Chapter Seventeen #2
“What a pity,” she fluffed out her skirts, wishing her body wasn’t vibrating gently at his nearness. If she gave into his presence too quickly and asked him to meet her in the park, Helen might scare him off. “How unfortunate for you, Your Grace.”
There was a grayish cast to the green eyes today, akin to fog clinging to trees, muting the color of their leaves. He didn’t approach Helen, but stayed sitting cross legged in the grass watching her, his body partially hidden by the spewing water of the fountain.
“This,” he pointed at the bosom of the largest mermaid, “Is obscene even by my standards. Don’t you agree?”
“A trifle garish, Your Grace. But I wouldn’t say obscene, exactly. Simply not to my taste.”
A derisive snort left him. “What is that, Miss Cosgrove? Luxurious velvets? Expensive rugs? Tufted chairs? Say, for example, if you were to refurnish a home, how would you go about doing so?”
What an odd question, especially from a criminal. “Why?”
“Curious, I suppose.” The accent was still in place but wavered in and out. Her eyes darted to his boots. Scuffed. No hat. Coat a bit…worse for the wear, but expensive. Not the coat he’d worn when Helen had seen him on Bond Street, but the same as the day in Hyde Park. No gloves.
She tilted her head, mulling over the question. “I think, Your Grace, I would start with the rooms that mean most to me. The drawing room, for example. My own quarters. The breakfast room which must have a cheery appearance.”
“Hmm. A breakfast room.”
Helen caught the slight wrinkle of his brows. Had he ever actually….seen a breakfast room?
“What colors you would choose?”
No one ever asked what Helen wanted in regard to accommodations, or anything else for that matter. As a poor orphaned relation, she’d been happy to have any space at all. Took whatever linens could be spared. The color of whatever room she’d been shown to had never been considered.
“I know that the fashion is for creams, pale yellows, and rich, dark blues,” she said slowly, forming an image in her mind. “But I think I’d prefer a palate of greens and browns. Maybe only a splash of cream. No yellow.”
“Like a forest.” His smiled widened.
Like your eyes. Helen’s mind whispered.
“And the fabrics for furnishings? What would you choose? You have plenty of funds, keep in mind.”
“Oh, I’m not sure. I think I would have to visit the draper, touch the samples of fabric. I’d know by touch what I wished to sit on, Your Grace. Comfort is paramount.”
“I think so too, Miss Cosgrove. How else to know if you wanted to put your backside in a chair for a given amount of time if you don’t know how it would…feel?”
And there it was. That strange connection Helen sensed between them. The shared commonality of thought even though they were worlds apart. The spark of sameness mingled with her physical attraction to him, making what existed between them, all the more real.
Drat.
“Now that you are aware of my preferences, I ask again, what are you doing here?”
“I enjoy the view.” His gaze lingered on her. “Also, the gate was wide open. Anyone could walk in.”
Someone did.
The gate at the back of the garden wall had a large padlock with a chain, probably to keep Cerise from inviting gentlemen in or allowing her to sneak out. This Roxboro had either picked the lock or climbed over the fence, risked being seen, all so that he might see Helen.
Flattering, even if he was a thief.
“The staff or anyone else,” Helen said with a slight tremble. “Might come upon…you in Lord Galway’s garden, Your Grace.”
“True. True.” There was no concern written across his handsome features. “But it only matters that you did, Miss Cosgrove.” He stretched out, propping himself up on one elbow to watch her, like some large tomcat begging for a scratch behind his ears.
I’ve always wanted a cat.
“I wonder if you’d reconsider.” He raised a brow.
“Reconsider?”
His fingers, elegant and—were those scars across his knuckles?—spread through the thick grass towards her. “I like a bit of crimson. Do you object?”
“Crimson?” she stuttered so buzzing with longing for him, Helen could barely form a thought.
Drat.
“Yes.” His gaze never moved from her. “Maybe on a bed. Would you object?”
Object? The image he’d conjured up had Helen pressing her thighs together at the sudden ache. “I will consider it,” she said softly, thinking of two naked bodies twisted around each other and yards of crimson silk.
Damn him.
“Will you also give some thought to escape? The sort you clearly long for?” There was no mistaking the heat in his eyes. “That maybe I can offer?”
“Escape,” she repeated, feeling the promise of the word on her tongue. He had no idea how much she wished to be gone from London. Free of the life she’d been forced to lead that was never quite her own. “I have…my position to consider.”
“Do you really intend for the rest of your days to be spent following about little twits as you do now?” His features took on a strange cast. “I don’t want you to.”
Helen drew in a breath at that look. “I don’t think it any of your affair, Your Grace, how I choose to spend my days.”
His eyes searched her face, as if he were trying to solve a puzzle. “What if those days were spent with me instead?”
She turned away, wanting to scream at him to go.
No matter what she’d promised the duchess, Helen couldn’t—“I have always…been a lady’s companion and chaperone.
It is a respectable position, Your Grace.
When one is the orphaned, impoverished relation, there are few opportunities and even less choices.
I am grateful to Lord Galway for his employment. ”
A chuckle erupted from his chest. “No, you bleedin’ are not.”
Well that wasn’t ducal at all.
“You’ve no idea what it is like to be passed around like a potato that has grown too hot in the flames.” Helen bit on her lip. This wasn’t Roxboro. The man before her likely had more than a passing acquaintance with poverty, else why steal from society? “Or have a place in the world.”
“You have a place in the world,” he said quietly. “Why haven’t you married, Miss Cosgrove? You could do so now, in fact.”
“I’m far too old for marriage, Your Grace.
” She stumbled over the title because this pretense had already gone on long enough.
She had expected this meeting to be brief.
Convince him to meet her later. And he’d be gone.
Not this slow dissection of Helen’s soul.
“Ancient by society’s standards. Nearly four and thirty. ”
“That is hardly ancient, Miss Cosgrove,” He laughed. “A decent wedge of cheddar must be aged. Or a good vinegar.”
“How wonderful to be considered in such company. First drippings and now cheddar.”
“I enjoy both. Come here.” The bits of silver gleamed at her. “I want to touch you.”
She absolutely should not move from this bench.
Make an assignation. Return to the house. Send word to the duchess.
Standing, her feet moved of their own accord beneath her skirts, towards him. A low-born thief. An imposter. A man who might very well hang for his crimes. That is where Helen’s poor battered heart led her.
To him. To disaster.
Why couldn’t he just be a bloody butcher? Or a…wine merchant? A mason?
“We’ll discuss escape.” He nodded at the grass beside him.
Her pulse picked up. He was entirely serious. Desire for him, his touch, and everything encased in those too tight trousers roared hungrily inside her. This was only to gain his trust further. Coax him to meet with her later.
Oh, Helen. You are a terrible liar.
“Go away,” she whispered to the insistent ache between her thighs.
“I don’t think so.” He sighed as if Helen were being difficult and beckoned her once more with the flick of his wrist. “You haunt my thoughts, Miss Cosgrove. My dreams. That is why I am here.” Another smile curled at the corner of his mouth.
“What is your given name? I can’t believe I’ve not asked you before now. ”
“We hardly know each other,” she breathed.
He gave her a look. “Really.”
“Helen.” She capitulated.
“Helen, the length of the acquaintance has nothing to do with how well you might know someone. I knew you the moment we first met.”
“You couldn’t.”
“You long for home to call your own, one that cannot be given then taken away. Freedom, from dancing to the tune of others. You, Helen, wouldn’t want anything grand.
” He waved at the ornate fountain. “Although you have a lovely color scheme in mind. Wealth isn’t important to you, at least not as someone like Galway sees it.
To you, it means freedom. You only want to be comfortable, nothing more. ”
“Stop,” she breathed, hating that he did know her.
“You merely wish to be Helen. Tea and toast would make you happy. A warm fire. A chair where you can read a book. No one to order you about.”
He was very good at reading others. A useful talent for a man who lured the rich into his orbit so that he might steal from them. Charming to a fault. No wonder he could steal a necklace right from a lady’s neck in the middle of a ball.
He’s a thief. A miscreant.
Sadly, neither Helen’s heart nor the soft ache across her body seemed to care.
She came closer, until she stood beside him, smelling sunshine, grass and a scent that belonged only to him. Herbs and clean linen. A bit of lye soap.
No bergamot. Not like Roxboro.
“There isn’t any escape, at least not with you, Your Grace,” she choked out. “You are a duke. And married.”
“Hmm. But what if I were neither of those things, Helen? Would that matter to you?”
The way he said her name, in that voice drenched with wickedness, did something to Helen’s insides.
A large hand, knuckles covered in scars no duke would ever have, tugged at her skirts, coaxing her to come closer.
The hand moved to slide over the top of her half-boot, trailing over her ankle and squeezed.
She kicked out at him. Futilely. “Stop that.”
“Are you trying to arouse me?” Fingers trailed up to her knee. “Please, stomp on my hand.” He winked. “Or punch me.” He turned his cheek. “I beg you.”