What indeed?her lonely heart whispered.
Before her head chimed in.
Not with the hellion nonsense again.
She wished she could say that she was entirely unaffected by his proximity. That his tap-hackled state had drained the river of longing flooding through her. But her body was intensely aware of his, and her heart still loved him desperately. Neither his avoidance and suspicion of her, nor his inebriation and plans to leave her on the morrow, affected the way he made her feel.
Her heart was pounding just from his nearness. She clung to her anger and her resolve as she swept him toward the door.
“You cannot have me this evening,” she informed him. “Not after spending our wedding night fleeing from dinner and drinking yourself to perdition before falling asleep in the library. To say nothing of the manner in which you are planning on abandoning me in the morning.”
“Didn’t intend to imbibero—to over-imbribe—er, over-imbibe,” he said pleasantly, sliding an arm around her waist as if it were where it belonged.
The most foolish part of her loved the possession in that touch.
Possession he would both regret and abandon tomorrow when he woke, she had no doubt.
“But nevertheless, you did.” Her voice was impressively firm and solemn as she steered him over the threshold and into the hall.
The staircase was next.
A footman hovered in the shadows, but Helena did not care for the intervention of servants who were unknown to her. She was certain Huntingdon did not make a habit of appearing drunk before his domestics, and though she wanted to believe his staff impeccable and incapable of wagging their tongues, she nevertheless found herself protective of him.
Undeservedly so, at the moment.
But he was a good man, the Earl of Huntingdon. An honorable man. At least, he had been until he had begun kissing her senseless all over London. A campaign which she could not truly offer complaint about. His kisses were wondrous.
She dismissed the footman with a nod of her head, signifying that she would not require assistance. The footman bowed and made haste in leaving Helena and Huntingdon alone.
Her husband nuzzled her neck as they made their way up the first step.
A frisson skated down her spine.
“Mmm,” he murmured against her neck. “You smell so bloody good. Is it witchcraft? Shorcery? That is to say, sorcery?”
Another two steps and Huntingdon’s hand crept up from her waist, sliding to cup her breast. She nearly toppled backward at the jolt that ran through her at the touch. Her corset and all her layers of silk and linen kept his hand from what she wanted most, his long, elegant fingers curling over her bare skin.
What would it be like for him to touch her there, in the absence of barriers, in the privacy of her chamber or his? No watching eyes hovering in the wings, no staircase to fall down and break her foolish neck? Grimly, she reminded herself that with the manner in which their union had begun, she would likely never know.
“It is hardly sorcery, Huntingdon.” Up several more steps they traveled. “It is my perfume.”
“It makes me wild.”
His confession, in perfect, crisp English with nary the hint of an inebriated slur, was uttered into her neck. The fingers on her breast moved higher. Until his hand connected with her bare flesh.
Was it possible to be seduced on the stairs?
Helena wondered if any of her friends who so recently wed—the Countess of Sinclair or Lady Jo Decker—ever had found themselves at their husband’s handsome mercies on such an unfortunate architectural feature.
Guard your heart, Helena. He did not want to marry you. He does not trust you. He will never love you. He does not know what he is saying.
Likely, in the morning, he would not remember a word he had spoken or a single shuffled step up the staircase beside her. He would simply rise, see his packed valises loaded into a carriage, and make his forbidding way to Euston Square Station and from there, Shropshire. Far away from her.
Where he could forget all about the unwanted burden of the bride he had never intended to take. If he had married Lady Beatrice, would he have drowned himself in all manner of spirits before coming home to snore in the library? Helena thought not.
The reminder of her husband’s former betrothed—the paragon—was just the impetus she needed to guide Huntingdon up another flight of stairs until they reached the floor where the lord and lady’s apartments dwelled.
Down the hall they went, Huntingdon becoming more of a dead weight with each step. He was leaning on her, kissing her throat. Nibbling her ear. Sucking on her flesh, then scoring her with his teeth. Whispering sweet, sinful words to her. Some which made sense. Others which did not.
