Chapter 3
The next afternoon, Helena arrived seven minutes before the hour.
Her timing was deliberate—neither early enough to seem nervous nor late enough to cede ground.
The private library at Holborn loomed before her, its mahogany walls lined with the spines of books written by men seeking immortality.
Pausing at the threshold, her heart quickened before she stepped inside, exuding the confidence of a woman accustomed to significant spaces.
The curtains were closed and a single lamp flickered at the far end, its light filtered through amber glass, dancing with the flames in the grate.
She noted the precise arrangement of chairs, the absence of decanters or fruit, and the oversized chaise angled for privacy.
Every detail whispered of a host who understood the perils of convenience.
Choosing the chaise nearest the fire, she sat, gloves still on, her posture immaculate.
A soft knock—three quick, one slow—brought her to her feet. She crossed the room, turned the key, and opened the door.
William entered with the careful motion reserved for rooms he did not control. His black coat was unadorned, his cravat a single, dismissive loop. He closed the door behind him, and Helena turned the lock.
“Lady Fairfax,” he said, his voice tailored for her ears alone, low and seductive.
“Your Grace.” A slow smile curved her lips, her eyes half-lidded. “You came.”
“I always do.” The edge in his tone was deliberate. He crossed to the fire, opting to stand rather than sit. He regarded her with undisguised hunger. “You have me at a disadvantage.”
She extended her hand. “Not yet.”
He took her hand, holding it as if she might vanish. They both waited until she withdrew. “You could have refused.”
“I was advised,” he replied, “that you are not easily dissuaded.”
“Your informant was correct.” She tugged at the thumb of her glove, peeling it away finger by finger, her gaze locked onto his face. Her bare hand was pale, nerves dancing just beneath the surface. “Did you bring your nerve?”
“I thought this was a social call.”
She laughed. “William…”
He dropped his gaze for a moment, and when he looked up, the fire had turned his eyes the color of glass.
“If it is a document you want,” he said, “I have brought nothing. I prefer to conduct business openly.”
“Liar.” She rose, her movement crafted to draw his attention. She closed the distance between them, stopping just shy of propriety. “You have never done anything openly.”
He stood firm. “Neither have you.”
“That is precisely why I invited you to join me here.” She pressed her ungloved hand to his chest—not over his heart, but just beneath the second button of his waistcoat. “Do you trust me?”
He inhaled, and for the first time, uncertainty clouded his usual irony. “No,” he admitted. “But I want to.”
She smiled, a smile that could win wars. “Good. Then don’t move.”
With her other hand, she began to undo his waistcoat, button by button. The fabric resisted her, but she persisted, her fingertips grazing the linen beneath. He clenched his fists at his sides, knuckles whitening.
“You seem determined,” he said, his tone teasing.
“I assure you, I am.”
She finished the row of buttons and slipped her hand inside, palm flat against his shirtfront. The heat of him surprised her. “I want to make you feel,” she murmured close to his ear, “entirely out of control.”
“That is a dangerous ambition.”
“Life is dangerous,” she said, her gaze locking with his.
She pulled him down and kissed him with the intensity of someone who had envisioned this moment many times. His mouth tasted of salt and brandy. She bit his lower lip, and he gasped, the sound raw and human.
Drawing back, she studied his face in the half-light. “Sit.”
He perched on the edge of the chaise, as if expecting the world to tilt. She stood over him, unfastening her second glove, then draped it across his shoulder like a challenge. “Your turn.”
He hesitated, then reached for her sleeve, fingers skimming her wrist. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely not,” she said. “But I want it all the more.”
He slipped the fabric from her arm, moving slowly, then traced the line of her elbow to the pulse in the hollow.
She shivered.
He noticed and smiled, not in triumph but in gratitude. He gathered her hands in his, turned them palm up, and kissed the sensitive flesh at the base of each thumb.
She laughed, genuine and bright. “I thought you didn’t do romance.”
“I don’t,” he replied. “But I like to be thorough.”
She tugged his cravat loose, pulling him forward until his face was buried in her neck. He exhaled, warmth flooding her collarbone. She arched into it, allowing her head to fall back. He tasted her just below the ear, and she rewarded him with a hiss of breath.
“Do you want me to stop?” he asked, already knowing the answer.
“No,” she said, bringing her hands to his scalp, threading her fingers through his dark hair. “But you’ll do as I say.” Her brazenness shocked her, but she longed to feel alive. To take pleasure for herself.
He laughed against her throat, the vibration electric. “You’re a vixen.”
“I have two years of restraint to account for.”
She pushed him back against the chaise, straddled his lap, and fumbled with the buttons of his shirt.
Her hands shook, less steady than before, yet she enjoyed peeling the fabric aside to reveal his skin.
He was leaner than she’d guessed, muscles defined not by labor but by tension.
She pressed her lips to the base of his throat, licked the salt from his skin.
He groaned, hands finding her waist, fingers digging into the silk of her dress. He pulled her closer, but she resisted, using her position to maintain control.
“Patience,” she whispered, drawing a line down his chest with her tongue.
He exhaled, a mix of laughter and a moan. “You’ll be the end of me.”
“That’s the point,” she said, giving him a teasing nip.
She shifted her weight, pressing her hips into his, pleased to find him already hard beneath the layers of fabric. She ground against him, slow at first, then with increasing pressure. He gripped her tighter but did not try to dominate.
“Are you going to undress me,” he asked, “or leave me longing?”
She grinned. “I thought you liked puzzles.”
“I prefer solutions.”
She stood abruptly and offered her hand.
He took it, rose, and followed her to the writing desk against the far wall.
She swept aside the chair and perched on the edge of the desk, her legs dangling, silk pooling around her ankles.
He stood between her knees, uncertain, until she drew his face to hers and kissed him again, this time softer, deeper.
His hands roamed her back, seeking the closures of her gown.
“You’ll need to be careful,” she warned. “It’s a favorite.”
“I’m always careful.”
She doubted that but let him proceed. He found the hooks, unfastening them one by one, and slid the fabric down her shoulders. It caught at her bust, and he paused, the gentleman warring with his instincts. She laughed, released the final clasp herself, and shrugged the dress to her waist.
His eyes widened for an instant, and a rush of triumph surged through her.
She pulled him close, guided his hands to her breasts, and whispered, “Show me how you’d solve me.”
He obliged, cradling her with a reverence that bordered on worship. His fingers traced circles around her nipples, teasing them before he bent down to take one in his mouth. She gasped, fingers tangling in his hair as she arched her back, seeking more.
He alternated between gentle caresses and teasing bites, each touch drawing a cry from her lips. Her legs wrapped around his waist, holding him close. When he nipped her again, she retaliated, pulling his hair, tilting his head back, and kissing him fiercely.
She slid off the desk with unexpected strength, pushing him back, and turned to face the fire. “On your knees,” she commanded, her voice low.
He hesitated, just long enough for her to wonder if he would refuse. Then he knelt, pressing his face to the small of her back, his hands stroking down her spine to the curve of her hips.
Bracing herself against the mantle, she shifted her dress up, revealing herself to him. He gripped her thighs, strong yet trembling, and traced his tongue along her slowly and thoroughly. A groan escaped her, louder than intended, followed by a growl from his chest.
Heat flooded her, gathering at her core. She noticed everything—the quiver of her legs, the raggedness of her breath, the way her fingers dug into the mantle. He alternated between soft and punishing, bringing her to the brink before pulling back, prompting her to curse him in Latin.
How had she gone so long without a mans touch?
He laughed, delight shining in his eyes. “You’re a scholar as well as a hedonist.”
“Don’t stop,” she gasped.
He did not.
When she climaxed, it was a force that surprised her, leaving her sagging against the mantle, nearly losing her footing. He caught her, pulling her onto the Persian carpet in front of the fire.
Straddling him once more, her hair wild, she worked the buttons of his trousers. He tried to assist, but she slapped his hands away, freeing him and marveling at the sight of him unadorned and vulnerable.
She lowered herself onto him in one confident motion.
He gasped.
It was the first time he had truly lost control, and she reveled in it, riding him hard and fast, the friction welcome after so long without.
He grasped her hips, matching her rhythm but letting her set the pace.
They moved together, both primal and graceful, the only sounds those of flesh on flesh and the occasional hiss of breath. She came again, shuddering, and felt him follow, his whole body tensing beneath her before he collapsed to the floor.