Chapter Eleven
The House of Lords must be won if we are to have any hope of victory.
—FromLady’s Suffrage Society Times
The last occasionupon which Helena had been at the Earl of Huntingdon’s townhome, she had been a trespasser, stealing inside for fear of what her brother would do. This morning, she returned as its new mistress.
Impossible as it was to believe, she was the Countess of Huntingdon.
Her fingers were clasped tightly in her lap as the elegant barouche, which had carried them from the wedding breakfast, halted before the imposing edifice. Huntingdon had not spoken a word to her for the duration of the journey from her father’s townhome.
Wickley House loomed, her future.
Or mayhap more appropriately, as Huntingdon had warned, her doom.
“We have arrived,” he said grimly.
Unnecessarily as well. She could see quite plainly where they were. But Helena supposed three words were better than none.
She cleared her throat. “So I see, my lord.”
His attention had been carefully diverted from her for the ride. But he looked at her for the first time since he had spoken his vows to her in the church, his baritone ringing low and clear and firm, despite the misgivings she knew must have been inwardly churning. His jaw was a rigid slash, covered in a dark shadow of whiskers to hide the bruising still evident. His blue eyes were cold.
“I will introduce you to the household and make certain you are otherwise situated before I take my leave in the morning.” The tone of his voice was sharper than the blade of a knife. Cutting. Frigid, too.
She knew he blamed her for the situation in which they found themselves. He had been willing to accept the responsibility of his own actions, but he had not been able to accept her betrayal. Helena could hardly fault him for the latter. She had lied to her brother, all to obtain her own freedom.
But she was nevertheless startled he did not plan to spend time acquainting her with her new home and duties. “You will be taking your leave, my lord?”
“Yes.” He raised an imperious brow, as if daring her to question him. “I will be journeying to Shropshire to attend to matters on my estate. I am taking a train out of Euston Square Station just after breakfast.”
Shropshire? He was…leavingher? On the day after their wedding? No honeymoon, no time together to speak of? She understood his fury, but this must be a mistake. Perhaps she had misheard. Would he not wish to at least spend more than one evening together as husband and wife?
“But…we have only just married, Huntingdon. Surely your trip can wait,” she ventured.
“It cannot,” he clipped with finality.
He was punishing her, she realized. Escaping her. But she refused to allow him to flee her with such ease. If he left in the morning, she doubted whether their marriage could ever recover. She knew him well enough. He would go away, wallow in his shame and his self-loathing over his own lack of restraint. His wounds would fester instead of healing.
“Then I shall go with you,” Helena decided.
“That will not be necessary, my dear,” he said smoothly, flashing her an insincere smile.
“Of course it will.” She smiled back at him with forced brightness. “You are my husband. I travel where you travel, as a matter of course.”
“Helena.” His sensual lips thinned to a forbidding line once more. “I do not want company. I wish to be alone.”
She swallowed against a knot of emotion. This was to be expected, and she knew it. She had hurt him with her actions, wounded him by suggesting he had acted far more dishonorably than he had, that he had committed the ultimate sin against his friend’s own sister. And she had done that which no other before her had managed to accomplish: she had pierced his armor of honor. She had brought him low.
Now, he wanted to make her pay.
“But I am your wife now, Huntingdon,” she pointed out, trying to maintain her calm.
“Yes, you are, thanks to your scheming. I find I require time to adjust myself to the notion of being tied to you.”
Her thoughts churned with misery and unwelcome realizations.
He did not want her as his wife.
