Research.
He swallowed against a rush of lust. Base, horrible, unbecoming lust. For his friend’s innocent sister. Then again, just how innocent was she?
You have a betrothed, Gabe.
And yet, Lady Beatrice could not be further from his mind at the moment.
“Reading bawdy books is hardly sufficient preparation for destroying the rest of your life, Lady Helena.” He was gratified at the sangfroid he was able to somehow muster.
One would scarcely guess his trousers were as snug as the breeches of a Georgian dandy.
He disgusted himself.
She twitched her skirts in annoyance, revealing a flash of stockinged ankle in the process. “That is where we differ, my lord. I am not seeking to destroy the rest of my life, but to save it.”
That ankle of hers was not helping matters.
Gabe pinched his nose again, wondering why the hell it was taking so long to get to Curzon Street.
This was thelongest carriage ride of her life.
At least, that was how it felt to Helena, who had been miserably lodged within the equipage with Huntingdon for far too long. Train journeys to the country passed with more speed than this small journey home from Lord Algernon’s rooms had.
She had been miserably torn between the urge to kiss the earl senseless and throw one of her boots at him ever since he had unceremoniously shoved her inside his conveyance.
He pinched his nose and glared at her now as if he found her horridly offensive. And still, her stupid heart loved him.
Her life was a study in misery.
“I suppose we shall have to accept we are at a stalemate,” he said.
Had his gaze just slipped to her lips?
She dashed the fledgling hope.
Also stupid. Infinitely more stupid than mere stupidity. Utterly ludicrous.
“Yes, I suppose we shall,” she agreed, not without a touch of bitterness.
“No more of this foolishness,” he commanded, as if he had a right to make demands of her. “You will cease all future attempts to debase yourself.”
“You cannot dictate what I do, Huntingdon,” she told him, injecting some frost into her voice.
His countenance turned grim. “Yes, I can.”
Even with the mien of a man attending a funeral, he was beautiful. Why had her brother chosen to become friends with the Earl of Huntingdon during their school days? Why could he not have chosen someone who was bald-pated and overly fond of cakes?
“No,” she argued, “you cannot.”
Huntingdon was imperious and austere, but surely he had to realize he possessed no true sovereignty over her. He was neither her brother nor her father. And he most certainly was not her betrothed.
If he had been, she would not be doing everything in her power to flee the entanglement. Instead, she would have prepared her trousseau and requested a hasty wedding.
His nostrils flared in displeasure. It was a habit of his she had taken note of long ago. Helena studied him at dinner parties and balls and at every opportunity. For an entire season, she had hoped he would not honor his long-standing engagement with Lady Beatrice, and she had made every excuse to arrange chance encounters with him. But the earl had always been preoccupied with making his escape, and he had always paid attention to everyone but her. The most she had ever managed was a striking connection of gazes on a handful of occasions.
“If you do not promise me to put this nonsensical notion of yours to rest, I will have no choice but to approach Shelbourne and Lord Northampton with my discovery,” he said. “Indeed, I would not be surprised if they had already been made aware by another. Lord Algernon was making no secret of his intentions.”
His assertion gave her pause. What a henwit she was for failing to realize Lord Algernon’s inability to keep from shamelessly boasting about himself every sentence would extend to mentioning her. How she would like to box his ears for the muck he had made of her excellent plans.
