Gabe inclined his head toward his friend in understanding. “I have no intentions of hurting her, Shelbourne. As my countess, she will want for nothing.”
“As your countess.” Shelbourne shook his head. “I can scarcely believe it. You have always been the most honorable man I know, above reproach. You were promised to another, and yet…of all the women in London, Huntingdon, my own sister. It is unforgivable.”
Yes, it was. He could not deny the veracity of his friend’s words. That knowledge, deep-seated, had been one of the reasons Gabe had avoided Helena for so long. He had long been intrigued by his friend’s bold, beautiful sister. The more time he had spent in her presence, the more enraptured he had become. Chance encounters in the countryside where the strict London edicts were not nearly as enforceable, entirely inappropriate. Entirely wonderful.
Until Grandfather had reminded him of the wrongness of his feelings. Until Grandfather had expressed a desire to see Lady Beatrice as the next Countess of Huntingdon. His grandfather had been quick to remind Gabe of the ills that had befallen his parents, and, as a result of their selfishness, Lisbeth as well. The warning had been enough. He had not been willing to travel that same, unwise path.
“I cannot explain it myself,” he said thickly. “I wish to God I had possessed more restraint.”
Shelbourne took a sip of his own wine, then replaced his glass on the table, sighing heavily. “I wish I could say I was surprised. But in truth, I think a part of me has always known.”
Gabe frowned. “Known?”
What the devil was his friend speaking of? It had only been recently that he had acted upon his lustful urges. He had gone years without touching Helena, without once kissing her or being alone with her. By his own device, they had never danced.
“She was always besotted with you,” Shelbourne said. “From the moment she first saw you, everything wasHuntingdon. You were all she could think of. When you became betrothed to Lady Beatrice, I had hoped it would end. But what happened between the two of you proves it did not.”
Helena had been besotted with him?
Helena?
Besotted.
With him?
Everything within him cried out with a resoundingno.
“You are certain of this?” he managed, studying his friend’s countenance.
Shelbourne’s smile was grim. “Utterly. I never supposed you would return her feelings.”
“Feelings?” Huntingdon repeated, more confused than ever.
“She fancies herself desperately in love with you,” Shelbourne told him. “Surely she must have told you.”
He did not miss the excoriating tone his friend used. But for the moment, all his thoughts hovered upon was one fact. One notion. Helena in love with him. It could not be. Surely Shelbourne was mistaken.
Unless…
“She told you she was in love with me?” he pressed, certain he had found his answer.
She had been desperate to avoid marriage to Lord Hamish White. Knowing Helena as he did, she would have told her brother anything that would aid her chances of avoiding the union.
“Long ago,” Shelbourne said. “She was but a girl of sixteen then. I expected the years to change her mind. Clearly, they did not have an improving effect upon her.”
A girl of sixteen.
He remembered her then. That last visit to her family’s country holding before she had been presented at court. He had spent much of his time shooting grouse and riding horses. But there had been a few, stolen moments when he had enjoyed the pleasure of Helena’s company. Even then, she had been a beauty. Young, but sweet and vivacious, with a marked intelligence. He had been drawn to her, but she had yet to have her comeout. And afterward, Lisbeth had died.
Everything had changed.
Now?
Huntingdon reached for his Sauternes, swallowing down the rest of his glass in one vicious gulp. Helena had never suggested tender feelings for him. He had been convinced she had gone to Shelbourne to save herself because she considered him the lesser of all evils presented her. Their kisses had been mutual and heated, and he certainly hoped he was a better husbandly prospect than Lord Hamish White, whose outmoded views were more suited to the last century than to this one.
“Clearly, the years have not aided her, if that is truly the way she feels,” he rasped.
His mind and his heart were a tumult of emotion.
