Chapter 11 #2
Except… Had Hunter been here, he would’ve called Wulfie something insulting in that fond way of his.
The dog would’ve jumped on his lap and waited to be scratched behind the ear, in that way Hunter had learned so quickly.
Yes, he might have had a myriad of teasing names for the dog, but he was fond of Wulfie, and Wulfie loved him, and—
Helena sniffed, realizing she was fighting back tears.
Why did everything remind her of Hunter? Why couldn’t she move on from him? Why did her heart hurt so much?
Wulfie chose that perfect moment to stick his tongue up her nose.
Sputtering, she pulled him away just as the door opened and Mister slipped into the room.
Trying to pretend she hadn’t just been kissing her dog, Helena lowered Wulfie to her lap and pretended dignity. “How are things going today, Amy?”
“Horrible.” Her maid, who also ran the household—who needed a housekeeper?
—looked frazzled. “Cook didn’t think it important enough to make any orders while we were gone, which means we’ve been living off what we had, and the fishmonger won’t be around until Tuesday, and we need to find a new source of flour.
” She huffed and rolled her eyes. “And your dog’s digestion is finally getting back to normal.
Thank goodness, I was running out of mops. ”
Wincing, Helena lifted her darling Wulfie to snuggle with him again. “Yes, the little darling’s tum-tum gets a little rumbly when he is not with me. Is that not right, my precious?”
This time, Mister’s eyeroll was almost funny. “And you have a visitor.”
A visitor? Helena sat up straight. “Who is it? You should have led with that. Do I need to meet them? Is it—?”
Hunter.
Her heart was pounding as she slowly stood, pushing away from the desk, hardly daring to think the thought. If Hunter had come to Islay, he would be in danger. She didn’t want that, not at all.
But she did desperately want to see him again. Hold him again. Be loved by him again.
From the sympathy in Mister’s eyes, she could tell Helena’s thoughts. “It’s Mr. Huffington,” she said, almost apologetically.
And Helena’s shoulders slumped.
It wasn’t Hunter—he’d realized how much of a danger it was to be associated with her, thank God, and was doing nothing foolish. He was safe.
“Helena?” urged Mister softly. “What do you want me to do?”
The fact she was using Helena’s first name proved just how concerned Mister was for her, never a good sign. Helena forced a smile and her shoulders back. “I suppose I have been a trial for you these last days, moping about.”
But her maid just shook her head sadly. “I’m sorry it had to happen the way it did. He was a nice man.”
In an effort to protect the man she loved, Helena hadn’t told anyone—not even Mister—what had happened on that tragic picnicking afternoon. But her friend had guessed something terrible was the cause of Helena’s mood, and she wasn’t wrong.
Another deep breath, and Helena held Wulfie out. “Take Wulfie out for walkies, please, and I will see what Huffington wants.” Why would her competitor be visiting her?
But when Mister—juggling an excited Wulfie, who always became ecstatic when he heard the W-word and was now clambering over the maid’s shoulder—opened the door, Huffington was already there.
The man smiled cordially at Mister but Wulfie growled at the man, his lips pulling back from his teeth as they passed.
Likely because of the feathers.
There was a cape of them—colorful and exotic—draped around his shoulders. There were also a pair of parrots sitting on either shoulder—in retrospect, perhaps they were what Wulfie had growled at?
Peter Huffington, owner of Peater’s Distillery, was known on Islay as a tad…eccentric. Having had many conversations with the older gentleman, Helena knew him well enough to drop the “tad” part.
“What a magnificent beast,” the man cooed, bending forward to peer at Wulfie through a quizzing glass which he carried on a stick. The movement shoved the birds closer to the dog, and despite Mister backing up as quickly as she could, Wulfie still snapped at the parrots.
Huffington didn’t seem to notice. He just straightened and patted the maid’s head absentmindedly. “I suppose he shits less than birds. Or at least, produces shits that are easier to clean up?”
Helena had stood and now hurried to save her dog—and friend. “Thank you, Mister,” she called as she hurried from around her desk. “That will be all.”
Amy nodded gratefully and, clutching Wulfie to her, backed away from the door. Huffington swung about to face Helena, a bright smile on his face and those feathers sweeping almost to his elbows.
When they met in the middle of the room, she was distracted by the way the large white parrot seemed to be trying to eat Huffington’s ear, and thus didn’t stop the older man from scooping up her hand and bending over it.
“My dear Mrs. Lickfold, I’m absolutely devastated to hear of your loss.”
Helena hummed noncommittally, her attention not on the man but torn between hoping he wouldn’t press his lips against her skin, and smirking at the thought of his lips pressed against where Wulfie’s arse had been sitting moments earlier.
When the man straightened he didn’t release her hand, instead using it to pull her closer so he could nod sympathetically and far too close.
“Instead of mourning, I’m certain your husband would have wanted you to move on, secure a new partner for yourself.
You see, I wore my most colorful frock for the occasion.
” He bent closer. Helena bent backward. “Do you like it? Stefan sent it from India.”
Helena had no idea if she was supposed to know who Stefan was, but her back was beginning to hurt from holding this awkward position. “Yes, you are quite colorful. Do you know your bird is eating your ear, sir?”
“Yes, she does that.” When Huffington nodded solemnly, the big white parrot bobbed its head as well, its beak still attached to the top of his ear. The other bird appeared to be asleep, its head tucked under its wing. “She’s a naughty girl, but I love her.” He sighed. “You know how it is.”
She most certainly did not. Shuffling backwards, Helena tried to put some distance between them. Since Huffington was still holding her hand and his arms were not particularly long, it wasn’t very much distance. “Was there something I could do for you, Mr. Huffington?”
“Oh, please do call me Horace.”
Why would she do that? Wait a moment—“Your name is Peter, I thought?”
“Yes,” he sighed again. “But Horace is ever so much handsomer, don’t you agree? As for what you can do for me…I think, my dear, that there most certainly is something you could do for me.”
He pulled on her hand again seemingly to tug her closer but Helena stood firm, and Huffington ended up stepping closer, his thumb rubbing small circles on her skin.
“You see, my dear, I tried to stay away, tried to give you time to mourn—but time is of the essence. India is calling, you know! I just had to check in on you. Look at you, back to work already.” He gestured vaguely around the study.
“Exactly what I admire about you. Exactly why I need you, my dear.”
Need her? Helena frowned. India? What was he talking about?
His words didn’t make any sense, but then again, she could freely admit she wasn’t paying much attention.
Instead, she was doing her best to remove her hand from his.
Each time she turned her hand in one direction, Huffington twisted his in another, until it became a perverse game which she appeared to be losing.
“Thank you for your kind words, Mr. Huffington,” she grunted, finally succeeding in yanking her hand from his hold, and used the momentum to back up several spaces. “I do enjoy the work—”
“Yes, exactly!” he cried, “Which is why you’re so perfectly what I need!
Think of it, Helena…” He leaned toward her, the white parrot detaching itself from his ear and eyeing Helena in an alarmingly speculative manner.
“A beautiful woman, so recently widowed…surely you can understand the benefit of a connection with your immediate neighbor?”
She froze, staring up at him.
A widow?
She wasn’t… But she’d declared Hunter as her husband. If Huffington thought Hunter was dead, then he’d assume she was now widowed.
He was shot off a horse; it is reasonable to guess he is dead. That, and all of your moping and crying since your return to Islay.
Still, Helena could only stare. How had he known? Hunter hadn’t even returned to Islay with her!
Do not cry. Do not cry, especially in front of Huffington.
It didn’t work; tears sprang to her eyes, and the older man made a noise of pity as he stepped even closer. The irritating feathery thing was definitely trying to figure out how to jump on her shoulder, wasn’t it?
The parrot, that was. Not the man.
“Helena,” Mr. Huffington murmured, his gaze flickering over her face.
“This mourning does you credit, but I want you to know that I will be beside you the entire time, lending you my strength. And when you are done mourning, I will be ready for you. As long as you, you know, don’t take too long. A week. A month at most.”
Ready for you? “Ready for what?” Helena managed to rasp.
He popped upright, much to the irritation of the white parrot, who was clearly preparing itself to hop onto Helena’s head, his face splitting into a grin.
“Why, to court you. Surely you know, Helena, that it has long been my goal to unite the Bruadarach and Peater Distilleries. With our fields bordering one another’s it will be simple to combine our operations, and you can manage everything so perfectly from this centrally located study! India is calling!”
Helena’s mind finally caught up with her ears. “You want to marry me, Mr. Huffington?”
His grin didn’t change. “Ah, grief is affecting your hearing. I want to combine our distilleries, Helena. It’ll be ever so much easier, don’t you agree? This seems like the simplest method, now you’re widowed.”
Her mouth opened, but she couldn’t think of a single thing to say to such outrageousness, and she slowly closed it again.
How long had he harbored such thoughts—such plans?
In that moment, she was beyond grateful she’d made up the fake husband all those years ago…if Huffington had thought her unmarried—available?—who knows what he might have tried before now?
But now he thought her widowed, thought Hunter dead. Thought her available for marriage.
He has admitted you can have a period of mourning. You have time to think of a way out of this mess.
Taking a deep breath, she straightened her shoulders. “Thank you for your visit, Mr. Huffington.”
The man fluffed his feathered cape, upsetting both parrots who broke into squawks. Over their irritation, he pleaded, “Please, my dear. Call me Horace.”
Her eyes narrowed, and she gestured toward the door. “Allow me to walk you out, Mr. Huffington.” And then do everything she could manage to keep him out.
He bent at the waist in what she guessed was supposed to be a courtly bow, and as she swept past him, Helena took great satisfaction in informing him brightly: “Your shoulder, sir, has just been shat upon by a bird.”