“Helena.” He thrust in to her, her name lingering on his lips.
Her climax crashed over them suddenly, nails trailing fire down his back, her body arching away from the stone. He followed, losing himself in the rush of his own release, her name escaping his lips in a ragged cry.
Afterward, they lay entwined on the cold flagstones, their chests rising and falling together as a distant nightbird bore witness to the quiet aftermath of their passion.
William rolled onto his back, staring up at the ruined ceiling where vines grew across the broken plaster. Helena propped herself on one elbow, tracing the line of his jaw with a hand still trembling from aftershocks.
“We are ridiculous,” she said, her voice hoarse.
“Probably,” he replied, moving to rise.
They dressed in silence. She straightened her skirts, shaking out moss and debris. He fastened his buttons, his cravat abandoned, hair wild. They stood facing each other in the blue-grey half-light.
Helena spoke first. “No jealousy, William. I saw how you looked at Lord Harrington.”
He braced himself, knowing the truth was not a shield but a weapon. “Not a hint of it,” he said, though his jaw clenched. “Rogue’s are incapable of such sentiment.”
She smiled, mischief lighting her gaze. “Liar,” she said, kissing him softly.
They parted at the edge of the folly, neither looking back. He mounted his horse while she stepped into the lane, disappearing down the footpath, the red of her dress lingering in his mind.
Chapter 5
The library at Lady Harbury’s townhouse was a refuge for the idle mind, with walls lined with books, their spines dulled by centuries of use. A thick carpet muffled footsteps, and armchairs beckoned for relaxation. In the late afternoon light, filtered through diamond panes, the room felt more suited for confession than scholarship.
From the crowded salon beyond came music, the flick of fans, lorgnettes clicking, and gossip buzzing. Helena had slipped away moments before, drawn to the library’s silence. William arrived at the threshold, his indifference faltering as he took in the scene. Helena stood by the hearth, arms folded, her silk dress catching the firelight. Her hair, darker than usual and pinned low, framed her face, while her pale gloves accentuated the elegant line of her neck.
It had scarcely been forty-eight hours since he’d last seen her, and yet, he barley controlled the urge to pull her into his arms and burry himself deep inside of her.
“Your Grace.” She didn’t look up as she spoke, tracing a finger along the marble, her eyes fixed on the glowing embers. The title in her voice dripped with provocation.
He cleared his throat and closed the door behind him, feeling the silence envelop him. “Helena.” He offered a bow. “You summon me with an urgency that nearly flatters.”
“Does it?” She turned, arching an eyebrow. “I intended only clarity.”
“Clarity,” he repeated, stepping further into the room, “is a quality I greatly admire.” He sensed a shift, an unsettling feeling creeping in, as if he were trapped.
Helena’s gaze flicked past him to the door, then back to his face. “Good,” she said. “Because I intend to be perfectly clear.”
She crossed the carpet, her steps silent, stopping midway between the fire and the door. “You are everywhere I go,” she noted.
“I am nothing if not consistent.”
She smiled, and the temperature of the room seemed to rise. “Consistency is overrated.”
Reaching past him, she caught the key from its porcelain hook and, with one swift motion, locked the door. She returned the key to her pocket without flourish.
“Now,” she said, “we are unlikely to be disturbed.”
William's mouth went dry. “Should I be alarmed?”
Helena's eyes softened for a moment. “Only if you dislike being taught.”
He hesitated, aware that any answer would be a trap, and let her close the distance between them. She stood so close he could feel her breath against his throat. The scent of her was not the sugary vanilla of most women’s pomade but something sharp, clean, and slightly bitter. Citrus, perhaps, or the green snap of verbena.
Her hand rose slowly to rest at his collar. “You are always so careful, William,” she said, emphasizing his name. “Too careful.”
He raised a brow, but she ignored the challenge, her fingers sliding down his neck to the first button of his waistcoat. She undid it, then the next, her movements precise. “Did you know,” she murmured, “that when you touch me, you do it as if you’re handling explosives?”
