Chapter 7 #2
She’d gossiped more than Mister was wont to—thank goodness—and had told Helena that the Duke cared deeply about fashions and fads, and this tea gown was the current height of fashion.
It had been loaned by the Duchess herself, which was more than a little intimidating.
The lovely gold silk was simple and elegant, and the maid assured her it made her eyes shine.
Was it formal enough for tea with a duke and duchess?
Considering it is on loan from the duchess…yes, you nincompoop.
Helena straightened her shoulders and gave what she hoped was an imperious nod to the butler. She was clean, rested, refreshed, and no longer looked like one of Wulfie’s chew toys. She was ready to do battle.
But when Titsworth opened the doors and swept into the drawing room, she discovered that things weren’t quite what she expected at Stroken.
Rather than a formal drawing room, or a formal tea… Things here were decidedly informal.
The Duchess of Stroken was wearing trousers and a feminine blouse. Not a riding costume, but regalia all her own. The woman’s feet were bare and she stood on the rug before the hearth, her eyes closed as she played a violin with a passion beautiful to behold.
The Duke—or the man Helena presumed was the Duke—was resting on the sofa, his legs stretched out and his head resting on the pillows as he watched his wife with untamed hunger in his eyes.
The rascal twins were absolutely nowhere to be seen.
And Hunter stood at the window, his back to them as he munched on an apple, swaying slightly with the music.
Oh. Well, this wasn’t to be a formal tea at all, was it?
The song stopped abruptly as the Duchess pulled her bow from the strings. “She’s here! Now we get some answers.” She grinned. “We’re sorry for starting the tea without you—Thorne can be demanding.”
“So demanding.” The Duke swung his legs off the couch and stood. “Delighted to have ye here, my dear,” he announced as he crossed to offer his hand. “Thorne Cumming, Duke of Stroken, blah blah et cetera. This is my wife, Kit. She’s American, but we cannae hold that against her.”
Panicking, Helena ignored the offered hand and sank into a deep curtsey. “Honored, Your Graces,” she murmured.
“Oh, to hell with that,” the Duke announced, pulling her up. “I’m Thorne, that’s Kit, ye’re Helena. We’re far more interested in learning who ye are, and what ye’re doing putting up with this scamp.” His eyes twinkled as he jerked his head toward Hunter. “The lads told me ye’re his client?”
The Duke—Thorne, she corrected herself hesitantly—was really quite handsome, wasn’t he? When his trousers-wearing, violin-holding wife slid her free arm around his middle, it was clear the two of them were well-matched and still very much in love, even with two almost grown sons.
Helena was ridiculously flustered and at a complete loss for words.
Luckily, Hunter rescued her. Yet again.
“Uncle Thorne, Aunt Kit, this is Mrs. Helena Lickfold.” He sauntered across the room toward them. “She’s hired me to be her husband.”
The couple across from her reacted differently; Thorne burst into laughter as Kit dropped her hold on him, reached for Helena, and tugged her eagerly toward the sofa.
“Tell us everything,” she announced, clearly delighted. “Thorne, love, pour the tea.”
“Aye, Yer Grace,” her husband intoned good-naturedly. “Hunter, pour the tea.”
“Aye, Yer Grace,” he echoed in the same deadpan. “How many lumps do ye take, Helena?”
“She’s yer wife, ye dolt!” Thorne smacked him. “Ye dinnae ken that yet?”
Helena found herself smiling as she settled across from the Duchess. Her father’s plantation had had plenty of sugar for their tea, but none of this good-natured bantering or laughter.
“I’m her hired husband,” Hunter explained, pouring her a cup and dropping three lumps—exactly her preference, how had he known?—into it. “And we’ve been running for our lives for the last few days. Nae time for tea. Here, sweetheart.”
Helena took the cup, not sure she was fond of the way Thorne’s gaze had sharpened at the hint of danger…or Kit’s amusement at the sweetheart.
“Lock and Key are mucking out the stables as punishment,” Kit said as she sat back, crossing her legs and gesturing grandly with her cup. “Thorne can occasionally be a disciplinarian, although he has a soft spot for the lads.”
“What, all the stables?” Hunter asked in surprise, pouring himself a cup. “They’ll be there for days.”
“Well, at least until they get bored and start throwing shite at each other.”
Thorne nodded at his wife. “Then they’ll head to the river to wash off. Kit’s point is that it will be hours before they’re back here.”
“Which means you have hours to explain exactly what’s going on, and how we can help,” the Duchess finished.
To Helena’s surprise, Hunter moved to sit beside her on the sofa.
She’d expected him to maintain a professional distance now that—No.
No, the last few minutes had proven that there was nothing precisely expected or exceptionally proper about Stroken, or its Duke and Duchess.
Everything she’d expected and feared when she’d realized who Hunter’s family was had simply not materialized.
These people were as relaxed and friendly as Hunter himself was.
And she was grateful for it.
Helena sipped her tea and nibbled on the biscuits as Hunter explained her dilemma—at least, as he knew it—and his role.
When he described Wulfie, she sent him a scowl over her teacup for describing her precious sweetums as an emaciated ferret.
But when he got to the part about the masked man in the train carriage, she found her stomach tightening and leaned forward to place the cup down on the table.
It was still hard to believe it had even happened.
When she sat back Hunter was there, taking her hand.
Helena pulled it into her lap and gripped tightly with both of hers, grateful for the anchor he provided.
When nothing was certain and home felt a long way away, it was…
comforting, having his hand in hers. Thorne and Kit didn’t appear to notice; they were both avidly following the tale, asking intelligent questions where necessary.
And Hunter answered them all, until they were throwing hypotheses and theories back and forth.
“—a secret message from Islay—”
“—theft of your best barrels—”
“—the Queen’s secret tipple—”
“—and a great big pistol!”
The verdict was Huffington—or, as Hunter called him, “the owner of yer rival distillery—ye ken, the distillery with the stupid name?”—was almost certainly to blame here. Helena found herself shuddering slightly, although nothing was suggested that she and Hunter hadn’t already discussed.
Perhaps Hunter noticed her shiver, for he gently extracted his left hand from her grip and slid it along the back of the sofa until he was more or less holding her shoulders.
She told herself it was improper to be touching like this when she was supposedly married to another man…
but there was no judgement in the eyes of their hosts.
Perhaps they were comfortable with the idea of extramarital affairs.
Except…Helena wasn’t exactly married.
Or even inexactly married.
When this was all over, when Hunter took her money and returned to London and she won the Best of Islay and positioned Bruadarach Distillery to take its place in the annals of whisky history…then what? She wouldn’t be married. She wouldn’t even be fake married.
But you will still be a virgin.
Helena hid her wince by pressing closer to Hunter’s warm side.
This morning in the inn’s small bed…that had been the closest she’d come to ecstasy.
With Hunter. She had no more experience with a man than any other unmarried virgin, although she’d experimented with her own fingers—especially after reading A Harlot’s Guide to the Forbidden and Delightful Arts, with its clever descriptions and useful diagrams.
Islay had been about whisky, and keeping a hold of her men. She’d never been bothered by her lack of intimate experience before.
But these last few days had taught her that she did want the experience.
With Hunter.
In less than a month she’d be alone once more, and the world would continue to assume her experienced. So why shouldn’t she be? Why not rid herself of her inconvenient and unvalued virginity with a man who cared about her, one who aroused her?
What could it hurt?
Hunter clearly had no concern with dallying with her—married or not.
Their hosts didn’t seem to be alarmed by the idea either.
Why not allow him to believe this was merely that—a dalliance?
They could share a bed for the remainder of their time together, Helena could experience pleasure and ecstasy a few more times, and when they parted…
Well, she would be sad, of course, but her life was on Islay and his was in London. Her life was whisky and his was adventure. She would still have a fake husband, and he…he would find others. She’d have the memories of their time together, and the knowledge of passion.
As the conversation swirled around her, Helena snuggled closer to Hunter and contemplated serious seduction.