Finally, inevitably, he couldn’t bear it any longer and he pulled his shaft out of her and with a few strokes of her hand, he released. Her grip had been rough but not too fierce, giving him exactly what he needed to end his long, drawn-out torture.
He wanted to sleep then, holding her close.
But she whispered in his ear, “I’m sorry, Jack. I cannae let Mags find ye here in the morning. I must pretend to be an example to her and Duncan.”
“Do you think they’re doing what we’re doing, right now?”
“She likely wants to be lying in his arms, but I dinnae think so. Duncan widnae permit it. Nae yet.”
“He wants to be married to her first.”
“Aye. The young people are better at denying themselves than we are.”
“Are you regretting we haven’t denied ourselves, Helen?”
She kissed him. “Mo luran, I would find it impossible to deny myself when ye touch me. It would be like doing without air to breathe or water to drink.”
What was unsaid lay heavy between them. That unlike Mags and Duncan, Helen and Jack would not be marrying. It was this unsanctified bed or none at all.
Twenty-Three
Helen got up early and washed her face with cold water. She arranged her hair carefully. She put on her new dress and spencer. Her boots had gouges and stains, but she hoped no one would look at her feet. She spat on the leather of the boots and rubbed at the toes.
She tapped on Duncan’s bedchamber door. “Stay here with Mags. I’ll be back before midday.”
A thud. The door opened a crack. “Ye should have yer honor guard on the streets of London.”
“Nae, Duncan. For this, I must go alone.”
“Aye, my lady.”
She walked out onto Piccadilly. It was early, far too early to make a call on anyone. But she would use the hours to find out where the Duke of Dunmore lived. West of here, back toward Jack’s house, and north, there was Mayfair. She knew that was where many peers and wealthy people lived. She would go there and ask questions and find the duke’s house.
She looked at faces as she walked. So many pretty women, even though none were fine ladies, but likely servants or women who did other work. A few, like her, were coarse and ill-featured. And the men, about their business, some handsome, some not. But still none who could compare to Jack Pike.
Up past the fine shops on Bond Street, the gowns and suits of clothing and jewelry gleaming in the windows. She began to ask passers-by.
“Do ye know the Duke of Dunmore’s house?” Shaking heads or disdainful looks with no answer.
Finally, a young woman, perhaps a lady’s maid, anxious, clutching two large bags, pointed with her chin. “Grosvenor Square.” She gave Helen the number. And then the woman was off, looking behind her, frightened.
Helen found the house. It was grand. Far grander than Jack’s house and that had been the finest house she had ever seen. Dunmore Castle was large and imposing, a hulking mass of stone, but it did not have the fancy detail of these London houses with their delicately wrought railings, enormous windows, painted doors.
She idled, waiting, circling the large square for hours until she knew from the church bells that it was well past ten o’clock. She steeled herself. She rapped on the door.
A butler answered.
“I am the Countess of Kinmarloch, and I am here to see the Duke of Dunmore.”
A suitable bow. “This is the house of the Duchess of Dunmore, my lady.”
Helen despaired. The Duke of Dunmore had already married. Jack must know of the marriage and it was why he wouldn’t take her to meet the duke. She was too late, and he was shielding her from the knowledge that she had wasted her money in coming to London.
And then a bubbling joy. She could not marry the Duke of Dunmore because he was already married and she was free to bed Jack Pike. Forever.
Despair again. She would never be free to bed Jack Pike forever. Her duty was to Kinmarloch.
Finally, she made some sense of the butler’s words. This was not the house of the duke, only the duchess. Why would they have separate houses?
