The Rogue's Wager (Sinful Brides #1)(68)

Beatrice stole a glance about, and then moved closer to Helena. “I write.” Then her cheeks pinkened. She pulled a book from the shelf and turned it over to Helena.

Accepting the small tome, she skimmed the gold embossed title. Rogues, Rakes, Rapscallions, and Other Wicked Gentlemen . . .

“It is for my . . . work,” Robert’s sister explained. “You see, I am conducting research and . . .” She peeked about. “And I wish to use my knowledge to help other ladies.” By the flat set to her pretty, bow-shaped lips, Beatrice Dennington intended to say nothing further on her pursuits.

Helena turned the book over and the young woman hurriedly accepted it. “I expect I might be able to provide additional . . . research should you ever require it.” Given all she’d witnessed at the Hell and Sin Club, she herself could write a book, if she could properly assemble those words into a semblance of anything someone wished to read.

“Truly?” Beatrice asked on a reverent whisper.

Guilt needled at her. Given the other woman’s kindness and willingness to share with Helena, she at least owed Robert’s sister the truth of her background. “I spent the last ten years in a gaming hell, my lady.”

A brassy bell chimed at the front of the shop, indicating someone had entered. Otherwise, silence stretched on, and heat stained Helena’s neck and bathed her cheeks. She’d always found pride in that part of her existence. So why this sudden awkwardness in sharing that piece? Because ladies don’t know anything of those hells. It was one thing to read a book about rakes and libertines. Quite another to actually witness those men visiting their clubs and visiting with whores.

“Do you know, Helena,” Beatrice said at long last. “I think we are going to be very good friends. Very good friends, indeed.” And a spirited glimmer she’d only seen in her own eyes lit Beatrice’s. “I can certainly see why Robert’s fallen in love with you.”

Helena stilled. She shook her head.

Beatrice nodded.

Helena gave another shake.

Beatrice nodded once more. “Yes.”

Her heart gave a funny little leap. “Oh, no. No,” she said, turning her palms up. “You are mistaken. He does not. It is . . .” Pretend. She stopped from speaking that truth. Apparently they’d both delivered a convincing performance. As much as she liked Robert’s sister, she didn’t know her enough to share the details of what had brought her into the marquess’s life.

“It is . . . ?” Beatrice gently prodded.

“It is . . .” Furthermore, anything real between them was impossible. Men such as Robert didn’t fall in love with women like her, and when they did, they only made those women their mistresses, while binding themselves to cold, unfeeling ladies like the duchess.

“Do you not love him?” Four creases lined the lady’s noble brow.

“Do I love him?” she choked.

Robert’s sister stared expectantly back.

Of course she didn’t love him. She’d known him but a handful of days. Footsteps sounded at the end of the aisle and she looked up, saved from formulating a response. Robert stopped and leaned against the bookshelf, and grinned. His lazy half grin was the kind of smile belonging to a man who well knew he was being discussed. With a wink, he continued strolling. Only as he disappeared around the next shelf, the panicky pressure weighting on her chest deepened.

How could she possibly love him? She’d not even liked him. He’d been arrogant and he’d stolen her knife, (a knife he still had) and her heart and . . . Helena shot a hand out, grasping the edge of the nearest shelf. Oh, God, I love him. Loving Robert was madness. There could never be a future between them. Why, not . . . ? Why can’t you have a life with him . . . ? Because he would be a duke and she was a bookkeeper, and more, she would always be a bastard. Neither suitable duchess material. Nor did she even want to be a duchess . . . Oh, God. Her breath came ragged in her own ears.

His sister cut across her rapidly careening out-of-control thoughts and patted her hand. “Is it as difficult as I’ve read in books?”

“My lady?” she managed, scrabbling at the fabric of her gown, as she tried to muddle through her emotion.

Beatrice clarified. “Being in love?”

She closed her eyes for a long moment, and then gave a jerky nod. It is worse.

The longer she was here in this world, the more she lost of herself. “If you’ll excuse me?” she asked, her voice emerging on a high-pitched tenor that earned a concerned look from Robert’s sister. “I must return home.”

The lady’s pretty features fell. “Do say we’ll meet again?”

Helena nodded. She’d promise the woman anything to be free of this place and her careening thoughts.

“Another trip to St Giles Circus?” She was relentless. “Shall we say Saturday, then?” She peered around Helena’s shoulder. “Did you hear that, Robert? Will you be so good as to escort Miss Banbury and me back on Saturday morn?”

Helena whipped her head around. Robert stood, arms folded at his chest. “Of course.” Why must he be so stealthy?

“Splendid,” Beatrice said with a clap of her hands. “It is decided.”

Helena swallowed hard. Indeed, it was. “I-If you’ll excuse me?” She stammered over her words in her bid to make a quick retreat. Then, spinning on her heel, she rushed past Robert, and darted from the shop.