“What is it a question of, Jack Pike?”
“Of making sure you and Kinmarloch are taken care of.”
Helen collapsed into one of the chairs. “Aye.” Her voice was forlorn.
“Cheer up, Helen. You still have me.”
But unlike the time he had teased her with those words at dinner in Dunmore Castle, when she was warm and tipsy with the mulled wine, she did not smile or soften as she gazed up at him.
“I dinnae think so,” she said at last.
Seventeen
Helen walked in circles in the drawing room. Duncan and Mags had gone off to sleep long ago, to their separate bedchambers. Three bedchambers in these rooms Jack had found for them. The cost would be high here in London, and she hoped she had enough money. On their way south, she and Mags had shared a bed as they did at home and Duncan had slept in bunks with coachmen or roughed it in the stables.
“This London bed dinnae fit me, my lady,” Duncan had told her this afternoon after Jack had left.
“I’m sorry, Duncan—”
“But I’m used to that. I’ll make up the bed on the floor. To sleep on a dry, wooden floor in such a warm room. In April. ’Tis a luxury I’m nae used to.”
She did not think Mags would creep to Duncan’s bed tonight or the other way around. But if they did, all the better. She knew there was love there. Let them have what they could. She did not begrudge them anything. Let them have the touches and the looks and the whispers and the kisses which she herself had never had.
Well, she had had kisses. One night of kisses which would have to last her lifetime.
Seeing Jack Pike again. It hadn’t gone how she had imagined it would so many times in her head over the last weeks.
Yes, she must look to the future. She was here to woo the Duke of Dunmore. It was the only way to be free of need for her and her people. It was required of her. It was her duty. It was ingrained in her, that duty, from birth. That nagging, obstreperous, binding duty. It was her life’s blood. Her purpose for being.
But she was also here becausehewas here. She would never have undertaken the trip to London unless she had known he was here, known she could find him because she had a scrap of paper with his address written on it, known she could lean on him even though she could not lean on anybody.
The moment of relief when she had first seen him again had quickly fled. She had thought he would be as he had been in Scotland. Laughing, flirting, playful, maddening. But, no. He had been serious. Worried. Anxious. Embarrassed that she had come to his house, even wanting to hide her from his servant. Dying to get her away from his house and into these rooms as quickly as possible.
But the ache and flush of arousal when she had first seen him standing in the door of his house—whiskers on his chin, shirt untucked from his trousers, hair sticking up as if he had just been lying down—had not faded. And when he had used his silky voice on her, the same voice he had used to compliment the women in the public house, when he had said he regretted not bedding her, the ache had become unbearable between her legs and in her chest, and she had been forced to dispel it as quickly as possible.
Because he didn’t mean it. He couldn’t.
She was a fool. She had told herself that many times before. But as many times as she had told herself, she would always be a fool about him.
No matter. She might be a fool, but she was still the Countess of—somehow her title was not as comforting in London as it was at home.
But she was here now. In London. With a clear mission. The Duke of Dunmore.
And although he had not given her a warm welcome, Jack had been willing to help with the rooms, and tomorrow, the dress. He had not yet agreed to the introduction to the duke, but she would get that from him. And if not, she would find her own way to meet John MacNaughton, Duke of Dunmore.
She was sure she would not sleep tonight, but she must try. She must have her wits about her tomorrow. She must not look pale or drawn or have circles under her eyes.
She took three steps toward the hallway which would take her to her own bedchamber when there was a sudden rapping on the door. She looked at the mantel clock. It was just midnight. The knock came again. Faster, harder, more furious. Almost a pounding.
She opened the door.
It was him. Cravat askew. Sweat at his temples. The most beautiful man she had ever seen.
“Helen,” he said. And he was grabbing her and kissing her. This was not like any of the other kisses he had given her in Dunmore in his bed. This was hard. Forceful. His body pushing into hers, pushing her back into the room. His tongue pushing into her mouth without warning. His hands a vise on her waist.
And she was grabbing him, his coat, his back, and pulling him into her, her tongue warring with his. She could not breathe, she could not think.
His hands were clutching at her breasts and his mouth was on her throat and she was able to gasp out, “Do ye want to finish my training?”
