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.”
In her heavy skirts, weighed down by the pronounced tournure that gave them their lush fullness, she was no match for him. He caught her in a trice, taking her elbow and spinning her to face him.
“Curse you, Helena,” he said, and then lost his ability for further speech.
The ethereal light of the night bathed her lovely face. Her bosom, pale and full, was a temptation he had not previously noted in the haste of his altercation with Dessington and her subsequent retreat.
“You are remarkably obtuse for a man who is otherwise possessed of an estimable intellect,” she snapped.
Her ire ought to have ruined the effect, but he still felt as if he were a drunkard with his favorite vice laid before him. He wanted to consume her. Drown in her. He wanted to do all the things he had never dared to do.
With her.
Only her.
Why did he have to be afflicted thus, with a weakness for a woman he could never have? Even if his honor did not demand he keep a respectable distance from his friend’s sister, he had promised Grandfather he would marry Lady Beatrice, a woman who could not be more opposite to the fiery, scandal-courting siren facing him now. Lady Beatrice would make him an ideal countess, and their marriage would be perfectly polite, bereft of ruinous passion or emotion. It was what was best for him.
“What you are doing is wrong,” he said, hating the huskiness in his voice. Despising himself for the snugness of his trousers. A gentle breeze blew, bringing with it the scent of bergamot and citrus. He forced himself to continue. “You will only hurt yourself and your family if you carry on in this vein.”
“Why should you care?” she asked.
Excellent question.
He was beginning to wonder the same.
He clenched his jaw. “Because I am an honorable man. Because I am friends with Shelbourne, and I owe it to him to look after you as I would my own sister.”
She tugged at her elbow, but he held firm. “I am not your sister, Huntingdon.”
No one knew that better than he did.
A certain portion of his anatomy was painfully, rigidly familiar with that fact.
“Nonetheless, I consider you my sister in name, if not in truth,” he insisted, which was a loathsome lie. There was nothing brotherly about the way he felt whenever he was within Lady Helena Davenport’s presence.
And that was why he had always done his utmost to avoid her.
Why he ought to be avoiding her now.
If only she would see reason.
“Would that youdidhave a sister so you could go chasing her about in gardens,” Helena said.
