Chapter 6 #2
She stared at the blank page, the inked quill poised above it, and did not move for a long moment.
The evening replayed in her mind like a nightmare.
The orchestrated distance, the moment in the corridor.
She had seen the turmoil in William’s eyes, and she despised him for his cowardice almost as much as she despised herself for still wanting him.
She had been a fool to think she could give her body and not her heart. She lifted her chin with defiance. Her eyes stung at the realization, but she could not deny it. She loved him. Helena would not let him go without a fight.
She chose a book, the slim volume of Horace he had once admired, and threaded a blue ribbon at page twelve.
On a blank visiting card, she drew a tiny fox and nothing more.
Wrapping them together, she sealed the parcel and summoned the footman.
“Deliver this to Powis House,” she instructed.
“Into His Grace’s hand. No intermediaries.
” The man paled but nodded, disappearing down the hall nearly at a run.
Helena slumped in the chair, staring at the ink on her thumb. She hated how it made her feel: abandoned, humiliated, and most damningly, hungry.
She waited, her eyes fixed on the clock as time ticked past.
An hour later, she stepped outside.
The garden folly behind the house lay forgotten, the air sharp with the fading scents of jasmine and wisteria. Wrapped in only a thin shawl over her chemise, she embraced the chill, pacing the flagstones with her arms crossed, every nerve tingling.
The nearly full moon hovered low behind a veil of clouds, casting shadows that danced across the grass. She recalled every word about clandestine meetings and lovers courting danger and she felt the pull of ruin.
She heard the crunch of gravel before she saw him.
He emerged from the darkness with a fluid grace that ignited a desire to strike him.
Without a hat and his coat open, he seemed untouched by the cold.
His hair was disheveled, and stubble shaded his jaw.
He looked, she realized, as wild and unrestrained as she felt—one impulsive word away from unraveling.
She let him approach, locking eyes with something that might have been hatred if not for the simmering heat beneath it.
“You received my note,” she stated, presenting it as a fact rather than a question.
He halted a step away, hands at his sides, the moonlight glinting in his eyes. “I did.”
“And you came.”
A flicker of a smile almost graced his lips. “I have no will in the matter.”
She pondered this and stepped closer until their bodies nearly brushed. “Is it easier in the dark?”
He looked down at her, his expression resolute. “No. But it is safer.”
She reached up, fingers splayed, pressing her palm against the side of his face. He flinched but remained still.
“You are a coward, William Atteberry,” she whispered, her voice trembling with fury and longing. “You hide behind duty and reputation as if they were shields, but you are as weak as I am.”
His hand caught her wrist gently. “I am trying to protect you.”
“I do not want protection,” she replied. “I want you.”
The words ignited a spark between them. He drew her hand down, pressing it to his chest, where his heart raced beneath the fabric. “You have me.”
She kissed him—no preamble, no hesitation—their mouths colliding with urgency.
His arms locked around her, pulling her close, so close she could feel his heartbeat and the tremor in his hands.
They stumbled backward, her feet tripping over the uneven stones, until her back struck the cold marble of a garden statue. William pressed her against it, his thigh between hers, the heat of him searing through the silk. She arched against him, savoring the roughness.
His hand found the hem of her chemise. He slid it up her leg, fingers tracing slow circles on her thigh. She shivered, not from the cold but from the thrill of being in his arms.
She reached for his waistband, fumbling with the buttons, urgency driving her hands faster than her skill. He laughed softly, then buried his face in her neck, kissing the hollow beneath her ear.
“Here?” he asked, his voice hoarse.
“Here,” she replied, guiding him closer.
He hiked her leg around his waist, the statue bracing her. She felt his heat against her and pushed down her wrap, baring her shoulder to the night. He took the cue, pressing his mouth to her collarbone. He shifted lower, his mouth finding the edge of her shoulder.
He paused, searching her face. “You have bewitched me.”
“Yes.” She reached between them, took him in hand, and guided him inside her in a single movement. He filled her. She needed this, needed him, not a memory or a fantasy but the actual man, hard and alive, trembling at the edge of control.
He set a slow pace at first, but soon their mutual hunger took over. He thrust into her, each movement pushing her harder against the marble as she dug her nails into his shoulders, clinging to him.
“Helena,” he whispered, repeating her name.
She kissed him, silencing his words, her tongue taking control. She wanted to mark him, to make him as desperate as she was.
When the climax came, it was electric. She bit down on his shoulder to stifle a cry, and he trembled against her, hands clutching her hips. They clung to each other, both gasping, slick with sweat despite the cold.
After a moment, he eased her down, and they collapsed onto the mossy stones at the base of the statue. He wrapped his coat around her, shivering from the aftermath.
She rested her head on his chest, listening to the rapid thump of his heart.
“I hate you,” she murmured, the words lacking bite.
“I know,” he replied, pulling her closer.
They remained silent until the chill nudged them to their feet. She straightened her hair, smoothed her chemise, and turned to him with a look that held both a warning and an invitation.
“Next time,” she said, “don’t wait to be asked.”
He nodded, his eyes glinting in the moonlight.
Before they parted, she slipped the pale ribbon from her glove and tucked it into his palm as a silent promise. They went their separate ways, neither looking back. The night had fulfilled its promise.