Her eyes narrowed. “I do not trust you, Lord Algernon. Until I have what I want, you shall not have what you desire either.”
Half the funds he had demanded for his part in this farce she had concocted in her mad little mind was more than enough to settle his debts and leave him some to spare. Which meant Algernon was going to have an excellent night.
He tucked the note into his coat. “Fair enough, my lady. Just what is it you want tomorrow?”
Lady Beatrice’s smile was cold and calculated. “Everything I deserve.” She paused, her smile fading. “And everything Lady Helena Davenport deserves as well.”
Algernon did not bother to remind her Lady Helena was the Countess of Huntingdon now. He had money in his pocket and the prospect of a decidedly jolly evening awaiting him.
He had every intention of getting properly drunk and then fucking the most luscious pair of bubbies to be found. And the tightest cunny, while he was at it.
Chapter Twenty-One
We strongly believe, based upon sound reasoning and the example we have in the Territory of Wyoming in the United States, that, contrary to the fierce-minded opponents of women’s suffrage, domestic discord will be avoided, rather than caused, by the universal extension of the Parliamentary franchise.
—FromLady’s Suffrage Society Times
Seated in thecrimson drawing room that evening following dinner, Gabe watched Helena play the grand piano. The song was a mournful Chopin, and she played it with an elegant proficiency he could not help but to admire. Her dainty fingers traveled over the ivory without missing a single note.
In spite of his every intention to cast thoughts of Lady Beatrice from his mind, he could not help but to compare Helena’s skill to that of his former betrothed. Along with her loveliness and passion, her talent at the piano far exceeded that of the woman he would have made his countess. More reason to wonder at his grandfather’s plans. Had he been right in thinking Lady Beatrice would have made the ideal countess? Wrong to believe that love and passion had been the downfall of his parents’ marriage?
More and more, the answer to those questions grew murky.
Gabe sipped his port as he allowed the music his wife was creating to wind around his senses, wrapping him in a pleasant state of calm. He and Helena had settled into a comfortable rhythm. Polite breakfasts, days spent apart, and nights together, when they could slake their mutual passions.
Still, he had taken note that something was different about Helena this evening.
Gabe could not quite determine what it was. However, it was there, hovering between them, almost as tangible as the golden curl which oft seemed to fall across her cheek. He found it most endearing, that curl.
In fact, he foundhermost endearing.
And enthralling.
Beautiful, too.
By God, he was falling beneath his wife’s spell.
It was happening too quickly. They were moving too quickly. Had he learned nothing from his parents’ destructive union?
Apparently not. Because ever since the fateful evening when he had vowed he would not share her bed, he had been bedding her at every opportunity. Not necessarily involving a bed. He had made love to her on the chaise longue in the library, against the wall of his study, on the carpeted floor of an anteroom, and once—though he had previously doubted the facility of such an action—in his carriage.
The unholy urge to bed her everywhere arose within him now, and not for the first time. Wickley House was rife with possibilities. The kitchens. The larder. The guest rooms. The emerald drawing room. The stairs. The portrait gallery. The mews. The gardens…
Damnation.This was doing nothing to ease the sudden tightness of his trousers.
He rose as the song came to a close and Helena stood, turning to face him.
“Brava, my dear,” he said. “Listening to you play was a delight.”
She sent him a small smile. “Thank you, my lord.”
Again the notion struck him that there was something unusual about his wife this evening. She was more…solemn. Less vibrant, almost like a faded version of herself.
“Is something troubling you, Helena?”
She moved past him, crossing the Axminster to the wall where his sister’s portrait hung. “If something was, why should it be your concern?”
He did not miss the edge to her voice, but he chose for the moment to ignore it. “You are my wife. Of course if you are troubled, it is my concern.”
