The Rogue's Wager (Sinful Brides #1)(92)

“It was your mother’s,” the duke murmured.

Helena managed a nod. “I know,” she whispered. There wasn’t a single item she had left of her mother. Every memory she had of Delia Banbury existed only in her mind, and with a young woman’s bitter rancor, Helena had spent years hating her. Until now. Now she saw with mature eyes that her mother, who’d been hopelessly in love, was a far greater survivor than Helena could have ever been. For she’d endured the agony of losing the man she loved to another, and carved out an existence anyway.

Tears blurred her eyes. How very little Helena had truly known of the world, of love and joy and forgiveness . . . until Robert.

Something light and powerfully freeing blotted out all the long-held resentment. “Thank you,” she squeezed out past a tight throat. The words for her mother, and the father who, in bringing Helena here, had helped repair that broken link between her and the woman who’d given her life.

“Stay.”

The duke’s words recalled her to the moment, and she lowered the gift to the smooth surface of the vanity. “I can’t.” Even as I want to.

“Is it because of what Diana did?” he pressed, and her teeth ravaged the skin of her inner cheek. No. It was because of what Helena had done, in bringing her there. “I’ll not have her marry one of those arrogant pups who’d condemn her for her bravery,” he said, demonstrating once more the manner of man and father he was.

She shook her head. “It is not Diana,” she said quietly. What was another lie in the scheme of all the sins she was guilty of?

“Is it the duchess?” he asked, coming closer. “She will be going away. To . . . a hospital.” He grimaced. For, of course, with her actions, the woman had demonstrated the level of her madness.

“It is because of me,” she said at last. Picking up the note, she turned to face him. Desperate for this exchange to be at an end, she pressed it into his hands. “Will you see this delivered to Lord Westfield?”

He stared at the name a moment, and then gave a reluctant nod. “You are always welcome here, Helena,” he said, his voice breaking.

All the years’ worth of hatred lifted as Helena stepped into his arms and hugged him. “Thank you . . . Father.”



In the week that followed, Robert had endured a parade of visitors to his room, from his family’s doctor to Bea, to servants to his father.

When a future duke was shot, the world all but stopped.

Seated at the edge of his bed, Robert winced as Dr. Carlson probed the area he’d cleaned and stitched up in the immediacy of Diggory’s shot.

“My apologies,” Dr. Carlson murmured, not taking his attention from the pink flesh. “You are fortunate,” the doctor said, and collected a set of fresh bandages. “Several inches closer and it would have pierced an organ.”

Robert gritted out a smile. His side burned like he’d been set afire. Except with the doctor’s words, it all came rushing back as vivid now as it had been in the moment. Helena. The bastard Diggory with a gun pointed at her chest. Her agonized cry. “But it did not, and I’m surely capable of leaving my chambers.”

It had been an entire week since he’d seen Helena. Of course, given the impropriety of visiting his chambers she couldn’t very well come here . . . and yet . . . disappointment assailed him. He’d wanted her here, anyway.

“Only if you care to risk reopening the wound and infection,” Dr. Carlson said dryly, and Robert swallowed down another wave of frustration.

The door opened, and he looked to the entrance of the room, where his father stood framed in the doorway. “You are awake.” Heavy lines marred his sharp features; his reddened eyes hinted at a restless night and the struggle of his own illness.

“And intending to go out,” Dr. Carlson supplied unhelpfully.

The revelation earned a frown from the duke. Something sparked in his eyes, and he quickly averted his gaze.

Robert froze, as unease won out over pain. Nothing would keep Helena from him. A woman who’d face down a demon like Diggory wouldn’t let propriety prevent her from visiting. “What is it?” he said tightly.

Taking his cue, Dr. Carlson hurriedly packed his equipment and made his leave. “It is Miss Banbury,” his father said as soon as the door had closed.

Robert jerked and nausea roiled in his belly at the sudden movement. Had one of Diggory’s henchmen punished her for that man’s deserved death? “What happened to Helena?” Sweat beaded on his brow. Oh, God, if she is dead, I am nothing . . .

“She is all right. Miss Banbury is fine.”

That gruff reassurance slowed his pulse rate, and Robert sent silent thanks skyward. He frowned. “What is it?” Then he registered the grim look in his father’s eyes. Apprehension kicked the rhythm of his heartbeat into a frantic gallop.

“Tell me,” he demanded, shoving to a stand. That subtle movement sent agony lancing through him once more.

“She is fine. I’d not lie to you. You need to rest, Robert,” his father implored. “You risk reopening the wound stitched by Dr. Carlson. I no more wish to be coddled than you,” he reasoned. “Given you’re the one with the gunshot, and I’m merely the one dragging out his death day by day, I expect I win this argument.” Robert’s face contorted, and his father grimaced. “Poor jest?”