Tempting the Bride, Page 2

  He ran his hand through his hair. Time for his lonely bed, which he could have filled with women, but for his reluctance to sleep with anyone else when Miss Fitzhugh was in the vicinity. Perhaps it was some hidden wellspring of gentlemanliness protesting this act of hypocrisy, or perhaps it was merely him being superstitious, afraid that such an infraction would destroy what slender hope he still had.

  Her door opened.

  He sucked in a breath. Had she sensed him? He pressed his back into the curved inside of the alcove. It was too dark to see well, but she seemed to be poised on the threshold. Was she searching for him?

  The door closed softly. He let out the breath he held—she must have returned to her room.

  Suddenly she was before him, a disturbance in the air. His heart leaped to the roof of his mouth; endless disastrous possibilities flashed across his mind, all his years of careful pretenses stripped bare at once. She would lift one fine brow and laugh at the futility of his desires.

  She walked past him. He blinked, disoriented by the abrupt evaporation of what had promised to be an eventful confrontation. She hadn’t come for him; she was going for a snack, perhaps, or another book. But she did not even have a hand candle to illuminate her way. It was as if she didn’t want anyone to see her—or where she was going.

  He might not have been able to follow her had it been summer—she’d have heard his footsteps on the echoing floor. But it was winter and a thick carpet had been laid down. He walked soundlessly, keeping to the walls.

  She approached the stairs. If she were headed for the warming kitchen or the library, she would go down the steps. She didn’t: She climbed up. Most of the guests had been placed on the same floor, the unmarried ladies and gentlemen put into separate wings. Above, in this wing, at least, were only the guests who’d arrived late—and Mr. Andrew Martin.

  An airless sensation overtook him. He could not possibly be correct in his suspicions. She was far too clear-thinking a woman to visit the room of any man, let alone a married man, at this hour of the night.

  On the next floor there was only one door with light still underneath. And when she approached, the door opened from inside. In the gap stood Andrew Martin, smiling.

  She slipped in. The door closed. Hastings remained numbly in place.

  She wasn’t just Martin’s friend and publisher. She was his lover.

  He found himself seated on the floor—his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. She stayed in Martin’s room for two hours, leaving as quietly as she’d arrived, slipping down the stairs like a phantom of the night. Hastings did not return to his own room until almost dawn.

  She had no obligation to care for his sentiments, but did she not care about her own future? What she had done was utter madness. Had she slipped into the room of a bachelor, Hastings would be no less annihilated, but at least then her lover could marry her, should the worst happen.

  With Andrew Martin there was no such last resort.

  Late the next morning he came across the two of them in the library, reading in two adjacent chairs. She radiated satisfaction. He turned around and walked out.

  That night she visited Martin again. Hastings stood guard near the stairs, trying, unsuccessfully, to not imagine what might be taking place inside Martin’s room.

  He spent his second sleepless night.

  The following night, he sat on the carpeted steps, his head resting against the cold banister. He had to leave in the morning—he never remained away from his daughter for longer than three days. On his way home, should he stop by Fitz’s estate and gently break the news of Miss Fitzhugh’s misbehavior? He might be nothing and no one to Helena Fitzhugh, but her twin brother, Fitz, was his best friend.

  Would she ever forgive him if he did?

  He sat up straight. A pair of giggling guests were coming up the stairs. He recognized their whispering voices: a man and a woman, married, but not to each other.

  They sounded more than a little drunk.

  His heart pounding, he coughed loudly. The would-be adulterers fell silent. After a few seconds there came a hushed exchange. They turned around and descended.

  It was several minutes before he could unclench his fingers from around the banister.

  Not that those two were certain to have tried Martin’s door. Not that Martin’s door wouldn’t have already been securely locked, with a chair wedged beneath the door handle as an additional bulwark against intruders. But if this continued, someday, somewhere, someone would open a door that hadn’t been properly secured.

  He slowly rose to his feet, leaning on the balustrade. He knew her. It was easier to pull a lion’s teeth than to change her mind. She would barrel down this path, refusing to be diverted, until she crashed into the limit of society’s tolerance.

  And he, as much as even now he still wanted to, could not always protect her.

  A lover’s embrace made one look favorably upon the entirety of the universe. As Helena Fitzhugh returned to her empty, unlit bedroom, she sighed in contentment.

  Or rather, as much contentment as possible, given that her particular lover’s embrace had happened through her chemise and his nightshirt—Andrew was adamant that they not risk a pregnancy. But still, how new and thrilling it was to kiss and touch in the comfort and privacy of a bed, almost enough to pretend that the past five years never happened and that the only thing that separated them was two layers of thin, soft merino wool.

  “Hullo, Miss Fitzhugh,” came a man’s voice out of the darkness.

  Her heart stopped. Hastings was her brother Fitz’s best friend—but not exactly a friend to her.

  “Mistook my room for one of your paramours’?” She was proud of herself. Her voice sounded even, almost blasé.

  “Then I would have greeted you by one of their names, wouldn’t I?” His voice was just as nonchalant as hers.

  A match flared, illuminating a pair of stern eyes. It always surprised her that he could look somber—intimidating—at times, when he was so frivolous a person.

  He lit a hand candle. The light cast his features into sharp relief; the ends of his hair gleamed bronze. “Where were you, Miss Fitzhugh?”

  “I was hungry. I went to the butler’s pantry and found myself a slice of pear cake.”

  He blew out the match and tossed it in the grate. “And came back directly?”

  “Not that it is any of your concern, but yes.”

  “So if I were to kiss you now, you would taste of pear cake?”

  Trust Hastings to always drag any discussion into the gutter. “Absolutely. But as your lips will never touch mine, that is a moot point, my lord Hastings.”

  He looked at her askance. “You are aware, are you not, that I am one of your brother’s most trusted friends?”

  A friendship she’d never quite understood. “And?”

  “And as such, when I become aware of gross misconduct on your part, it behooves me to inform your brother without delay.”

  She lifted her chin. “Gross misconduct? Is that what one calls a little foray to the butler’s pantry these days?”

  “A little foray to the butler’s pantry, is that how one refers to the territory inside Mr. Martin’s underlinens these days?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Should I use the scientific names?”

  And wouldn’t he enjoy doing that. But as it was her policy to never let him enjoy himself at her expense, she declared, “Mr. Martin and I are friends of long standing and nothing more.”

  “You and I are friends of long standing and—”

  “You and I are acquaintances of long standing, Hastings.”

  “Fine. Your sister and I are friends of long standing and yet she has never come to spend hours in my room. Alone. After midnight.”

  “I went for a slice of cake.”

  He cocked his head. “I saw you go into Mr. Martin’s room at forty minutes past midnight, Miss Fitzhugh. You were still there when I left twenty minutes ago. By th
e way, I also witnessed the same thing happening for the past two nights. You can accuse me of many things—and you do—but you cannot charge me with drawing conclusions on insufficient evidence. Not in this case, at least.”

  She stiffened. She’d underestimated him, it would seem. He’d been his usual flighty, superficial self; she wouldn’t have guessed he had the faintest inkling of her nighttime forays.

  “What do you want, Hastings?”

  “I want you to mend your ways, my dear Miss Fitzhugh. I understand very well that Mr. Martin should have been yours in an ideal world. I also understand that his wife has been praying for him to take a lover so she could do the same. But none of it will matter should you be found out. So you see, it is my moral obligation to leave at first light and inform your siblings, my dear, dear friends, that their beloved sister is throwing away her life.”

  She rolled her eyes. “What do you want, Hastings?”

  He sighed dramatically. “It wounds me, Miss Fitzhugh. Why do you always suspect me of ulterior motives?”

  “Because you always have one. What do I have to do now for your silence?”

  “That will not happen.”

  “I refuse to think you cannot be bought, Hastings.”

  “My, such adamant faith in my corruptibility. I almost hate to disappoint you.”

  “Then don’t disappoint me. Name your price.”

  His title was quite new—he was only the second Viscount Hastings after his uncle. The family coffer was full to the brim. His price would not be anything denominated in pounds sterling.

  “If I say nothing,” he mused, “Fitz will be quite put out with me.”

  “If you say nothing, my brother will not know anything.”

  “Fitz is a clever man—except when it comes to his wife, perhaps. He will learn sooner or later, somehow.”

  “But you are a man who lives in the present, aren’t you?”

  He lifted a brow. “That wouldn’t be your way of saying that I am empty-headed and incapable of thinking of the future, would it?”

  She didn’t bother with an answer to that question. “It is getting late—not too long now before someone comes to lay a new fire. I don’t want you to be seen in my room.”

  “At least I can marry you to salvage your reputation should that happen. Mr. Martin is in no position to do so.”

  “That is quite beside the point. Tell me what you want and begone.”

  He smiled, a crooked smile full of suggestions. “You know what I want.”

  “Please don’t tell me you are still trying to kiss me. Have I not made my lack of interest abundantly clear on this matter?”

  “I don’t want to kiss you. However, you will need to kiss me.”

  She, kiss him?

  “Ah, I see you were hoping to stand quiescent and think of Christian martyrs mauled by the lions of the Colosseum. But as you always tell me, I am a man of unseemly tastes. So you must be the lion, and I the martyr. I shall expect exceptional aggression, Miss Fitzhugh.”

  “If I were a lion, I’d find you a piece of rotten fish, not at all to my taste and hardly edible, whereas I’ve just dined on the finest gazelle in the entire savanna. You will excuse me if I fail to summon any enthusiasm to fall upon you.”

  “Quite the contrary. I cannot excuse such failure. Not in the least. You will somehow summon the enthusiasm or I shall be on the earliest train headed south.”

  “And if I do manufacture enough false zeal to satisfy you?”

  “Then I shall say nothing to anyone of Mr. Martin.”

  “Your word?”

  “Your word that the kiss will be more debauched than any you’ve pressed upon Mr. Martin.”

  “You are a pervert, Hastings.”

  He smiled again. “And you are just the sort of woman to appreciate one, Miss Fitzhugh, whether you realize it or not. Now, here is what I want you to do. You will seize me by the shoulders, push me against the wall, reach your hand under my jacket—”

  “I feel my bile rising.”

  “Then you are ready. Onward. I await your assault.”

  She grimaced. “How I hate to spoil a perfect record of repelling you.”

  “Nothing lasts forever, my dear Miss Fitzhugh. And remember, kiss me passionately. Or you’ll have to do it again.”

  She might as well get it over with.

  She closed the space that separated them in two big strides and gripped him by the sleeves of his dressing gown. Instead of pushing him backward as he’d instructed—as if she’d allow him to dictate the specifics of her ordeal—she yanked him toward her, fastened her mouth to his, and imagined herself a shark with hundreds of razor-sharp teeth.

  Or perhaps she was a minion of the underworld, her mouth a welter of burning acid and sulfur fumes, devouring his soul, savoring all the idle immoralities he’d committed in his lifetime as a palate cleanser between courses of more substantial sins.

  Or a Venus flytrap, full of delicious nectar, but woe was he who thought he could dip a proboscis inside and sample her charms. Instead, she would digest him in place, stupid sod.

  Vaguely she sensed something hard and smooth against her shoulder blades. They’d been in the middle of her room; why was she being pressed into a wall? And why, all of a sudden, was she the one being devoured?

  The muscles of his arms were tight and hard beneath her hands. His person was as tall and solid as a castle gate. His mouth, instead of tasting like a furnace of greedy lust, was cool and delicious, as if he’d just downed a long draft of well water.

  She shoved him away and wiped her lips. She was panting. She didn’t know why she ought to be.

  “My,” he murmured. “As ferocious as anything I’ve ever imagined. I was right. You do want me.”

  She ignored him. “Your word.”

  “I will say nothing of Andrew Martin to anyone. You may depend on that.”

  “Leave.”

  “Gladly, now that I have what I came for.” He smirked. “Good night, my dear. You were well worth the wait.”

  CHAPTER 1

  Six months later

  A traffic logjam had convened on Fleet Street, and Hastings’s brougham was caught in the midst. The assembly of vehicles advanced at a ponderous pace that would not have won races against his daughter’s pet tortoise. Enterprising men and boys went from carriage to carriage, hawking ginger beer and hot buns to a captive crowd.

  Had the logjam happened on a different street, Hastings would have alighted and walked. But he’d chosen this particular route for a reason: a window that differed little from the two dozen others that looked out from the same building. His eyes, however, were always unerringly drawn to those particular panes of glass—their luster quite dulled this hour by the shadows of an approaching storm.

  If he could rise some fifteen, twenty feet in the air, he’d be able to see Helena Fitzhugh, sitting with her back to the window. She would be wearing a white blouse tucked into a dark skirt, her flaming hair caught up in an elegant chignon at her nape. A pot of tea was likely to be found on her desk, brought in by her conscientious secretary in the morning, and largely ignored the rest of the day.

  Much could happen in six months—and much had. Hastings had done what he’d promised to do, keeping Andrew Martin’s name out of any discussions. But he had not kept her actions a secret. In fact, the morning after their confrontation, he’d left at first light, traveled to her brother’s estate, and informed her family that she’d been out and about at night when she ought not to be.

  Her family had immediately understood the implications. She was half coaxed, half ordered across the ocean to America, under the pretext of an article that needed writing concerning the ladies of Radcliffe College, a women’s college associated with Harvard University.

  The events that took place on the campus of Harvard University had led to one of the more intriguing scandals of the current London Season, a scandal that involved Miss Fitzhugh’s elder sister and the Duke of Lexington, resulting
in an unexpected wedding.

  On the heels of that, her twin brother, Fitz, at last realized that he was—and had been for years—in love with his heiress wife, a woman he’d married under the most trying of circumstances and never believed could become the love of his life.

  For Hastings, however, little had changed, other than that his beloved disfavored him more than ever. Their lives went on, occasionally intersecting in a burst of sparks. But like images produced by a magic lantern, the drama and movement were but illusions going round and round. Nothing of substance happened. They’d dealt with each other thus since they were children, and he was no closer to her heart than that pot of tea at her elbow, a fixture in her life yet utterly inconsequential.

  And so he stared at her window in the light of the day, as he’d stared at her door in the dark of the night.

  The window opened. She stood before it, looking out.

  He knew she could not see him—could not, thanks to the carriage immediately adjacent, even make out the crest on his carriage. All the same his breath quickened, his heart constricting.

  Then, after the quake of nerves, a familiar dejection. She did not even look down, but only gazed distantly toward the direction of Andrew Martin’s town residence.

  Despite Hastings’s keeping to the letter—if not the spirit—of his promise, members of her family discovered on their own the identity of Miss Fitzhugh’s partner in crime. Hastings subsequently received a perhaps well-deserved punch to the face from Fitz for not having told the whole truth. Andrew Martin did not receive a just-as-well-deserved (if not more so) punch to the face, but Fitz made it clear that Martin was never to contact Miss Fitzhugh again.

  She missed him. Hastings was but a shadow in the crowd, but Martin was her air, her sky.

  He watched her until she closed the window and disappeared from sight. Then he got out of the brougham, instructed his coachman to head home as the logjam allowed, and walked away.

  The window must not have latched properly, for Helena could once again hear the din of the impasse below.