He winced at the realization. It was his fault, everything that had happened over the last few weeks. From the moment he had touched her for the first time, he had been lost. There had never been any hope of this conflagration between them ending in anything other than the rumpled bed upon which they now lay.
Still, as he watched her, slumber softening her lovely countenance, a riotous blonde curl on her cheek, the resentment and shame that had been his almost-constant companion was supplanted by a rush of tenderness instead. He longed to tamp it down, that unwanted emotion. But it had taken hold, like a weed in a garden.
Making love to her had been a mistake.
He never should have done it. He could not wait to do it again.
His morning cockstand twitched at the thought of plunging into her tight, wet heat. Of waking her with kisses and then rolling her to her back…
No.
That would not do him a whit of good. For one, she may still be sore after their lovemaking the night before. For another, it would only further enslave him to her. He could not afford to allow his desire for Helena to cloud his mind. Time and distance, a polite marriage of mutual respect—Shropshire—remained what he needed.
Consummating their marriage did not have to change anything, including his plans. Taking care to keep from waking her, Gabe disengaged from her body and left the bed. His discarded dressing robe was easily found in the early morning shadows, abandoned where he had left it in a heap upon the Axminster. He stuffed his arms into the robe and fastened it, trying to banish the steam from his head, the poison from his blood.
The rustling of bedclothes and her sleepy sigh reached him as he lingered, breathing in the new scent of the countess’s apartments. Bergamot and citrus and something that was purely Helena. Looking back to the bed he had left her in was a mistake. The pale curve of her rump was on display, and one of her full breasts had slipped free of the bedclothes, a pink, pouting nipple taunting him.
My God, how the hell am I going to leave her?
He was not going to.
Realization hit him right in his thudding heart.
He could not leave for Shropshire now. Anything he needed to discuss with his steward there could be conducted from afar. Traveling there had been naught but an excuse, an easy means of escape. After what had passed between himself and Helena last night, he knew he needed to resurrect his walls and sense of duty.
Because his duty was to her as well. When he had married her, she had become his family. She was his countess, for better or worse. Right or wrong, they were forever bound, and he was determined not to make the same mistakes as his parents.
Grimly, Huntingdon crossed the chamber, returning to his own. If he lingered here any longer, the urge to slip back into her bed would be unavoidable. And he could not succumb to his lust again so soon.
No matter how desperately he longed to.
Time and distance could be affected in different ways.
Helena awoke tolight streaming through the cracks in the window dressing. She stretched her arms over her head and yawned as wakefulness gradually descended. Her body was sore in strange places, every part of her deliciously aware of her nakedness beneath the bedclothes.
Remembrance hit her.
Huntingdon had made love to her last night.
She sat up in bed, holding the sheets over her bosom, and searched the chamber for any sign of him. There was none.
Of course there was not.
Had she expected any less?Silly Helena.What had she thought, that he would spend the night in her bed and proclaim his undying devotion to her by morning light? The chances were greater that he was already bound for the train station, determined to depart for Shropshire and leave her alone in London.
Grimly, she rose from the bed and found arobe de chambreher lady’s maid had laid out for her the previous evening. She secured each button in its moorings before taking in her appearance in the large, gilt-framed looking glass occupying one of the walls of her chamber.
The woman staring back at her was almost a stranger. Her blonde tresses were wild and mussed with the evidence of what she had done the evening before with Huntingdon. She attempted to smooth the strands down and gather her courage. The mantel clock told her the hour was yet early. Early enough, she hoped, to catch her husband before he attempted to flee her once more.
But a subsequent trip to his chamber—polite knocking which had reduced to rudely poking her head into the room only to find it empty—proved unsuccessful. She rang for her lady’s maid and made haste with her toilette for the morning. On account of her pride, she held her tongue and refrained from asking whether or not Lord Huntingdon had departed for his journey. Helena was sure she already knew the answer.
He had wedded her, bedded her, and left her. The intensity of their lovemaking rendered the resultant retreat all the more insulting.
So it was that when she made her way to the dining room to break her fast and discovered her husband seated at the head of the table, she drew up short. Shock flitted through her. He was handsome as ever this morning, dressed to perfection, his dark hair neatly brushed, his jaw freshly shaven.
He stood at her entrance and bowed. “Lady Huntingdon.”
He was here. Not on his way to Shropshire, but withThe Timesironed and spread before him as if this were just another ordinary day. As if he had no plans of leaving her. Was it too much to hope he did not?
