Her Husband's Harlot Page 6

  "And a pleasant bed it should be." Paul cleared his throat. "Which begs the question of why you would choose to sleep in a warehouse rather than in the sumptuous splendor of your marital bower."

  Damn Fines' nosy nature.

  "That is none of your business," Nicholas said in a warning tone.

  "I have never aspired to much, but I do pride myself an expert on the fairer sex. If you are experiencing any, er, difficulties, I daresay I can help," Paul said, with no pretensions to modesty.

  Which he didn't need, because everyone knew of Paul's reputation with the ladies, the term however loosely applied. The man could charm the scales off a snake—and the skirts off many a female, from the greengrocer's daughter to the bored solicitor's wife. Paul's affairs never lasted long, but he did seem to possess, through experience, an intimate knowledge of the female psyche.

  "I lend you my ears, in all their tainted glory," Paul said.

  For an instant, Nicholas considered sharing his marital woes. But the shame of his actions last evening, and worse further on his wedding night, kept him imprisoned in silence. He was a beast, a bastard through and through, and there wasn't a thing anyone could do about it.

  He took one last gulp of coffee, grimly relishing its bitterness. Standing, he deposited a handful of coins on the table. "I have to get back to work," he said.

  *****

  Nicholas strode into his office. He'd had enough of the soul-searching and belly-aching; he intended to bury himself in work. Seeing the new stack of paper on his desk, he headed over with eager steps. Excellent. The shipping reports. As he reached for the top page, he felt the blood suddenly drain from his head. An icy hand clamped around his heart. With shaking fingers, he lifted the scrap of parchment lying atop the report.

  There was no salutation, no signature, nothing but six words written in neat, black ink:

  I know your dirty little secret.

  FIVE

  The following afternoon, Helena followed Marianne into a dress shop situated on fashionable Bond Street. A tiny silver bell tinkled overhead as they entered, and an assistant dressed all in black came to greet them. As Helena looked around the front salon, she noted that all the furnishings were done in tones of white and gold, and the plush carpet was of the palest blue. A bow window filtered afternoon sunlight into the shop, bathing everything in a mellow glow. It gave one the impression of stepping into a chamber above the clouds.

  The assistant seated them in delicate gilt chairs and brought tea in paper-thin porcelain cups. With an eye on the spotless upholstery, Helena gingerly sipped her beverage. Moments later, Madame Rousseau emerged. The modiste looked as Helena feared she would; small, dark-haired, and relentlessly thin, the Frenchwoman had snapping black eyes which missed nothing.

  "Lady Marianne, what a pleasure it is, as always," Madame Rousseau said in softly-accented English. "And today you bring a friend. I am honored to welcome you to my humble salon."

  "Lady Helena Harteford, may I introduce Amelie Rousseau? Madame Rousseau is the artiste behind my fine feathers," Marianne said.

  "Beauty such as Lady Marianne's requires little art," Madame Rousseau murmured. "Merely the wisdom to allow Nature to shine through. As expected, the daffodil silk most becomes you, my lady."

  Marianne inclined her head gracefully at the compliment, her fingers brushing lovingly over the intricate gold-thread embroidery on her skirts.

  "May I suggest, however, a very small adjustment to your ensemble?"

  So saying, Madame Rousseau spoke in rapid French to her assistant. The latter scurried out of the room and returned shortly to press something into her employer's hand.

  The modiste motioned Marianne toward a cheval glass. "If I may?"

  Reaching for Marianne's nape, the modiste unclasped the chandelier necklace of amber and gold. In its stead, she tied a simple ribbon of aquamarine satin.

  "Maintenant, c'est parfait," Madame Rousseau said.

  Helena's breath caught at the change. Earlier, she had admired Marianne's necklace, remarking upon how perfectly the dripping mass of golden jewels matched the yellow silk. Madame Rousseau's action, however, aimed for an entirely opposite effect. Helena could see now that harmony had dulled rather than elevated her friend's charms. The new contrast of blue to yellow, of plain to intricate, suggested a mystery—a hidden vulnerability, perhaps, beneath all the glittering sophistication. Marianne appeared more enticing than ever.

  Watching her friend preen in front of the mirror, Helena felt twin stabs of desperation and hope.

  "Madame Rousseau, do you think you can help me?" she blurted.

  The other two women turned to look at her.

  Helena flushed. "I am no beauty like Marianne. But I would be most appreciative of anything you could do to help me."

  "What she means to say is that she needs a wardrobe to seduce a man," Marianne said sotto voce.

  "Ah, no need to say more. Je comprends tout." Madame Rousseau's eyes gleamed. "For this, we must retire to a private salon. Follow me, please."

  The modiste led them into one of the dressing rooms at the back of the shop.

  "Please." Madame Rousseau gestured for Helena to step onto a small wooden platform surrounded by mirrors on three sides.

  Helena took a deep breath and did as the dressmaker asked. Once upon the little stand, she kept her gaze trained on her slippers.

  "Oui, I see the problem," Madame said, after several long minutes.

  Helena felt her heart thudding. "Yes, Madame Rousseau?"

  "You hide too much of yourself."

  At that, Helena raised her eyes to the mirror and met the modiste's penetrating black gaze.

  "I said the same thing," Marianne chimed in.

  "To lure a lover into an intrigue, one must, as the English put it, set the bait." Madame Rousseau circled Helena as she spoke, her eyes darting like curious fish. With clever hands, she took measure of assets and weaknesses, muttering to herself all the while. Helena blushed when Madame Rousseau's touch smoothed over her breasts and hips and dipped lower to cup her bottom.

  "'Tis not a lover she hopes to seduce, but her husband," Marianne said.

  "Your husband!" Madame Rousseau stopped circling. "Lady Harteford, I see that you are a woman of many surprises. Alors, you must tell me all as I work my magic."

  *****

  Sometime later, Helena found herself sitting opposite Marianne in the latter's smart barouche. With a contented sigh, she sank back against the lavender velvet squabs. Madame Rousseau had lived up to her reputation as the finest modiste in all of London. If these gowns did not entice Nicholas, nothing would. Madame had even agreed to rush the order so that Helena could have the first of her new dresses within the week.

  "Do you think Harteford will like my new gowns, Marianne?"

  "I should hope so, given the exorbitant sum he paid for them," Marianne said.

  Helena's brow furrowed. "Do you think I was too extravagant? I have never opened an account before, but Madame Rousseau said that is how all the ladies handle their transactions. Perhaps I ought to have adhered to the allowance I have on hand."

  "Do stop fretting. If Harteford can afford fifty pounds for a whore, he can certainly provide his wife carte blanche."

  Helena grimaced. Marianne was never one to mince words.

  The barouche turned onto Upper Brook Street and rolled to a stop in front of the townhouse. On impulse, Helena threw her arms around her friend. "Oh, Marianne, however am I to thank you?"

  "Dearest, your happiness is thanks enough," the other said in amused tones, even as she extricated herself from the hug. "Besides, I am not finished with you yet."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Today was mere window dressing. Surely you do not think a few dresses will be enough to win your husband's interest."

  Helena bit her lip. She had hoped ... she chided herself for being naive. "What else do you suggest, Marianne?"

  "You will have to learn the secrets of flirtation, of
course. And I think you could brush up on your knowledge of the sexual arts," Marianne said matter-of-factly. "I know just the place for you to learn both. The proprietress throws parties of such depravity that even I blush—"

  "Oh, no! I c-couldn't," Helena stammered. "I mean, I could never go back to such a place."

  Her friend gave her a long look. "Why ever not?"

  Because I am not a harlot, I'm not. The thought of engaging in further wicked escapades made her heart race. With a nervous little laugh, she said, "I am done with that, Marianne. That night at the Nunnery was an exception. I was not my usual self—I did it only out of desperation. From here on in, I shall try to win my husband's affections with more, er, conventional means."

  "You are certain of that?"

  Helena gave an empathic nod.

  "Have it your way, then." Marianne sounded indifferent. "Good luck with Harteford. And send me a note if you have need of anything."

  Before Helena could say anything further, Marianne summoned the footman with a rap on the door. The servant appeared instantly, and Helena found herself being helped to the ground. She turned around to reiterate her thanks, but the door was already closed. Within seconds, the silver barouche glided away.

  Sighing, she entered the townhouse. She returned Crikstaff's greeting and inquired if Lord Harteford was at home. She did not let disappointment weigh her down when the butler replied that the master was not, nor had he left a message about his plans or whereabouts. Truly, she was not prepared to see Nicholas; how would she react to him, knowing what had transpired between them?

  More to the point, how was she to go about seducing an unwitting, perhaps even unwilling bridegroom? As Helena ascended the staircase to her dressing room, worry began to fray the edge of hope. The beautiful clothes would help, of course. But that still left a great deal unaccounted for. Perhaps she should not have rejected Marianne's suggestion out of hand ... she shivered. She could not risk exposing herself to such licentiousness again. Look at what had happened the last time. How immodestly she'd acted. No, the way to win her husband's heart was to entice him ... with her wifely skills.

  Gnawing on her lip, Helena entered her chambers. Bessie, her lady's maid, stopped in the task of tying a ribbon on a straw bonnet to bob a curtsy. Helena nodded absent-mindedly and settled down at the secretaire by the window. Pushing aside the stack of Shakespeare's plays she'd recently purchased, she placed a sheet of parchment on the polished walnut burl and picked up her quill.

  Nibbling on the tip of the feather, she considered the task at hand. Really, planning a seduction was little different than planning anything else, was it not? And she was an excellent planner. After the death of her brother, her mother had entertained very little; by default, Helena had been left in charge of organizing any occasions that merited celebration. Thinking of her preparations for her father's fiftieth birthday festivities, Helena scribbled a list.

  Feeling better already, she contemplated the categories one by one. The first was the guest list. Well, that was obvious enough, wasn't it? She jotted in Nicholas and Helena. The sight of her name linked with her husband's drew a wistful smile. The next item on the list: locale. Given that Nicholas was hardly likely to barge into her bedchamber (or her, his), the site of the seduction would have to begin elsewhere, in a more public arena. Well, why not combine refreshments with location, and start with an intimate dinner for two?

  Inspired, Helena hurried past a startled-looking Bessie and down the staircase. She headed to the drawing room first, deciding that a pre-prandial drink might prove an elegant touch. She knew her husband preferred whiskey over sherry; she would be sure to have the finest single malt served in a crystal glass. As she surveyed the well-appointed space, imagining the addition of candles and pink-hued flowers to flare the romantic spirit, she could not help but feel a touch of satisfaction. She may have disappointed Nicholas in the way of marital relations, but in other ways she had assumed her wifely duties in a most proficient manner.

  Before their marriage, Nicholas had paid little mind to the running of his household—he had simply continued with the archaic system instituted by the former marquess. When Helena had crossed the proverbial threshold of her new home for the first time, she had been secretly horrified at the dusty rooms and aged furnishings. Bits of the plaster moldings had routinely crumbled onto the stained carpets (and, if one was not careful, onto one's coiffure). The servants had slouched around in uniforms tattered at the edges; more significantly, she'd later learned, the wages of the house staff had not been increased for several years.

  Helena had spent much of her time as a new bride attending to the domestic chaos. She was rather proud of the results. As she looked about the clean and airy room, she noted with satisfaction that the surfaces shone with polish and the Aubusson rug had been restored to a silky luster. With the substantial increase in their earnings, the staff had showed a renewed vigor and commitment to their duties. They beamed as brightly as the golden buttons on their new livery.

  Smiling wistfully, Helena pictured Nicholas and her sitting by the fire on the new maize damask loveseat. After a day of work, he would appreciate the fine whiskey and witty conversation she would supply him with. Perhaps she would arrange for some hors d'oeuvres as well. She recalled that Nicholas had seemed partial to the watercress sandwiches her mother served at tea and decided to add those to the list of preparations. She was about to ring for the housekeeper to discuss the dinner menu when she heard the front door open and close. Crikstaff's somber tones could be heard, followed by a deeper, commanding voice.

  Every fiber of her being sparked with recognition. And, truth be told, a panicky sort of anticipation.

  Nicholas was home.

  Helena heard the footsteps approaching the drawing room. She flung herself onto the loveseat and frantically arranged her skirts, striving for a casual yet attractive pose. Dash it all, how would Marianne sit? She tried crossing her ankles. No, too prim. She uncrossed them and propped her elbow against the armrest instead, thrusting her bosom forward. The steps grew closer and closer. Her lips froze in a welcoming smile as the breath raced in and out of her lungs. The steps were pausing now, outside the door ... and then they continued past. It took a moment for her numbed mind to recognize what was happening.

  Nicholas was walking away. He was leaving. Again.

  Instinct took over. Somehow, she was at the door, flinging it open, her voice shaping his name. She cringed at the shrill, desperate tone that escaped her. She sounded less like a siren bent on seduction on more like a Billingsgate fishwife.

  "Harteford," she managed more calmly over the thudding in her ears. "Y-you are home."

  Nicholas turned on the stairwell landing. Lord, but the sight of him made her knees weak. He wore unembellished black, and the austerity of his clothes emphasized the brawny musculature beneath. Her breath quickened at the memory of that hard, sinewy body moving against her own. His hooded eyes had flared with passion as he pushed himself deep inside her. Trembling, she noticed that a tuft of black hair stood out a little above his ear, the after-effects of removing his hat no doubt. How she longed to smooth it straight, to ease the crease between his brows with her fingers, to draw him closer ...

  Her hands clenched against her skirts.

  Nicholas' dark inscrutable eyes traveled slowly over her. There was no lover-like glow in his gaze. His mouth formed a tight line. Flushing, Helena realized that she had not yet changed her clothes since her outing with Marianne. Surely there were dirt stains on her hem, and her hair ... her eyes widened. Good heavens, her hair. She had not even glanced at her coiffure since removing her bonnet, so enthralled had she been by her clever plan to seduce her husband. Now, she could almost feel the wayward wisps frizzing about her face as Nicholas took impassive stock of her—his frumpy wife, with the hair of a banshee.

  She retreated a step as Nicholas descended the stairs. He stopped in front of her and bowed. Politely, as if to a stranger. There was a sti
ff quality to his posture and his expression, as if he was not pleased that she had detained him. Well, who would want to be hindered by an unattractive shrew of a wife, Helena thought, fighting back mortified tears. Here was her opportunity—and she was ruining everything. Numbly, she led him into the drawing room.

  "Good afternoon," Nicholas said. "I trust everything is well?"

  "Quite well," Helena said.

  Except that I feel like throwing myself down the nearest well.

  She realized then that Nicholas was still standing because she had forgotten to sit down. Hastily, she plopped down on the nearest chair. So much for a winsome pose. The flush on her cheek began to burn. "H-how have you been? I have not seen much of you these days past." The moment she said the words, she wished she could retract them. 'Twas as if she'd lost control over her voice—she'd not intended the words to sound accusatory.

  A look of distaste crossed Nicholas' features as he folded his large frame into an adjacent chair. "I have been occupied of late."

  "Of course," she said quickly.

  If there is not a well nearby, a ditch will do.

  "Is there something I can assist you with?" Nicholas was studying the fireplace, not quite meeting her eyes. Who could blame him? Her mind raced to find an acceptable excuse for having solicited his attention.

  "Th-the Dewitt musicale," she stammered. "It is on Saturday. I wanted to remind you that we are promised to attend."

  Nicholas' brows knit together. "I do not recall accepting the invitation."

  "Lady Dewitt is my mother's cousin, if you'll recall."

  "Actually, I do not recall," he said.

  There was something about his tone that had her chin lifting. "She sat to the right of my mother at our wedding breakfast. She invited us at that time to her annual musicale, and I promised her we would both come."

  At the time, it had seemed a trifling matter to do so. But, of course, that had been before their wedding night—and before the polite amicability that had settled over them like a pall.

  "I wish you had consulted me first," Nicholas said, frowning.