He hiked her leg around his waist, the statue bracing her. She felt his heat against her and pushed down her wrap, baring her shoulder to the night. He took the cue, pressing his mouth to her collarbone. He shifted lower, his mouth finding the edge of her shoulder.
He paused, searching her face. “You have bewitched me.”
“Yes.” She reached between them, took him in hand, and guided him inside her in a single movement. He filled her. She needed this, needed him, not a memory or a fantasy but the actual man, hard and alive, trembling at the edge of control.
He set a slow pace at first, but soon their mutual hunger took over. He thrust into her, each movement pushing her harder against the marble as she dug her nails into his shoulders, clinging to him.
“Helena,” he whispered, repeating her name.
She kissed him, silencing his words, her tongue taking control. She wanted to mark him, to make him as desperate as she was.
When the climax came, it was electric. She bit down on his shoulder to stifle a cry, and he trembled against her, hands clutching her hips. They clung to each other, both gasping, slick with sweat despite the cold.
After a moment, he eased her down, and they collapsed onto the mossy stones at the base of the statue. He wrapped his coat around her, shivering from the aftermath.
She rested her head on his chest, listening to the rapid thump of his heart.
“I hate you,” she murmured, the words lacking bite.
“I know,” he replied, pulling her closer.
They remained silent until the chill nudged them to their feet. She straightened her hair, smoothed her chemise, and turned to him with a look that held both a warning and an invitation.
“Next time,” she said, “don’t wait to be asked.”
He nodded, his eyes glinting in the moonlight.
Before they parted, she slipped the pale ribbon from her glove and tucked it into his palm as a silent promise. They went their separate ways, neither looking back. The night had fulfilled its promise.
Chapter 7
The next afternoon, Helena settled in the drawing room of her dower house, her demeanor calm as a pale April sun filtered through the lace curtains, scattering light onto the Aubusson rug. The footman had just delivered her guest, and already the room seemed to tighten with anticipation, or forbidding, she truly could not say.
She chose the wingback chair, a relic upholstered in peacock blue, positioned to face both the door and the fireplace. Clasping her hands in her lap, she quickly unlaced them, smoothing her skirts with unnecessary precision. Every part of her composure was accounted for except her hands, which performed small, restless motions, eager to betray her.
William stood at the hearth, his stance straight despite the soft Persian carpet beneath him. He wore his black coat, a waistcoat the color of stormwater, and starched white linen at his throat. His presence seemed to draw heat from the fire, focusing it just above his left shoulder, where the play of light sharpened the angle of his jaw.
They exchanged the usual pleasantries, their words skimming the surface like waterfowl avoiding the plunge. The footman withdrew silently, leaving them in a room thick with unasked questions and the faint aroma of sandalwood.
Helena tilted her head, an invitation and a challenge. “You are punctual, as always.”
He regarded her, a smile flickering at the edge of formality. “I find lateness signals either indifference or incompetence. I hope never to be accused of either.”
She let the silence stretch, fighting the urge to throw herself into his arms.
He examined the mantel, then the assorted objects there. A clock, a miniature, a handful of polished stones. His hands clasped tightly behind his back, fingers interlocked. “Are we to remain in silence?”
Helena leaned forward, shifting from relaxation to intent. “I want to be clear about something, Your Grace.”
He turned, leaving the safety of the fireplace. “Clarity,” he said, “is a rare commodity. By all means.”
Helena fixed her gaze on his, steady and unblinking. “I value our arrangement. I value the understanding we share.” She released a slow, measured breath. “But I have no desire to be married again. Not to you. Not to anyone. And yet, I wish for our liaison to continue.”
She watched as the words registered, a ripple of shadow crossing his face before being disciplined away. His jaw tensed, the muscle twitching beneath the skin, but when he spoke, his tone was more analytical than affronted.
“You consider matrimony a loss of independence?”
“I consider it,” she replied, her voice steady, “a forfeiture of time. My own. And that is the only thing I have ever truly wanted. To have it, at last, for myself.”
