowy linens, and launching it directly at the pompous Lord Hamish White.

  He had a face, she thought unkindly, like a dish: wide and round, with a sagging jowl. He also possessed thinning blond hair, with the shiny evidence of his greasy pate gleaming beneath the chandeliers. His nose was a pronounced beak, and when he stood, there was no denying the paunch which slumped over his trousers and swelled his waistcoat seams.

  He was an altogether unattractive man.

  But not one whit of his unfortunate outer appearance could hold a candle to the hideousness which spewed forth each time he opened his mouth to speak.

  She looked around the table—a small gathering consisting of Mama, Father, Lord Hamish, and Lord Hamish’s mother, Lady Falkland. In celebration of the looming betrothal announcement she was doing everything in her power to avoid. None of them seemed prepared to gainsay Lord Hamish’s deeply insulting assertion.

  “The women cannot have the vote,” her father agreed. “Men are, by our nature, stronger and rational and far more intelligent than the fairer sex. It cannot be disputed. A woman’s place is at her husband’s side, and she must look to him for guidance, trusting he will make the right governing decisions on her behalf when she cannot.”

  Helena ground her jaw. She was more than familiar with her father’s views of her sex. He believed they were intellectually inferior to men. If he had an inkling she spent her time at the Lady’s Suffrage Society instead of paying social calls as she claimed—thank heavens for a lady’s maid she could trust—he would have an apoplectic fit.

  And Mama—well, Mama was quiet. Marriage to Father had crushed her spirit, and now Father had found a man fashioned in his mold to be Helena’s own husband.

  “Precisely,” said Lord Hamish, a small morsel of his dinner flying from his mouth as he spoke. “Suffrage would be too great a burden for ladies to bear. They must turn instead to the far more rewarding sphere of home and hearth. Tending to one’s husband and children, that is the true meaning of a lady.”

  Mayhap she could launch a boat of béchamel sauce in his direction.

  Plant poison in his fish course?

  Was it too much to hope Mama would at least be the voice of reason? She cast a glare in her mother’s direction, but she was too busy sipping her wine to take note.

  “It would be perilous indeed should such a travesty ever be enacted,” Father said. “Our government would weaken and decline, as a matter of course. I cannot countenance the lords who are vouching for this utter tripe. Coerced by their wives, I have no doubt.”

  Helena fumed some more, stabbing at the contents of her plate with more force than necessary.

  All the eyes around the table settled upon her.

  She could hold her tongue no longer. “Has it not occurred to any of you that the government would instead strengthen if all voices were to possess an equal share in the decisions which affect our lives?”

  Lord Hamish’s lip curled. “Sentiments such as those are unbecoming in a lady, my dear.”

  A peal of laughter rose in her throat. Bitter laughter. Irate laughter. She released it. Her hands trembled with the violence of her reaction. “Of course you would hold such a position in the matter, my lord. You, like all other men, are well pleased to keep women silenced. To decide laws that affect us deeply, without consulting us, without allowing us to offer our opinions, to cast our votes accordingly. Why should a woman be deprived of her own sovereignty merely by the circumstance of her birth?”

  Lady Falkland’s shocked gasp echoed in the sudden silence of the dining room.

  Her mother frowned at her. Her father was scowling. Later, she would suffer his wrath, she had no doubt.

  “While your passion for your subject is commendable, I am afraid you are all wrong, my dear,” said Lord Hamish in the same tone she imagined he might reserve for small children.

  It was dismissive and insulting, much like the man himself.

  Once again, she could not keep herself from responding. “It is you who is wrong, my lord. Your view of women is inherently flawed. What logic have you to support the supposition that a woman is frail and delicate and incapable of deciding matters of import?”

  “Lady Helena, that is enough,” Father intervened, his voice dripping in disapproval. “You are consorting with the wrong set if this is the sort of nonsense filling your head. Apologize to Lord Hamish at once.”

  Apologize to him?

  Helena would sooner toss the remnants of her wine in his supercilious face.

  She lifted her chin. “I will not apologize for my opinion. Neither for the possession of it nor the expression.”

  The fish course arrived, shattering the charge of the moment. Grilled salmon with accompanying boats of sauce verte froide. Helena bit her lip to keep from speaking further and could not help but to feel as if the fates were encouraging her to have her revenge upon the odious Lord Hamish. Here was a sauce boat and the fish course. She could brain him first and lace his salmon with poison second.

  “I heard the most intriguing on dit about those dreadful American catfish being introduced to our English waters,” said her mother, in an obviously desperate bid at changing the subject and avoiding further embarrassment at her outspoken daughter.

  “Horrible shame that would be,” Lord Hamish chimed in, happily taking up new cudgels. “I read in The Times that they are inedible. Possessed of mighty, fearsome teeth, and they feed on offal. Despicable things, really.”

  Oh, the irony. Mayhap Lord Hamish recognized his own kind.

  Helena forked up a bit of her fish and plotted her next move.

  In the heart of the Duke and Duchess of Bainbridge’s ballroom, Huntingdon twirled with Lady Beatrice in a quadrille, his least favorite form of dance. Not that he enjoyed any dancing. It was an art that was lost on him. Overhead, hundreds of electric lamps blazed. He ought to be taking note of the sparkle in her blue eyes. Of the way her mahogany locks gleamed beneath the glow of the chandeliers. Of the pale beauty she made in her pink silken ballgown, demure and perfect. He should be admiring her elegance and grace, both of which could not be denied.

  He ought not to be thinking of the last time his hands had been upon a lady’s waist.

 
; Ought not to be thinking of golden curls, emerald eyes, and a saucy mouth.

  Ought not to be thinking about how much he preferred Lady Helena’s scent to Lady Beatrice’s strikingly floral perfume.

  Or the way Lady Helena’s breasts had felt, pressed against his chest.

  Duty, Gabe. If you do not have your honor, you have nothing, as Grandfather always said.

  But still, she was like an infection in his blood. In the week since he had last seen her, all defiant beauty on the pavements, he had been able to think of little else.

  “Do you not find it so, my lord?” Lady Beatrice asked as they whirled and performed the proper steps.

  Damnation, he had not heard the beginning of her query, so lost had he been in his own thoughts.

  “Forgive me, Lady Beatrice,” he said ruefully. “I fear I was distracted.”

  “I was merely observing the ball is a crush,” she said, and if his distraction perturbed her, there was no hint of it in her countenance. “And that the air is quite stifling. After this dance, I do believe I shall need some punch to refresh myself.”

  The ball was indeed an undisputed success. Not that he cared for the social whirl. He preferred to occupy himself with more worthy matters which affected his lands and his people. He took his responsibility as the Earl of Huntingdon seriously. He had every intention of doing his grandfather proud.

  “It is warm,” he agreed, inwardly taking himself to task once more for his failure to pay proper attention to his betrothed. “Would you care for a turn on the terrace?”

  They spun about once more. The notion of escorting her to a darkened corner filled him with apathy. Theirs would be a passionless, loveless union based on mutual respect, nothing like his parents’ disastrous marriage.

  “I do not think we should dare,” Lady Beatrice said, ever the height of propriety.

  Although there would be nothing amiss with him escorting her for some fresh air, particularly since they were engaged, he was not surprised at her objection. Instead, he was relieved. There was only one lady he wanted kiss beneath the moonlight, and it was not the woman in his arms.

  He cleared his throat. “Very prudent of you, my dear. This close to our nuptials, there is hardly reason to court scandal, is there?”

  Three months.

  Three months until she was his bride. Grandfather would have been pleased that a date had at last been settled upon. Although Huntingdon had long had an understanding with Lady Beatrice, they had not made their betrothal formal until recently. In the wake of his grandfather’s death, sorting out estate matters, along with the suitable period of mourning, a wedding had hardly been a concern for Huntingdon.

  The dance finished. He bowed. Lady Beatrice dipped into a perfectly executed curtsy.

  “Thank you for the dance, my lord,” she said softly.

  She was so soft-spoken he almost could not hear her over the chattering of their fellow revelers and the subsequent orchestral hum of a waltz as it struck up. He offered her his arm and escorted her back to her waiting mother.

  Another interminable round of conversation, and his duty was done.

  A turn on the terrace alone, a bit of fresh air, would be just the thing.

  Huntingdon excused himself from his future countess and mother-in-law and made his way to the opened doors leading to the night. And that was when his eye was inevitably caught by a flash of golden hair.

  He knew instinctively, though her back was to him, that it was her.

  She was in attendance, but the crush was so immense, he had yet to cross paths with her since she had been announced. But there was no mistaking the silhouette—tall, statuesque, curved. Or the way she carried herself. She moved with a natural confidence that most ladies could never affect, let alone possess. Her gown also gave her away—ivory trimmed with yellow flowers, matching yellow flowers in her hair. Daffodil was a color Helena favored.

  But before he could reach her, she was moving. Escaping through the same doors he had intended to flee to himself. Except, she was not alone. Lord Dessington was accompanying her. She was smiling at him. Laughing at a quip he made. Clinging to his arm.

  Everyone knew Dessington was a rakehell of the worst order. Huntingdon had to wonder how the scoundrel had even managed to obtain an invitation. Realization hit him.

  No.

  Surely Helena was not going to use Dessington to ruin herself.

  Bloody hell.

  His strides lengthened. Huntingdon bustled into a frowning dowager in his attempt to reach the couple before they disappeared into the darkness. He mumbled an apology and carried on. She had warned him she would not stop with her nonsensical plans.

  He ought to have spoken with Shelbourne. Taken him aside, as a friend, and explained the looming disaster. What had stopped him? His disgust at his own reaction to her?

  It little mattered, for now, Helena was about to ruin herself with Dessington. Yet another scoundrel who did not deserve to touch even the dirt on her slipper.

  And Huntingdon was honor bound to stop her.

  By the time he descended from the terrace and reached the gardens, Helena and Dessington had disappeared down one of the darkened gravel paths. He heard the crunch of footfalls and a rustle of silk, and his gut clenched. If only Shelbourne were here this evening, looking after his sister instead of drinking himself to oblivion. Something had long been eating at his old friend and Huntingdon could not fathom what.

  But that was neither here nor there. In his friend’s absence, Huntingdon would act the part of protector.

  Except you do not want to protect her. You want to ruin her yourself.

  He banished the taunting voice. Because it was right. But he had honor, damn it, and a duty to uphold. He would not dare to dishonor Lady Beatrice in such a careless fashion. Nor could he bear to lose Shelbourne as his friend.

  He possessed icy restraint. Which was more than could be said for Dessington, who was already holding Helena in his arms when Huntingdon rounded a set of hedges and came upon his quarry at last. The sight of another man holding her, about to kiss her, filled him with so much fury, he acted without thought.

  On a low growl, he seized Dessington and hauled him across the gravel. Perhaps with more force than necessary. The viscount was taken by surprise and tripped on his own feet, landing on his arse.

  Helena let out a shocked gasp. “Huntingdon! What do you think you are doing?”

  “Keeping you from folly,” he said grimly.

  “Devil take you, Huntingdon, I was only having a spot of fun,” complained Dessington as he rose from the gravel and dusted himself off. “I ought to plant you a facer for that.”

  “I ought to plant you a facer,” he countered, his fists balled at his sides. He was tempted. So tempted. “Keep your distance from Lady Helena.”

  “What do you care whom I kiss in the gardens, old chap?” Dessington asked, sounding smug.

  Curse the rotter. How dare he taste those lips when Huntingdon had not?

  The ability to control himself fled entirely. One moment he was standing there on the gravel walk as calmly as any gentleman taking the air. The next, his fist was connecting with Dessington’s jaw.

  There was a satisfying snap of the man’s head.

  And another outraged sound from Helena. “Huntingdon, are you mad?”

  Dessington rubbed his jaw. “If you want her for yourself, you need only have said. I do not fight over petticoats. They aren’t worth it.”

  And then the blighter promptly took himself off, hastening back to the ballroom like the scurrying rat he was. His words echoed in a whole new taunt after he had gone. If you want her for yourself…

  Huntingdon shook his hand. His knuckles throbbed from the connection with Dessington’s jaw. He had not punched anyone since his school days.

  “What in heaven’s name is wrong with you?” Helena demanded, simultaneously sotto voce and furious.

  He was asking himself the same question, and there was only one rea
sonable answer he could settle upon. She was what was wrong with him.

  “I am the one who ought to be posing that question, madam,” he said sternly. “You are once more acting rashly. A rotter like Dessington? He has bedded half London for sport. If anyone would have come upon you in his embrace—”

  “I would have been ruined, yes,” she hissed, interrupting him again. “That was what I was aiming for, until some fool arrived before I could even manage so much as a kiss.”

  Relief he had no right to feel washed over him.

  She had not kissed Dessington, then.

  Thank God.

  He dashed the thoughts. “You leave me with no choice but to inform your father and brother of your attempts at sabotaging not only your betrothal, but your reputation and good name as well. You cannot believe Shelbourne or Northampton would be pleased to discover you have been cavorting in moonlit gardens with conscienceless rakehells.”

  In the silver light of the moon he could see all too well those lush lips of hers forming a pout. “I have only managed to do so just this once, and you quite spoiled it, my lord.”

  “You are welcome,” he growled, reaching for her. “Now come back to the ball.”

  But Helena eluded his grasp, dancing backward, deeper into the garden path. “I will return to the ballroom when I am good and ready, and not a moment sooner.”

  Damn the minx, he had no doubt if he left her here to her own devices, she would simply find the next ne’er-do-well mingling in the moonlight and ask him to kiss her instead. Huntingdon had two choices: he could abandon her and return to the ball himself, or he could follow her, potentially opening the door for his own scandal.

  The crunch of gravel mocked him. As did her golden hair, disappearing around a wall of boxwoods. His legs were moving once more, because now that he thought upon it, he had no choice at all, had he?

  “Helena,” he called, careful to keep his voice low. “You are gambling with your reputation each second you remain out here.”