A sound that was low and growling and emanating from the chaise longue at the opposite end of the room. That was when she noted the unmistakable sight of large, stockinged feet and long limbs emerging from the scrolled back of the furniture piece.
Someone was sleeping in the library.
The sound had been snoring.
Helena moved toward the trespasser. Surely it was not her errant husband who was the source. Surely he had not eschewed dinner with her to fall asleep in the library. But before she rounded the chaise longue to find Huntingdon sprawled on the green velvet cushions, her instinct told her it was him.
And when she saw his handsome face relaxed in slumber, his sensual lips parted as he emitted another light snore, something inside her—the hope, the foolishness, whatever it was—broke. She had spent all evening wondering where he was, awaiting him, eating dinner without him, and here he was.
Asleep like a babe in the library.
She drew nearer to him, and the scent of spirits was redolent. As was tobacco smoke.
Strike that. Make that asleep like adrunkenbabe in the library.
That was when she took note of the almost empty decanter on the floor at his side. Helena’s irritation and disappointment turned to ire. The urge to brain him with the nearest available object rose within her. But doing him violence would solve none of their problems.
She bent down and nudged his shoulder in an attempt at waking him.
The man was harder than a boulder. Truly, was every part of him hewn from granite?
“Huntingdon,” she said, giving him another nudge.
He snored louder and shifted on his back, his eyes never opening. “Mmm, bubbies.”
Had she misheard?
“My lord,” she tried again, harnessing some of her irritation to give his shoulder a shake.
He groaned again. “Sweet, lovely bubbies. Let me touch them.”
Dear heavens, she had not misheard. Not only was her husband soused and asleep on the library chaise longue, but he was talking in his slumber. In quite inappropriate fashion. About bubbies.
Whose bubbies was he speaking of? And just whose bubbies did he want to touch?
They had better be mine, said a wicked voice within her.
But never mind that voice, and never mind the nonsense Huntingdon was spewing in his sleep. Because none of that was her most pressing concern at the moment. No, indeed. Her most pressing concern was that he had abandoned her on their wedding night. He had left her to dine alone in favor of drinking himself to oblivion.
She knew he was angry with her for forcing their marriage, and Helena understood his anger, appreciated it even if some of it seemed rather hypocritical in nature. She had been willing to allow him to cling to his resentment, to work on his ability to forgive her. But what he had done this evening was to humiliate her, before all his servants.
She could practically hear the belowstairs whispers now.Lord Huntingdon got drunk in the library on his wedding night instead of joining her ladyship for dinner.
Mustering all her outrage, she shook him more forcefully. “Wake up, Huntingdon!”
Her voice carried, echoing from the high ceiling of the room.
He gave a violent start, his eyes opening to reveal a bloodshot sky-blue gaze and big, dark pupils. The confusion on his handsome face would have been charming in any other circumstance.
“Helena?” He blinked.
“Indeed,” she said drily, standing to her full height once more.
His gaze traveled over her, lingering on the fullness of her bosom. Her evening gown had been chosen with care. Red silk trimmed with lace and beads, the pointed bodice showing off her waist to perfection. One of her best gowns, a dress that never failed to make her feel lovely. Chosen with him in mind. Suddenly, she wished to tear it away and thrust it into the nearest fire.
She would have done, had not it been the midst of summer, no fire in the grate.
“What are you doing in my bedroom?” he asked thickly.
