The clod.
“We are in the library, my lord,” she informed him. “I found you here following the dinner you neglected to join me for.”
“Dinner?” More owlish blinks. “Not hungry.”
“I dare say not.” She wondered if he had eaten anything since the wedding breakfast that morning, and then she told herself she should not care. “Only thirsty for whisky?”
His brow furrowed. “Gin first, whisky second. There may have been a splash or two of Moselle somewhere along the way. And champagne, too. Celebrating my nupshells, don’t y’know.”
Hisnupshellsindeed.
Helena entertained a brief fantasy involving overturning the remnants of the decanter on his handsome head.
“You have a strange way of celebrating, your nuptials, my lord,” she observed coolly. “Where were you this evening?”
“Egggshellent question,” he said affably. “Excellent queshtion. Er, question.”
The fantasy returned.
“You do not know where you were this evening?” she demanded. “The matter that required your attention, which initially caused your delay, must have been of great import.”
“Hmmm.” He scowled. “You make my head ache, woman. Amongst other things.”
As he spoke, he ran his hand casually over the fall of his trousers. To her shock, Helena could see, quite plainly, the outlined evidence of his words. Surely that was not…
Yes, it most definitely was.
“Lord Huntingdon,” she chastised, as the undeniable glow of desire began burning within her.
There was something wrong with her, surely, to be seduced by the sight of a drunken husband who had avoided her all evening after announcing he was abandoning her in the morning and taking a train bound for Shropshire.
She loved said drunken husband.
That was what ailed her, she thought miserably.
Fortunately, Huntingdon appeared to collect himself enough to realize the inappropriate manner in which he was palming his anatomy. He moved his hand on a gusty sigh. “Forgive me, hellion.”
“Helena,” she corrected grimly.
“I haven’t forgotten your name.” He closed an eye. “Hellion’s what your name ought to’ve been. Damnation, there’s still two of you.”
Oh dear.Once, Shelbourne had drunk too much champagne and vomited in their mother’s prized orangery orchids.
She frowned down at him some more. “Are you going to be ill, my lord? Shall I ring for a chamber pot? Your valet, perhaps?”
His other eye fluttered closed. “Let me sleep, will you? I was having the most glorious dream.”
And she knew what his dream had involved. She swatted his shoulder, perhaps a bit harder than necessary.
His eyes shot open as he made a grunt of pain. “What the devil are you doing, hellion? That hurt.”
“Helena,” she gritted. “And I am keeping you awake so I can get you to your chamber. If you sleep on the chaise longue, you will have an aching neck and back.”
Once more, she was not sure she ought to care. A back and neck that pained him were well deserved at this point. Particularly if the breasts he had been dreaming of had belonged to Lady Beatrice instead of her.
“I am comfortably perfect here,” he announced. “Off with you, hellion.”
She gritted her teeth. “I do believe you meant to say you areperfectly comfortable, my lord. However, I am certain you will change your mind in the morning. Believe me, when you wake in the comfort of your own bed rather than cramped upon this small piece of library furniture, you will be more than thankful.”
