How he loathed his lack of control. He had given in to his lust for Helena, and she had repaid him by betraying him and forcing him into an untenable farce of a marriage. Grandfather had wanted him to marry Lady Beatrice. Indeed, one of his final actions on his deathbed had been to secure Gabe’s promise that he would take her as his countess.
And Gabe had agreed.
Now, he was being forced to break that promise. To take on a marriage that teetered on the brink of the same ruin his parents’ union had faced.
“I cannot marry you,” he agreed, choosing his words with painstaking care.
As they had on his previous visit, they were taking a turn about the gardens as her mother watched from the windows. For the last time. No such lenience would be allotted them from this moment forward. Indeed, he half-expected Lady Harthwaite to storm from the salon where she hovered, having seen the distress on her daughter’s countenance.
A light mist began to fall, fitting for the moment.
For the task.
Lady Beatrice shook her head slowly. “I do not understand what has changed. I have already reassured you that I am more than willing to accommodate you, my lord, however I must. If I somehow failed to soothe your worries, I must apologize. How can I prove my devotion to you? You need only say the words, and it shall be done.”
She was the most agreeable future wife in London. If he were honest, her willingness to send him off to a mistress and support his unfaithfulness in their union nettled. But that did nothing to ameliorate the sting of what he was about to do.
“I cannot marry you,” he explained slowly, “because I must marry another. I have acted selfishly and disreputably, and I have…compromised a lady.”
Oh, how he hated revealing the last—his utter moral failing. Though he had not done what Helena had suggested to her brother, he had done enough. He had trespassed. He had all but made love to her on the floor of the lady’s withdrawing room. She may have been wrong to suggest he had taken her maidenhead and gotten her with child in the process, but he was little better, in the end, than she.
He had sacrificed his honor and his duty for the sake of his prick.
Just as his father had done before him. He could only hope the results would not prove as disastrous. He was prepared to do whatever he must to avoid such a ruinous end. He would have to control himself in Helena’s presence, that much was undeniable.
Lady Beatrice’s shock was evident on her lovely face. “This lady you have compromised. Is she the same one you spoke of before?”
He thought of Helena and her taunting scent and her divine mouth and her curves. Guilty heat flared over his cheekbones. “Yes.”
Lady Beatrice’s nostrils flared, absorbing the blow. “I foolishly supposed you were concerned about a mistress. It is common, and I expected no less. Who is she?”
For some reason, his first instinct was to protect Helena. To keep her identity a secret. But it occurred to him in short order that when he took her as his wife, the truth would be apparent.
“Lady Helena Davenport,” he revealed.
Lady Beatrice’s lips tightened, her shoulders squaring. “Ah. I suppose I ought not to be surprised.”
Her reaction startled him. He had done his utmost to keep his desire for Helena at bay. Had he not?
“It was a mistake,” he said. “And one I shall forever regret. But the damage has been done, I am afraid. I will be marrying her as quickly as possible.”
Part of him balked at his explanation, at calling Helena a mistake. A regret. She had done him a great deal of damage with her reckless deceits. However, he could not, in truth, say he regretted kissing her. Touching her. Holding her. He merely regretted what had come after. Her betrayal. This godforsaken audience with Lady Beatrice. Going against his deathbed promise to Grandfather. The prospect of a marriage that would fare no better than his parents’ ill-fated match.
“It is imperative that you marry her?” Lady Beatrice asked, with a note of hope. “I do not mind weathering scandal. As your countess, I will do everything in my power to stop tongues from wagging.”
He could not reveal the sordid truth to her. So instead, he nodded. “It is imperative, I am afraid.”
“But I thought she was all but betrothed to Lord Hamish White,” she argued, her tone taking on an unnatural, shrill quality.
“She was,” he agreed, his discomfort reaching new heights.
What was the accepted convention for speaking about one’s future betrothed with one’s recently jilted betrothed? He was sure there was none. This was no ordinary circumstance in which he found himself unceremoniously mired.
“She has broken her betrothal for you, then, just as she always wished,” Lady Beatrice said bitterly. “I was warned. I saw for myself the way she looked at you, but I had believed you too honorable for her wiles.”
The vitriol in her voice startled him, but he told himself it was to be expected. Even in a paragon such as Lady Beatrice. He could not deny that Helena possessed plenty of allure. However, Lady Beatrice’s words gave him pause. He had never supposed Helena returned his attraction until he had kissed her. Had it been obvious then? Had he fallen into her trap?
Surely not. How could she have known Lord Algernon Forsyte would have been bragging about his impending conquest? Unless she was guilty of more damning manipulation and deceit than she had already proven.
