That was the crux of it. Gabe was no longer sure. And the more time he spent in Helena’s intoxicating presence, the more he wanted to cling to the future rather than the past.
Chapter Seventeen
Change does not make us weak. Rather, it makes us stronger.
—FromLady’s Suffrage Society Times
Helena settled intoan overstuffed chair by the hearth in her chamber, book in hand, and told herself she must not be disappointed if Huntingdon did not come to her this evening. She would distract herself with literature. Books were lovely. Words were an excellent form of escape.
The book in her lap was one she had intended to begin reading some months ago, a memoir penned by an anonymous gentleman. All London was abuzz over it, and Helena herself had only managed to secure a third printing of it on account of the previous runs selling out within a day. Thankfully, her friend Lady Jo Decker’s husband owned the publishing company, which had enabled Helena to finally get her own copy.
She had meant to begin reading it well before now. But then, she had been distracted by her whirlwind marriage to Huntingdon—strike that, she corrected herself,Gabe. His invitation to refer to him by his Christian name at dinner had been unexpected, but appreciated nonetheless.
Still, she remained hopelessly confused with where she stood. Her husband had not wanted to marry her. He had preferred the paragon Lady Beatrice. He wanted Helena, and yet he seemed to loathe himself for the weakness.
She opened the book to its frontispiece, which bore an elaborate engraving of a handsome gentleman dancing with a lovely lady in a ballroom. The attention to detail was impressive, but her mind was still too occupied with thoughts of her husband.
Dinner had been surprisingly pleasant, peppered with moments of unexpected intimacy and shared laughter. Afterward, they had decamped to the blue salon, where they had shared some wine and chatted before her husband had announced he intended to retire. There had been a brief moment, when he had pressed a kiss to the top of her head before withdrawing, when she had sworn something more would happen.
And then, it had not.
Stinging disappointment had been her accompaniment for the rest of the evening thus far. Helena had finished her sherry alone, in the damning silence of the blue salon, surrounded by dismal pictures of bleak, dreary landscapes adorning its walls in overwhelming abundance. Truly, there were some aspects of Wickley House which needed the inviting touch of a woman. The blue salon was just such a place.
Helena sighed. She flipped to the first page of the book, trying to quell her irritation. She made her way to page three before she realized she had not absorbed a word she had read and turned back to the beginning of chapter one. How desperate she was, lingering in the glow of the gas lamps, her lady’s maid already long since departed for the evening, herself clad in nothing more than a wispy night rail without benefit of arobe de chambre. Awaiting a husband who had no intention of visiting her.
A husband who resented her.
A husband who was impossible to read.
Much like this book.
On another sigh, Helena snapped the volume closed before settling it upon the table at her side. She rose to pace the Axminster, her bare feet sinking into the plush softness of the carpets. At least that was one part of the house she would not need to rectify—the Axminster was thick, plush, and new.
He was not going to come to her tonight.
Each minute that passed told her so.
How had she been foolish enough to believe they had somehow made progress? For every step forward, there were at least another three in retreat. Last night had been wonderful. Breakfast had been positively dreadful. Dinner had fared only marginally better. To say nothing of her foolish tale of dribbling soup down her dress.
“Celery,” she grumbled beneath her breath as she made another turn of the chamber. “You utter fool.”
What had she been thinking, to share such a humiliating story of gracelessness? She had not been thinking at all. Rather, she had been blurting.
“Celery is an erudite vegetable. I cannot fathom why you would be upbraiding it just now.”
The low, amused baritone slipped over her like a silken caress.
Helena spun about to find the object of her tumultuous thoughts hovering on the threshold of their mutual territory. They shared a bathroom and dressing room, and the fact had not been lost upon her whenever she had spied his distinctly masculine accoutrements strewn about the spaces. To say nothing of his divine scent, which lingered like a particularly maddening taunt, long after he had inhabited a chamber.
“Huntingdon,” she said, pressing a hand to her instantly fluttering heart. “I did not hear you.”
“Gabe,” he reminded gently, offering her a smile that hit her in the heart. “Am I welcome?”
Always and forever, my beautiful man.
“Of course,” she said instead, giving him what she hoped was a practiced, serene smile.
Then she wondered at the protocol for such an event. Last night, she had been a tangled mess of nerves. She did not recall what she had done. Ought she to curtsy? In her night rail?
