The Rogue's Wager (Sinful Brides #1)(44)

He grinned, and that honest turn of his lips was so vastly different than that practiced grin, and somehow more potent. Her heart tripped several beats.

“Do you enjoy the theatre?”

“I have never been.” Life had ceased to exist outside the walls of the Hell and Sin Club.

“Never?” he repeated with some surprise.

Helena shook her head. Never inside. As a young girl, begging the lords and ladies entering those splendorous buildings, she’d hovered at the steps with her hands outstretched.

“You’ve systematically eliminated riding in the park, visits to museums, and trips to the theatre.”

Ah, so that was the purpose of his questioning. “Just because I do not paint or know how to ride doesn’t mean I would not enjoy a trip to a museum or a stroll in Hyde Park.”

With the piercing intensity of his eyes, she stilled, alarmed he might see through her to all the secrets she carried and the hopes she’d once had.

“Fair enough. We shall begin with a trip to Hyde Park tomorrow afternoon,” he said, climbing to his feet.

An inexplicable rush of disappointment filled her as she quickly stood. “You are leaving.” It should hardly matter if he left. His presence here was a mere fa?ade meant to trick and deceive potential suitors desiring of her company and dowry. Still how to account for this . . . regret?

As if on cue, a servant entered bearing a silver tray. Helena’s personal maid trailed in quickly behind. Eyes lowered, the young servant found a chair in the corner of the room.

Robert rescued her gloveless fingers and Helena had an urge to yank her scarred hand from his flawless, olive-hued ones. As she made to draw back, he retained his grip and drew her wrist to his mouth. His breath fanned her flesh as he placed a fleeting kiss upon her skin. “It was a pleasure, Helena.” He dipped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Given the nature of our . . . relationship, I expect you should call me, Robert,” he said, running the pad of his thumb over the sensitive flesh of her inner wrist.

Forbidden shivers radiated from the point of his touch, racing along her arm, and sending heat unfurling through her entire body. Helena managed a jerky nod, and tugged her fingers once more. This time, he allowed her that freedom. Which felt like the very hollowest of victories. “Robert,” she said, hating the breathless quality of that word, his name.

That faint, triumphant smile on his lips hinted at his knowing. “And Helena?”

Flutters danced within her belly.

“You were wrong. I do not.”

She cocked her head.

“Disapprove of a woman with knowledge. Quite the contrary.” Then with an infuriating calm, he dropped a bow, and took his leave.

Helena closed her eyes, never needing the calming effect of numbers more than she did in this moment. She fixed on the ticking porcelain clock atop the mantel, concentrating on those rhythmic beats marking the passing moments. Anything but her muddied thoughts from the faintest touch. A touch that had conjured a long-ago morning in her bedchamber.

Frenzied footsteps sounded in the hall and she looked up at once as the duchess stepped into the entrance of the room. “Lord West . . .” The duchess’s words trailed off and the false smile on her lips withered into a scowl. She cast a furious glance about the room. “Where is His Lordship?”

Helena went still. “He left a moment ago, Your Grace,” she murmured.

The woman tightened her mouth, contorting her pretty features into something quite ugly. “But . . . where is Diana? Has His Lordship escorted her to the park?”

Fiddling with her skirts, Helena at last looked at this particular meeting the way the Duchess of Wilkinson would. Her seventeen-year-old daughter, the model of English ladylike perfection: there would be no more ideal a candidate for the role of future duchess. Oh, bloody hell. Helena picked carefully around her thoughts. “Lord Westfield was . . . paying me a visit,” she said, as the other woman turned to go.

Mayhap she’d let the matter rest.

Mayhap . . .

In an uncharacteristic display of spirit, Her Grace spun about. “Wh-what?” she sputtered. She glanced at Helena, peering down the length of her nose at the by-blow in her residence. “Surely you jest?”

Helena looked to the maid in the corner, who pressed herself against the back of her chair. Did she wish to make herself invisible? In this particular moment of cowardice, Helena well identified with that sentiment. “I do not jest.” The detail she would omit about the marquess’s shocking suit was the whole bit about it being nothing more than a put-on, concocted by Helena, that Lord Westfield—Robert—had agreed to help her in.

If looks could kill, Helena would be the charred ash of tinder at this woman’s noble feet. Then . . . the duchess tossed her head back with a humorless laugh.

Helena stiffened under that condescension. Pretend courtship be damned along with rank and title, she’d not be mocked by this woman, or anyone.

“The marquess wouldn’t pay a visit to you out of anything beyond politeness. There is no secret in Society about the eventual connections between the Wilkinson line and the Somerset one. My husband,” not your father, “and the current duke have been friends since Oxford.”

Two ducal families, uniting kingdoms and empires. Since she’d developed her scheme to avoid suitors with the marquess’s partnership, hesitation stirred. The gentleman had made no mention of Diana. With the families’ connection going so far back, what if there were feelings on her sister’s part?