Her Husband's Harlot Page 8

  He heard himself saying, "There is one thing."

  "Yes?" Quill poised above the notebook, Jibotts cocked his head.

  "I would like your opinion on a matter."

  "Of course, my lord."

  "You have been married for some time, have you not?"

  The steward's quill quivered. "I beg your pardon?"

  "I take it there has been a Mrs. Jibotts for many years," Nicholas said impatiently.

  Jibotts gave an uncertain nod.

  "So you must, therefore, have some experience with the workings of the female mind."

  "Oh, sir, I wouldn't say that," Jibotts protested.

  "In your experience, why does a woman change her mind?"

  Nicholas had never seen Jibotts flummoxed before. The man was as straight as a stick pin, always direct to the point. But now the steward was looking at him, his mouth hanging slightly open, but no words emerging.

  "You have been married for some time," Nicholas repeated. "Surely there have been occasions when Mrs. Jibotts experiences a sudden change of heart, with no logical explanation whatsoever?"

  It took a moment for Jibotts to recover himself. He carefully closed his notebook and put away the pen. "You are asking about my personal experience, sir? Within the matrimonial realm."

  "Precisely," Nicholas said, feeling the reddening of his cheekbones. Thank God the man finally caught on. He did not know how much longer he could continue with this line of discussion. It was damned uncomfortable.

  "In my twenty years of marriage, I have come to the conclusion that a woman's mind does not work like a man's," Jibotts said.

  "You are hardly blowing the gaff on that one," Nicholas muttered.

  "However," Jibotts continued, holding up a finger, "it is a mind to be reckoned with nonetheless. Take Mrs. Jibotts, for example. A mild-mannered lady who never raises her voice. In fact, her genteel disposition was one of the reasons why I married her."

  "How fortunate for you," Nicholas said.

  Jibotts shook his head, clearly warming to his subject. "Alas, one can never predict a woman's fancy. Gentle as Mrs. Jibotts may seem, when she decides upon a thing, it will be done. Last year, she took it to her head that the parlor needed redecorating. It was a perfectly fine parlor, mind you. But there was no peace to be had until she had spent twenty pounds—twenty pounds, by God—changing this thing and that. Now I dine amidst chartreuse brocade and oriental birds."

  "Chartreuse?"

  "A shade of green," Jibotts clarified glumly. "The color of a seaman's face before he casts up his accounts."

  Nicholas could not think of what to say for a moment. This is what he had to look forward to—furniture the color of nausea? "Surely there must be a way to dissuade one's wife from, ah, irrational behavior."

  "None whatsoever. And in matters of a domestic nature, I caution you not to try."

  "There must be some remedy," Nicholas insisted, "some strategy that you have gainfully employed."

  A strange expression passed over the steward's face, which suddenly turned pink. Perspiration beaded on his forehead.

  "So there is something to be done," Nicholas said with some relief. "Well, spit it out, man."

  Jibotts hesitated, his flush deepening. "It is not so much something to do, sir ..."

  "Yes?"

  "But more when not to do it. A Fabian tactic, if you will."

  "What the hell is that?"

  "A delaying maneuver." Jibotts' spectacles were beginning to fog. For once the steward lost his perfect posture—he was slouching low in the chair, as if he wished he could find a way to slip out of the conversation altogether. "I have found it best in my interactions with Mrs. Jibotts to avoid certain times when the irrationality as you so delicately put it is particularly evident."

  "You are not making an ounce of sense," Nicholas said.

  "It is prudent, shall we say, to avoid discussion altogether during certain, ahem, times?"

  Nicholas' brows knitted together. "I don't understand. To what times do you refer?"

  "Blimey." Jibotts expelled a sigh. "Certain times, of the ... month?"

  All at once, the steward's meaning became clear. Nicholas felt his neck burn beneath his collar.

  "I see," he said. An awkward silence followed. "Well, er, thank you for your input, Jibotts."

  The other man mopped his brow. "You are welcome, my lord. If there's nothing else, I will attend to my duties."

  Nicholas watched the steward's rapid retreat with some relief. At least some of Helena's behavior now made sense. Helena's momentary insanity was due to her ... womanly constitution. Why didn't he think of it himself? He frowned, realizing there was a perfectly good reason why: he had never had to deal so intimately with a female before. While he had visited women in the past—at his convenience and theirs—he had never kept a regular mistress. He preferred his affairs simple. Rarely did he stay the night, and never did he have to manage conversation over breakfast the next morning.

  But now he was living with a woman, for Christ's sake. Though he planned to minimize his interactions with his wife, he knew he couldn't avoid her entirely. At least, not without the risk of hurting her feelings, and that was the last thing he wanted. It struck him that if he wished to have any semblance of peace in his life, he would have to establish the kind of marriage valued amongst the ton. One that was civil yet cool. Sophisticated and bloodless.

  One that was the very opposite of what he yearned for.

  It was, however, the logical solution for the time being. Logic further dictated that if Helena's volatile behavior was due to her monthly flux, then after the blasted time had passed, surely she would return to the demure lady he had married. His brow eased. Of course. It was but a temporary madness. Likely, she was even now feeling sorry for what she had put him through over the silly party. Poor little thing probably felt mortified over the way she had taken him to task.

  Feeling somewhat better, Nicholas decided he could take the high road in this instance. He would attend the musicale at the end of week and play the dutiful husband. Perhaps if his wife wasn't feeling too indisposed because of her condition, he might solicit a dance. He had never enjoyed dancing, but he knew she did. He would make it a priority to restore their relationship to its previous state of courteous equilibrium.

  He heaved a sigh. Given his shortcomings, it was the least he could do.

  SEVEN

  "Cecily has quite outdone herself this year, don't you agree Helena? She tells me the champagne fountain is quite en vogue in Paris this year, which is why her chef—French, you know—insisted upon it. He added crushed strawberries to color the champagne pink. Is that not the cleverest thing you have ever heard?"

  Seated on a settee next to her mother, Helena nodded absent-mindedly. Guests eddied around them, chatting and laughing, enjoying the intermission between dinner and the impending musical entertainments. Her attention was on the receiving line. The butler had announced a flurry of names, not one of them Nicholas'. Where was he? Had he decided to stay away from the musicale after all? He had promised to come, but perhaps he had said so only to placate her. Perhaps he was angry at her for insisting on his presence.

  She felt the tremor of a headache at her temples.

  "I have always admired the design of Cecily's house. So very convenient for entertaining," her mama enthused. "Why, with all the doors folded back and the rooms flowing into one another, it is as large as one of the fields at Vauxhall!"

  Helena forced a smile.

  Why oh why had she railed at Nicholas like a termagant? Ever since the confrontation in the drawing room, she had berated herself over her most indecorous behavior. No man liked to be taken to task by his wife. Novice to marriage that she was, even she understood that. If her goal was to win her husband's heart, why had she acted in so foolish a manner?

  Her fingers twisted in the fringes of her cashmere shawl. Because she had been angry, that was why. Furious as she had never been in her entire existence.
As if all the failures of her life had hit her at once, and she had been tired of waiting for dreams that never materialized. Anger and desperation had made her reckless. Now, thanks to her rash behavior, she had made a mull of her marriage in more ways than one. Bad enough that she had seduced her husband masquerading as a harlot—now she had managed to enrage him acting as a wife.

  Good heavens, could matters get any worse?

  "Whatever is the matter with you tonight, Helena?" Countess Northgate asked.

  Helena blinked. It was not her mother's habit to take notice of her state of mind. Growing up, she had daydreamed for hours while her parent chattered on (ironically, usually about the importance of etiquette). She really must compose herself if Mama perceived that something was amiss.

  "Nothing is the matter," Helena said, summoning a bright smile. "I was just, er, thinking about household concerns."

  "Now that you are a married lady, I hasten to remind you that keen attention lies at the heart of a happy marriage. However will you learn to please your husband, if your head remains forever in the clouds?"

  Helena's smile deflated a little.

  "Of course, Mama," she said.

  The Countess of Northgate nodded, her grey velvet turban slipping over her faded brown curls. Her small hands fluttered to push the headpiece back in place as she spoke in soft, rapid tones. "One must work very hard to please one's husband, Helena. At times, it may seem a monumental task. I, myself, have benefitted from consulting Lady Epplethistle's Compleat Guide from time to time. Have you reviewed it lately? There are specific guidelines summarized, I believe, beginning on page one hundred and three ..."

  Helena tried to appear attentive. Once Mama started on a topic, attempts to stop her proved futile. Especially in social situations such as these, which tended to stimulate her delicate nerves. The countess had always possessed a finely balanced constitution, but since Thomas' death it seemed the smallest provocation could agitate her sensibilities.

  ". . . keeping up with the vinegar ablutions I suggested ? If not, I would fear the return of those dreaded freckles, my dear. Gracious me, I can almost imagine those pesky spots growing right there on the very tip of your nose! You mustn't allow that to happen, really you mustn't. Why, what would Harteford say ..."

  Since her husband did not notice anything about her, the presence of a mere freckle was unlikely to disturb his equilibrium. But she could not tell her mother that. Not when Mama was already showing the telltale signs of aggravated nerves, from the accelerating speech to the nervous head movements. She resembled a curious sparrow, craning her neck this way and that.

  With growing worry, Helena realized she had to do something before Mama succumbed to an attack. The sequence always followed the same pattern—an excess of excitement culminating in collapse and weeks in bed. As a young girl, she'd dreaded visiting her mother when the shades were drawn and the air burned with camphor. Seeing her mother pale and wane in the curtained bed had filled her with nameless panic. It had taken years for her to realize that her mother would not expire from what the physician termed a disorder of the nerves.

  Still, the countess' condition had worsened in the years since Thomas' passing. The episodes came more frequently and often lasted for weeks. Once an attack took place, nothing seemed to help but bed rest and a minimum of stimulation. Mama led a reclusive life as it was, drifting from room to room on the country estate. But even amidst the rural solitude, Helena knew her mother had started adding laudanum to the milk at bedtime.

  Helena felt a stab of guilt. Though she corresponded daily with her mother, she had been too caught up in her new life to return to Hampshire for a visit. How amiss she had been in her daughterly duties. And her wifely ones as well.

  Dash it all, could she do nothing right these days?

  "I shall be happy to lend you some of my whitening powder. I have it specifically concocted by the Apothecary on Piccadilly and always make a point of refreshing my supplies on my visits to London," her mother said with a trilling laugh. "Oh, look, Helena at the clever satin appliqués on Lady Marlough's gown. They are like leaves cascading to her hem! Are they not delicious?"

  "Yes, Mama," Helena murmured. "Perhaps we should ..."

  "I do so love London during the Season! And this is my most favorite event of all. I do hope dear, dear Caroline will give a performance. I declare, she outshines all the professional musicians Cecily hires for this occasion!"

  Helena rather thought that was the point of the whole evening: to highlight her cousin Caroline's superiority. Immediately, she chastised herself for the petty thought. It was small of her to harbor childhood resentments. For reasons not entirely clear, she and Caroline had never quite rubbed it off together. Likely it had something to do with the fact that whenever Caroline was present Helena felt like a court jester entertaining the queen.

  At any rate, Helena reminded herself, she had larger concerns to contend with—like the hurricane of air being generated by the countess' fan.

  Helena placed a hand on her mother's arm. The frail muscles vibrated beneath her touch. "Mama, shall we take a stroll? Aunt Cecily has a lovely garden out in the back."

  "A wonderful idea!" The countess sprang up, her slight frame emanating an agitated energy. "I shall lead the way. It has been too long since I have circulated among the beau monde, so many people to see, la!"

  "Mama," Helena protested.

  But it was too late. Her mother had taken flight into the throng. Helena had no choice but to follow as her mother darted out of the drawing room. The countess headed through the open doors into the music room, where rows of chairs had been placed facing a gleaming pianoforte. An arch of peach-colored camellias framed the stage.

  "Lady Yardley! Dearest Baroness de Gagney! So delighted to see you!"

  Helena flushed with embarrassment as the Countess continued to call out greetings to the occupants of the room. Despite the polite murmured replies, she saw the raised brows and secret smirks behind the champagne flutes. She could practically hear what they were thinking. The Countess of Northgate, fit for Bedlam. She managed to secure her mother's arm.

  "Mama, we were to visit the garden," she said.

  "Oh, yes, let's," the countess enthused, her brown eyes wide and child-like.

  Helena began to steer the way, but was stopped by a silky voice.

  "Is that you, Aunt Amelia? And Cousin Helena?"

  Resplendent in peacock-blue satin, Caroline was standing but a few feet away, surrounded by a ring of suitors. The gentlemen parted as Caroline glided forward.

  "My dear Caroline, but you do look stunning this evening!" Countess Northgate exclaimed.

  Helena had to agree. Cut in the latest classical fashion, Caroline's gown gathered under the bosom and fell in a soft, graceful column. The delicate puff sleeves bared most of her shoulders, and the neckline was trimmed with tiny golden tassels which shimmered with each movement. Indeed, Caroline looked like a princess, with her hair in a coronet and a strand of diamonds woven into her auburn locks.

  "Wh-what a lovely gown," Helena stammered, as her cousin kissed the air near her cheek. "I have never seen anything so beautiful."

  "This old thing?" Caroline laughed, showing her perfectly white, even teeth. "I thought I would give it a final whirl before bestowing it upon my maid. If you admire it so, I would be happy to give it to you instead, dearest cousin."

  Helena felt her ears burn. Had her compliment been too gauche? Awkwardly she added, "Oh, that is not what I meant—"

  "But, then again, you do not need my advice when it comes to fashion. You do set a style all your own. How very original to wear velvet this Season," Caroline said, with another light laugh.

  Helena felt the heat spread to her face. How she wished her new wardrobe from Madame Rousseau's had arrived in time for this evening. But it had not, so she had resigned herself to wearing one of her old dresses. The rose-colored velvet was heavy and rather shapeless. She had chosen it only because she thought it
showed her bosom to an advantage. Compared to the other ladies in the room, however, she could see that her neckline appeared practically prudish.

  The countess plunged into the awkward silence. "Are those sapphires in your necklace, Caroline? How very brilliantly they shine!"

  "Why, thank you, Aunt." Caroline's gloved fingers lovingly caressed the large, sparkling stones at her bosom. "A gift from Papa. It is a lucky daughter to have so generous a father, don't you agree, Helena?"

  "Yes." Her own father, as Caroline must know, had been sunk in debt these past years.

  "Where is Uncle tonight? I do so long to say hello," Caroline continued.

  "Northgate is here somewhere. The card room, likely," the countess responded cheerfully. "The man loves his whist."

  Helena looked at her mother with incredulous eyes. Was she mad? Father was at the cards again, and she was smiling about it? Did her mother not realize the danger he was in? That they were all in? Something had to be done. Immediately.

  "Excuse me," Helena said quickly, "but I have been reminded of something I need to speak with Father about."

  "Of course." Caroline's smile edged into a smirk. "Such a pleasure to see you, Helena. We really should visit more often now that you are in Town, and we are moving in similar circles."

  Similar, but not the same circles. Helena registered the barb, but at this point she had more pressing concerns. Like preventing her father from gambling away the family estate.

  "Helena, I think I will stay and chat with Caroline," her mother was saying.

  "I will take excellent care of her," Caroline said, still smirking.

  Oh no. She could not leave her mother in the den of wolves. But what was she to do?

  "Good evening, ladies," a deep voice said from behind her.

  Helena turned to see Nicholas, breathtakingly masculine in his formal clothes. The cut of his dinner jacket emphasized the width of his shoulders, whilst his trousers skimmed down his narrow hips and muscular legs before tucking into gleaming Hessians. He was bowing to them. When he raised his head, she caught his eye. With an inward sigh of relief, she saw that he had evidently recovered from their row. He did not appear angry. He was not smiling, of course, for it was not his habit to do so. Yet his grey eyes were warm, his lips relaxed.