Confusion. Longing.Desire.
Tenderness, too. In spite of himself.
He was a tangled web. And mayhap she was as well.
“You are not worthy of her love,” Shelbourne said coolly. “At last we have reached a topic upon which we can agree.”
“Indeed,” Huntingdon agreed.
But his friend’s words had already sunk into him, planting themselves deep, like a seed which would inevitably catch root. Except he did not wish for them to catch root. Nor did he want a wife who loved him,damn it. Love had no place in a marriage that would survive.
“Huntingdon?”
He glanced up from the sight of his fingers idly tapping upon the table to find his friend watching him with a curious, searching stare.
“What is it, Shelbourne? You have already dropped the equivalent of a mountain on my head.” The last was grumbled. But heartfelt, nonetheless.
“You truly had no notion? She did not tell you?”
No, his wife most certainly had not shared her love for him—or rather, her supposed love for him—with him. But discussing his marriage with his closest friend, when his wife was said friend’s sister, was deuced uncomfortable.
So Huntingdon feigned a smile. “Of course she did.”
Shelbourne, no fool, had already scented blood, however. He grinned. “She did not. I can read your face, old chum. You are an abysmal prevaricator, as ever.”
What the devil was he to do?
“She did not,” he acknowledged.
“Nor is she with child,” Shelbourne guessed next, taking Huntingdon by surprise.
He said nothing, for acknowledging his friend’s supposition would only suggest Helena had lied. Which she had, but…Huntingdon found himself hopelessly conflicted.
Instead, he brought his Sauternes to his lips, only to realize, quite belatedly, that he had already drained his glass dry.
“She was desperate to escape the match with Lord Hamish,” Shelbourne added, lifting the bottle of wine and gamely replenishing the stores in Huntingdon’s goblet. “I was furious with you when she suggested she was carrying your babe, but I also know her far better than anyone else, I think. As I know you better than anyone else, Huntingdon. It took me some time to calm myself and realize you are not the sort of man who would get a bastard on his friend’s sister.”
Curse it, he hoped he was not. But he could not be sure. There had been moments, when alone with Helena, that he had most assuredly lost all semblance of control. And now, his sense of honor demanded that he not reveal his wife’s deceptions.
He met his friend’s gaze. “None of that matters now. All that does matter is that Helena is my countess, and you are like a brother to me. I do not want our friendship to end. You have my solemn vow that I will do everything in my power to be a good husband to Helena.”
“That is all a man can ask for,” Shelbourne said.
He meant those words. He meant that vow.
“Friends?” he prompted.
“Friends.” Shelbourne raised a brow. “You still do not deserve her. And I still do not forgive you for cavorting with her all over London while you were betrothed to Lady Beatrice.”
Huntingdon’s face flamed. “I was not cavorting.”
His friend held up a staying hand. “I have no wish to hear the details. But know this, Huntingdon. If you hurt her, you will be answering to my fists once more.”
Fair enough.
Huntingdon drank the rest of his Sauternes.
Chapter Sixteen
