The Rogue's Wager (Sinful Brides #1)(53)

Please say no. Say no. Because if she said yes, that rapidly growing envy inside would consume her.

Diana lowered her embroidery frame. “Feelings for . . . ?” Then she rounded her eyes. “Do you mean the marquess?” A little giggle escaped her. “Oh, Helena, surely you jest. Lord Westfield is old.” Then with a surprising maturity, all hint of her amusement died, and she scooted closer to Helena. “Is this about your feelings for the marquess?”

Helena sat immobile. Feelings for the marquess? She did not have feelings for him . . . beyond annoyance and frustration. He vexed her. He teased her. How could she possibly come to care for a man who’d so shattered her existence by inadvertently thrusting her into the glittering world of polite Society?

He’s also helping you to put it to rights . . . Helping her when he really had no need to.

“I overheard Father discussing it with Mother,” Diana was saying. She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Papa is quite elated at the prospect of your uniting the two lines. He’s long been friends with the Duke of Somerset. Papa sees him as a brother.” Diana dropped her chin atop her hand. “Not that I knew anything of that level of friendship.” She brightened. “Until you.”

At that inherent goodness, Helena felt . . . shame. She’d been steadfast in her love and loyalty to Ryker, Calum, Adair, and Niall . . . and yet, having been taken into the fold of this new family, she’d not had that same level of devotion to this earnest, young woman. “If there are feelings on your part,” Helena said hesitantly. “I will . . .” free Robert of his pledge to help. Something sharp and painful twisted at her heart.

The clear bell-like tinkling of Diana’s laughter filtered between them. “Do not be silly. Lord Westfield is nice enough, but he is also old enough to be my father.” Helena released an audible breath she’d not realized she was holding.

Perfectly unaware, Diana hopped to her feet. “I mustn’t keep Mother waiting.” She gave Helena another hopeful look. “You’re certain you do not wish to join us?”

Helena smiled. Her first true smile that day. In many days, she thought. In fact, when had she found joy in anything beyond her bookkeeping at the clubs? How peculiar to realize happiness existed—outside the club, even. “I am certain,” she said, and returned Diana’s wave.

Oh how she envied the girl that uncomplicated joy. With her sister gone, and left alone with her own musings, Helena carried her book over to the window seat and skimmed her chipped fingernails over the gold lettering of Jean-Robert Argand’s name. Helena’s life was so much more like this man’s, a self-taught mathematician who’d managed the accounts of a bookshop, than the one she awaited.

A man she’d been waiting on for several hours.

Though, as it did involve numbers and she was everything precise where those digits were concerned, she’d counted seven waking hours. Or four hundred and twenty minutes. Or if one wished to be most accurate, twenty-five thousand, two hundred seconds.

That was how long she’d been waiting for Robert’s visit.

Which was . . . peculiar. She didn’t even like the gentleman. He was the man who’d gotten her sent off to the fancy side of London, and he was part of her plan to evade suitors for the remainder of the Season.

Yet . . . Helena drummed her fingertips on the top of her book. If that were the case, why was she, in fact, sitting here waiting . . . for him? Why did you feel this great relief at Diana’s earlier words about the marquess? It didn’t make sense and she was, if anything, sensible.

Only, you’ve never been truly sensible around this gentleman . . .

From the night he’d stumbled into the private halls of the Hell and Sin Club, she’d broken one of the most important rules in approaching the drunken stranger. Then she’d returned his kiss and hungered for his embrace.

Filled with a murky confusion, Helena returned her attention to the small leather tome. He was just a man. A man, who with his clever tongue, and even more clever lips, had proven himself the wicked sort she’d been warned away from. She firmed her resolve. And she would do well to remember as much when he came and delivered a hopeless dance lesson—all with the purpose of putting his hands on her body.

If he came.

Seated in her familiar window seat, Helena looked outside at the busy London streets. Her heart tripped a beat. As though she’d conjured him, Robert drew his powerful black mount to a stop. In a near repeat of yesterday’s visit, a young boy came forward, and he turned the reins over to the child.

Swiftly lowering her feet to the floor, Helena jumped up. She ran her fingers down the front of her soft yellow skirts. Hideous color. Even she who didn’t know a jot about fashion knew that women with deathly white skin should never, ever wear those pale hues. Then, mayhap, that had been the duchess’s intentions?

Not that it mattered. She began to pace. It hardly mattered what she wore in Robert’s presence. Theirs was an act. An adult charade, and nothing more.

“His Lordship, the Marquess of Westfield,” Scott intoned from the doorway.

Helena emitted a startled shriek, and knocked against the table, sending her copy of Argand tumbling to the floor.

“My lord.”

The butler gave her a pointed look and she flared her eyes. “Refreshments.”

The old man gave a pleased smile. “As you wish, Miss Banbury.” His rheumy eyes sparkled with approval.