“Jack.” She looked at his face. He was sweating. His eyes were unseeing. His movements became wilder. He was thrusting into her violently now. Like she was just a vessel for him.
His body pulled away from hers and she was empty and he had his hand on himself and he was gasping and she couldn’t see but she was sure he was spilling onto the sheets between her legs.
She heard her own heart thumping. His panting.
“Damn.” An abrupt curse from him, his head down. She couldn’t see his face. He moved from between her legs and collapsed onto the bed beside her. She stayed still at first, lying on her back. Then she turned her head to see him.
“Goddamn it.” He rubbed his face with his hands and shook his head. Finally, he took his hands from his face, but he didn’t look at her. He looked up, at the underside of the canopy of the bed.
No parts of their bodies were touching now. Not even an accidental brush of his hand.
He was so far away. He had been so close, and now he was so far away. Even though it was only inches. She turned her own head to look at the underside of the canopy, too. She felt a dirk in her guts, twisting.
Dinnae get soft now.
His voice. “That wasn’t supposed to happen—”
“Ye had better go.”
“Yes.” He sat up. “I’m sorry, Helen—”
“Now.”
He stood and began to dress. She didn’t move. She couldn’t. She breathed and was surprised to find she still needed air even though she was dead.
His shoes were on and now his tailcoat. He held his cravat in his hand.
“Helen,” he said.
She reached and found a sheet and pulled it over her, hiding her body from him. “Good night, Jack Pike. I’ll see ye. Tomorrow morning. Dinnae. Worry.”
She turned over, her back to him, and waited for him to leave.
A sigh. Footsteps. The door clicked shut.
And then she wept.
Eighteen
“No! It’s wrong, I tell you. Damn it.” Jack ran his hands through his hair, wanting to rip it out.
Helen stood in front of him, drowning in some ungodly pink dress with bows and ruffles. Ruffles!
“This dress is already made up and with a few quick alterations, it could be taken away today as requested. And it is what the debutantes are wearing, Captain Pike.”
“She’s not some bloody debutante.”
“Are you a widow, Mrs. Boyd? I didn’t understand.”
Jack stood. “She’s the Countess of Kinmarloch, in her own right. She ismy lady, to you.”
The modiste Mrs. Allen looked from Helen to Jack and back to Helen again. She curtsied. “Yes, I see that now. My lady.”
“’Tis a very nice dress, Jack. And if this is what other women are wearing, surely ’tis fine.” Helen’s eyes were worried, anxious, trying to placate him. He didn’t like that. He didn’t want her to placate him. He wanted her to fight with him.
“You’re not to wear what other women wear, Helen. And I thought,” he rounded on Mrs. Allen, “someone else might see that.” He turned back to Helen. “And that dress is a horror on you. Take it off.”
Helen’s worried eyes turned fierce. Her jaw jutted.
