Chapter 4
The carriage approached Lord Pembroke’s estate smoothly, the wheels gliding over the newly mown drive with only a slight murmur from the gravel.
William sat with his hat on one knee and a tightly gloved hand that blanched at the knuckles.
He kept his eyes fixed on the landscape beyond the glass, where lawns rolled in neat waves, interrupted by patches of narcissus and early crocus.
The air outside was exceptionally clear, and the house at the crest of the lawn shimmered with an almost aggressive optimism.
He arrived seven minutes early, a timing that felt oddly symmetrical. The footman opened the door, and William stepped into the sunlight.
The house party had gathered for fresh air and fresh scandal, though only the former could be mentioned openly.
William allowed himself to be swept along, nodding to Lord Pembroke and exchanging brief pleasantries with a Viscount.
The gardens served as both arena and gallery, with every path acting as a corridor and every bend providing a stage for encounters or retreats.
The guests matched the fine day. The women in soft muslins and printed lawns, the men in pastels and embroidered waistcoats, each more eager for attention than the last.
He drifted through the crowd, aware of his own detached presence.
The perfectly tailored dark coat made him seem like a shadow among the festivities.
Guests parted unconsciously or looked through him as if he were an unwelcome specter.
He preferred it that way. He had never enjoyed idle chatter, and his reputation for severity, or worse, for boredom, protected him from the worst of it.
He noted that Helena was not immediately present.
He dismissed this first as an accident, then as a strategy.
She was not a woman to be found loitering among the roses or giggling with the debutantes beneath the trellis.
He made a circuit of the grounds, ignoring the housekeeper's thin-lipped stare as he passed the orangery, and finally discovered Helena by the ancient sundial that crowned the western slope.
She stood still, a column of pink against the grass, the wind ruffling her sleeve. He watched as she bent to smell a flower, her backside delightfully rounded. He let the moment linger before approaching.
“Lady Fairfax,” he said, his tone formal despite the anticipation warming his blood.
She turned slowly, a deliberate reflection of the courage she had shown in the library. “Your Grace. I wondered if you would come.”
“I am reliably predictable,” he replied, meaning the opposite.
She glanced at the sundial, then at his gloves. “I confess I am almost impressed.”
He inclined his head, unwilling to offer more than that.
She was dressed in pink muslin with a green sash that made her skin seem almost translucent, a straw bonnet perched at the back of her head, the ribbons trailing loose. There were no jewels, no ornament. In the full sunlight, she appeared unprepared for society.
He wondered if she had done it for him.
“Will you walk?” he asked, offering his arm with minimal flourish.
She accepted, her hand cool and precise on his sleeve. Together they descended the slope, moving in tandem, neither speaking for several steps. The silence was companionable but not comfortable. It buzzed at the edges, demanding to be filled or acknowledged.
“You have been well?” he ventured, aware of the simplicity of the question.
“Well enough,” she replied. “And you?”
He considered. “No better, no worse.”
She smiled, thin and genuine. “We are perfectly matched in mediocrity.”
They approached a group of guests, two women in bright green and a clergyman.
William felt the familiar sensation of being watched.
The women fell silent as they approached, while the clergyman continued talking about the dangers of waterfowl in ornamental ponds.
Helena nodded to the group with confidence, and William admired her for it.
As they passed, she whispered, “I hope you did not find my correspondence inappropriate.”
He suppressed three potential responses—too brief, too honest, too much—before settling on, “I found it precise.”
“That is not an answer.”
He allowed a faint smile. “It is as much as I can offer, here.”
She raised an eyebrow but remained silent. Their walk led them toward a folly, an artificial ruin surrounded by wild tulips, where the path narrowed and the crowd dispersed. It was here, out of easy earshot, that she let her hand drop from his arm.
“William,” she said, using his name with a familiarity only she allowed. “We should be cautious.”
“Of what?” He let the question linger.
“Of making promises neither of us can keep.”
He studied her profile, the curve of her cheekbone, the subtle tension at the corner of her mouth. “Is that what you want?” he asked quietly. “Promises?”
“No,” she replied firmly. “But I will not be a secret to manage.”
He exhaled, feeling the tightness in his chest ease slightly. “Nor would I ask it.”
She stopped and turned to face him. “You are lying,” she said. “But I forgive you.”
He chuckled.
She smiled at him, then continued, “I wish us to be clear in our expectations. You are a rogue and I a widow with no desire to marry again. I do not wish for us to change.”
Before he could respond, a commotion erupted from the lower lawn. A spaniel chased a screaming child through a bed of hyacinths, scattering petals everywhere. The moment faded, and Helena stepped aside, resuming their walk.
It was then that the handkerchief fell, a piece of lace caught in the wind and drifting to the ground.
The handkerchief landed at Helena’s shoe.
She stared at it for a moment, then bent to pick it up, her posture revealing more fatigue than the hour warranted.
When she straightened, she found William’s gaze fixed not on the handkerchief but on her hands, the way she clutched the lace like a wounded bird.
He understood immediately that she was about to leave.
“Later,” she said.
He nodded his agreement.
She offered him a smile that was both an apology and a command, then walked back toward the house, her steps measured.
He watched as she navigated through the guests, pausing only to murmur something to their hostess.
The news of her sudden indisposition spread quickly.
Lady Fairfax, stricken by the sun, would retire early.
She pressed the handkerchief to her temple as she ascended the steps, appearing fragile.
William lingered by the folly, feigning interest in the construction.
None of the other guests noticed his distraction, they were preoccupied, and the state of Lady Fairfax’s ill health had already become a topic of speculation.
Only when he was satisfied did he make his way back to the house, keeping a respectful distance.
Helena did not return to the party, and her absence went unnoticed. Even the hostess, recalling it later, could not remember the last time she had seen her. By the time William saw Helena again her carriage departing.
He did not hesitate. He strode to the stables, chose the fastest horse without regard for protocol, and set off at a canter along the road that cut through the lower meadow. The air was rich with the earthy aroma of spring. He allowed himself only a moment to appreciate it.
He knew, without knowing how, exactly where she would go.
The folly lay two miles from the house, nestled among ancient yew and ash that funneled the last of the light into a single beam.
Its stones were older than the estate, quarried from a ruin that had endured plague and siege, then whimsically rebuilt by some ancestor of Lord Pembroke.
William dismounted at the edge of the trees, tethering his mount to an oak with slightly trembling hands.
The folly’s entrance was an archway draped in ivy, the interior lit by sunlight filtering through a moss-covered window.
The air inside was ten degrees colder, the flagstones slick underfoot.
Helena stood at the far end, her back to the door, gloved hands braced against the lintel.
The red of her dress stood out against the muted green.
She did not turn at the sound of his footsteps, nor when he closed the distance to stand just behind her. He could see her pulse fluttering at the base of her neck.
“You took your time,” she said, her tone flat.
He placed his hand at her waist, above the sash, and felt her tremor. “I did not want to be followed.”
“You won’t be.” She exhaled, the sound reverberating off the stone. “They are to absorbed in themselves.”
He pressed his lips to the spot behind her ear, inhaling her clean scent with a hint of gin or tonic. She tilted her head, exposing more of her throat. He suckled just hard enough not to mark her, and she hissed in approval.
“Did you think I would not come?” he asked, his voice vibrating against her skin.
She turned, slow and deliberate, allowing his hands to settle at the small of her back, drawing her in. “I knew you would. You can’t leave well enough alone.”
He laughed, a sound that startled them both. “Is that what passed between us? Well enough?”
She did not answer, but her fingers closed around his lapel, pulling him down until their mouths collided, open and eager.
There was no prelude. She took his lower lip between her teeth, biting before sucking the sting away.
He groaned, one hand already in her hair, urgently undoing the pins.
Dark strands tumbled across her shoulders.
William pressed her against the wall, his body firm, her spine curving to meet him.
She exhaled a soft moan as his teeth grazed the skin of her throat and jaw.
His hands slipped behind her, finding the buttons of her gown and teasing them free.
In the back of his mind, he knew this was reckless, but every racing heartbeat thrilled him.
With deliberate slowness, he tugged her dress free. “Shh,” he murmured, his voice low and urgent. “No one must hear.”
She looked up at him, wide-eyed and breathless.
William removed his gloves with precision before he let them drop. His bare hands, warm, traced the curve of her collarbone, stirring a shiver through her.
She leaned in. “William…”
“I want you,” he whispered, brushing a stray curl from her face, his gaze intense. “These past days have been torture.”
She shrugged off her stays, revealing the sheer white chamise clinging to her. William slid his hands inside the fabric, pressing into the warmth of her ribs and finding her breasts. She arched toward him, capturing his hands as her sigh brushed against his skin.
They sank together to the cold flagstones, dust swirling at their elbows.
Her gown spread beneath them. William straddled her thighs, his hips pressing into hers, and she gasped, arching for him.
He fumbled with the ribbons of her chamise until she reached up, her deft fingers freeing herself.
Then she guided his hand to the heat between her thighs.
He paused to take in the sight of her desire, heart pounding. She laughed, a low sound, and rocked against his palm. “You promised,” she whispered, every breath a confession.
Driven by instinct, he found the slit in her damp folds and slid two fingers inside, curling them to meet her need. Her back arched, muscles trembling around him, and he bent forward to kiss the hollow of her throat, savoring her.
She reached for him, unfastening his trousers with swift, confident movements. He was already hard, and she guided him to her entrance with the firm insistence of a woman who demanded release.
“How,” she murmured, and he obliged, entering her in one slow thrust that stole her breath. Her nails dug into his shoulders as she clung to him, a soft cry escaping her lips.
Their bodies moved together, urgent and tender, every thrust responding to a question neither dared to voice. The stone beneath them was unyielding, but they hardly noticed as the slick press of flesh, the tight grip of limbs, and the whispered sound of his name filled the air.
William slowed, enjoying the friction, leaning close to kiss her in a way that was both fierce and gentle. She responded, her sighs marking his deliberate strokes.
“Look at me,” she commanded softly. Their eyes met, and in her gaze, he saw a bright, reckless promise he wanted to keep. “Say my name.”
“Helena.” He thrust in to her, her name lingering on his lips.
Her climax crashed over them suddenly, nails trailing fire down his back, her body arching away from the stone. He followed, losing himself in the rush of his own release, her name escaping his lips in a ragged cry.
Afterward, they lay entwined on the cold flagstones, their chests rising and falling together as a distant nightbird bore witness to the quiet aftermath of their passion.
William rolled onto his back, staring up at the ruined ceiling where vines grew across the broken plaster. Helena propped herself on one elbow, tracing the line of his jaw with a hand still trembling from aftershocks.
“We are ridiculous,” she said, her voice hoarse.
“Probably,” he replied, moving to rise.
They dressed in silence. She straightened her skirts, shaking out moss and debris. He fastened his buttons, his cravat abandoned, hair wild. They stood facing each other in the blue-grey half-light.
Helena spoke first. “No jealousy, William. I saw how you looked at Lord Harrington.”
He braced himself, knowing the truth was not a shield but a weapon. “Not a hint of it,” he said, though his jaw clenched. “Rogue’s are incapable of such sentiment.”
She smiled, mischief lighting her gaze. “Liar,” she said, kissing him softly.
They parted at the edge of the folly, neither looking back. He mounted his horse while she stepped into the lane, disappearing down the footpath, the red of her dress lingering in his mind.