Beneath the carpets covering the floor, slashes of gleaming, intricate parquet peeked. Although the sun shone in the well-dressed window, the damask wall coverings did not appear to be faded, and neither did the floors.
Helena turned back to find him standing in the middle of the drawing room, looking distinctly uncomfortable and so alone. “Did your mother decorate this room?”
He inclined his head. “She did. As the new mistress of Wickley House, you may change it as you see fit, just as the countess’s apartments.”
He was acknowledging she was his wife at last? Giving her leave to make changes, even?
She studied Huntingdon, sensing his discomfort. He was a man who kept to himself. It occurred to her that she knew shockingly little about his family, aside from what she had gleaned over the years and whatever bits and pieces Shelbourne had offered.
“You were not close to your mother, were you?” she pressed, though she was aware she likely ought not push him too far.
Entrapping him in marriage and making him miss his train were sins enough, were they not? Now, she had forced him to conduct a tour. The least she could do was have mercy upon him and—
No, what was she thinking? This was also the man who had all but tumbled her on the lady’s withdrawing room floor and then blamed her for telling her brother about what had happened. The man who had spent last evening lolling about in the library, cup-shot and dreaming about bubbies. She still did not know whose.
If he had been thinking of Lady Beatrice, she would never recover.
“She lived her life in the manner that pleased her,” he said, his voice taking on a deeper chill. “She did not care for her husband or her children.”
At the mention of children, Helena thought back to that moment in the gardens when Huntingdon had frozen after she had so carelessly mentioned his having a sister. Her gaze settled upon a portrait hung on the wall opposite the piano. A young, lovely brunette in a beautiful court gown stared back at her. The resemblance to her husband was undeniable.
Helena found herself drawn toward it, moving before she realized what she was about. “Is this Lady Lisbeth?” she asked softly, though in truth she did not need to ask.
“Yes.” One word, succinct. The tone cold and forbidding, suggesting she was not welcome to probe.
And yet, she could not help herself. The more Huntingdon wanted to hide himself away from her, the more Helena wanted to unveil everything there was to know about him.
“She was quite lovely, my lord. I am sure you must miss her dreadfully.” There had been some rumor surrounding her prior to her death, Helena knew. But Lady Lisbeth had been older than Huntingdon, and both she and her scandal had been long gone by the time Helena had made her presentation at court.
Since Huntingdon was Shelbourne’s old school friend, she had always known he had lost a sister. Had known, too, the devastation that surrounded her death. Shelbourne had instructed her never to mention it in Huntingdon’s presence. And yet she dared to now. Not so that she might hurt her husband, but so that she might, at long last, learn something about him.
Find a glimpse of the man hiding beneath the impenetrable façade.
She glanced back at him to find the color had leached from his countenance. He was pale and gray, stony-faced. A stranger who refused to confide in her.
“She was,” he agreed. “And I do. However, missing her will not alter the facts surrounding her death. Shall we move on to the emerald drawing room?”
His abrupt change of subject told her everything she needed to know. Everything, that was, except for his own emotions.
Would he ever lower his walls enough for her to see the real him?
Helena stifled a resigned sigh. She had asked for a tour, and it seemed he was intent upon the delivery of her request. “Yes, my lord. Lead the way.”
Chapter Fourteen
Make no mistake. We find ourselves at an important crossroads in our cause.
—FromLady’s Suffrage Society Times
By the timehe was back in the familiar comfort of his chamber that evening, Gabe knew he was in trouble. Clad in his dressing gown, he paced the length of the room, glass of claret in hand. He had learned his lesson the night before, and he had no intention of imbibing more than necessary to ease the edge of fraught tension within him.
He was coiled as tightly as a watch spring, and there was only one reason for his restlessness, the simmering tautness he could never seem to fully escape. Helena. His hellion. Hiswife.
He had remained in the presence of his new countess for the entirety of the day, largely against his will. However, each time he had attempted to extricate himself from her company, she had asked to see something else. The stables, the terrace, the guest chambers, the portrait gallery, the night nursery, the day nursery, and on and on, until he had squired her to the service closet and the linen rooms. Finally, at her behest, he had taken her to the larder, the kitchens, and the scullery.
He would not have been surprised had Helena requested to be taken to the roof. Or to the carriage house or the bloody coachman’s living room. However, she had somehow restrained herself.
On a heavy sigh, Gabe drained the rest of his claret. He should have requested Bennet draw him a bath after the day he had endured. Mayhap a soak in the warm water would have soothed him. Or at least offered sufficient distraction.
