Shelbourne shook his head. “No.”
But Helena persisted, wedging herself between Gabe and her brother once more. The sweet scent of her invaded his senses. His head felt as if it were suddenly too light for his body. His jaw ached. Thoughts remained slow. He must not, above all else, allow her to affect him as she had done in the past.
He had to keep his sangfroid firmly in place. Even if part of him wanted to throttle her and the other part wanted to kiss her.
“I need to speak with his lordship,” Helena said softly, allowing a hint of tears to enter her voice.
If Huntingdon had been inclined, he would have offered her applause. She had the flair of a lifelong actress. He ground his jaw to keep from making a tart response and then winced as it made his headache more pronounced.
“I am hardly in a state to ravish her,” he offered wryly.
Shelbourne snarled in the fashion of a rabid animal, which was apparently the sole response he was interested in giving.
“Shelbourne,” Helena pressed, sniffling for good measure, Huntingdon supposed.
“Five minutes to plan your impending nuptials,” Shelbourne relented bitterly. “And only because I hate it when you weep. I will be in the hall, counting the seconds. If you touch her, Huntingdon, I will thrash you to within a breath of your life.”
He inclined his head in deference to his friend’s threat. The moment Shelbourne had left the chamber, Helena whirled to face him. Her expression was still a study in misery.
“Explain yourself, madam,” he demanded.
“Please do not be angry with me,” she said, reaching for him.
He shrugged away from her touch—touching her was what had gotten him into this infernal mess in the first place. “Anger does not begin to describe what I feel at the moment, my lady.”
“I had no choice. My father was preparing to announce my betrothal to Lord Hamish, and thus far, I have only had an opportunity to ruin myself with one man,” she countered, dashing a tear from her cheek.
“Cease your theatrics,” he ordered coldly. “Your brother is out of earshot and they are no longer necessary to facilitate his pity.”
“Please, Huntingdon,” she begged, those big, verdant orbs filling with unshed tears, as if on cue. “I did not know what else to do.”
A growl emerged from him. “I can damn well assure you that telling your brother you carry my bastard was not the proper solution. Tell me, are you carrying a child? Because if you are, we both know it is not mine.”
She blinked, wringing her hands in her distress.
More of an act?
He could not be sure.
Hell, he could not be sure of anything any longer. Except for that he never should have kissed her. Never should have followed her. Never should have given in to his lust. Never should have slid his hand beneath her skirts, found the slit in her drawers…
Damn her to perdition. She was like an infection in his blood.
“I am not with child,” she admitted,sotto voce. “If you wish, I will admit the truth to Shelbourne. I feel dreadful for the way he attacked you.”
Her claim of compassion did nothing to quell the fires of his ire. “I deserved the trouncing he gave me for touching you and kissing you. I will own my sins. But even if you did tell him the truth now, he would not believe you. No, indeed. The seed of our collective doom has been sown.”
“I never intended—”
“You have what you wanted,” he interrupted, driven by the need to lash out at her. “And now we must both pay the price.”
The door to the study opened before either of them could speak. Shelbourne returned. “When will you be speaking to my father, Huntingdon?”
“With as much haste as possible,” he decided.
But first, he needed to see Lady Beatrice and pray she would understand.
Chapter Nine
