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Authors: Grace Callaway
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he not harbor similar
concerns about how well Helena would get along in his world? She was no
aristocratic snob, to be sure, but her blood lines stretched long and blue. She
had been gently reared, her innocence sheltered. Her sphere was that of the
finest drawing rooms. It was where she belonged.
"Tell
Anna I will call soon," Nicholas said. "She need not concern herself
about rarefied company."
"I
did not mean ..." Paul winced. "That is to say, I am sure your wife
is most welcome."
"I
will come alone."
"Dammit,
Nicholas, that is the problem. You are too much alone. Everyone thinks so: Mother,
Percy, and myself included. Ever since you came into the title and married—"
"No
one can be faulted for that decision but me. I sleep in a bed of my own making,"
Nicholas said.
"And
a pleasant bed it should be." Paul cleared his throat. "Which begs
the question of why you would choose to sleep in a warehouse rather than in the
sumptuous splendor of your marital bower."
Damn Fines'
nosy nature.
"That
is none of your business," Nicholas said in a warning tone.
"I
have never aspired to much, but I do pride myself an expert on the fairer sex.
If you are experiencing any, er, difficulties, I daresay I can help," Paul
said, with no pretensions to modesty.
Which
he didn't need, because everyone knew of Paul's reputation with the ladies, the
term however loosely applied. The man could charm the scales off a snake—and
the skirts off many a female, from the greengrocer's daughter to the bored
solicitor's wife. Paul's affairs never lasted long, but he did seem to possess,
through experience, an intimate knowledge of the female psyche.
"I
lend you my ears, in all their tainted glory," Paul said.
For
an instant, Nicholas considered sharing his marital woes. But the shame of his
actions last evening, and worse further on his wedding night, kept him
imprisoned in silence. He was a beast, a bastard through and through, and there
wasn't a thing anyone could do about it.
He took
one last gulp of coffee, grimly relishing its bitterness. Standing, he
deposited a handful of coins on the table. "I have to get back to work,"
he said.
*****
Nicholas
strode into his office. He'd had enough of the soul-searching and belly-aching;
he intended to bury himself in work. Seeing the new stack of paper on his desk,
he headed over with eager steps. Excellent. The shipping reports. As he reached
for the top page, he felt the blood suddenly drain from his head. An icy hand
clamped around his heart. With shaking fingers, he lifted the scrap of parchment
lying atop the report.
There
was no salutation, no signature, nothing but six words written in neat, black
ink:
I
know your dirty little secret.
FIVE
The
following afternoon, Helena followed Marianne into a dress shop situated on
fashionable Bond Street. A tiny silver bell tinkled overhead as they entered,
and an assistant dressed all in black came to greet them. As Helena looked
around the front salon, she noted that all the furnishings were done in tones
of white and gold, and the plush carpet was of the palest blue. A bow window
filtered afternoon sunlight into the shop, bathing everything in a mellow glow.
It gave one the impression of stepping into a chamber above the clouds.
The
assistant seated them in delicate gilt chairs and brought tea in paper-thin
porcelain cups. With an eye on the spotless upholstery, Helena gingerly sipped
her beverage. Moments later, Madame Rousseau emerged. The modiste looked as Helena feared she would; small, dark-haired, and relentlessly thin, the Frenchwoman had
snapping black eyes which missed nothing.
"Lady
Marianne, what a pleasure it is, as always," Madame Rousseau said in
softly-accented English. "And today you bring a friend. I am honored to
welcome you to my humble salon."
"Lady
Helena Harteford, may I introduce Amelie Rousseau? Madame Rousseau is the artiste behind my fine feathers," Marianne said.
"Beauty
such as Lady Marianne's requires little art,"
concerns about how well Helena would get along in his world? She was no
aristocratic snob, to be sure, but her blood lines stretched long and blue. She
had been gently reared, her innocence sheltered. Her sphere was that of the
finest drawing rooms. It was where she belonged.
"Tell
Anna I will call soon," Nicholas said. "She need not concern herself
about rarefied company."
"I
did not mean ..." Paul winced. "That is to say, I am sure your wife
is most welcome."
"I
will come alone."
"Dammit,
Nicholas, that is the problem. You are too much alone. Everyone thinks so: Mother,
Percy, and myself included. Ever since you came into the title and married—"
"No
one can be faulted for that decision but me. I sleep in a bed of my own making,"
Nicholas said.
"And
a pleasant bed it should be." Paul cleared his throat. "Which begs
the question of why you would choose to sleep in a warehouse rather than in the
sumptuous splendor of your marital bower."
Damn Fines'
nosy nature.
"That
is none of your business," Nicholas said in a warning tone.
"I
have never aspired to much, but I do pride myself an expert on the fairer sex.
If you are experiencing any, er, difficulties, I daresay I can help," Paul
said, with no pretensions to modesty.
Which
he didn't need, because everyone knew of Paul's reputation with the ladies, the
term however loosely applied. The man could charm the scales off a snake—and
the skirts off many a female, from the greengrocer's daughter to the bored
solicitor's wife. Paul's affairs never lasted long, but he did seem to possess,
through experience, an intimate knowledge of the female psyche.
"I
lend you my ears, in all their tainted glory," Paul said.
For
an instant, Nicholas considered sharing his marital woes. But the shame of his
actions last evening, and worse further on his wedding night, kept him
imprisoned in silence. He was a beast, a bastard through and through, and there
wasn't a thing anyone could do about it.
He took
one last gulp of coffee, grimly relishing its bitterness. Standing, he
deposited a handful of coins on the table. "I have to get back to work,"
he said.
*****
Nicholas
strode into his office. He'd had enough of the soul-searching and belly-aching;
he intended to bury himself in work. Seeing the new stack of paper on his desk,
he headed over with eager steps. Excellent. The shipping reports. As he reached
for the top page, he felt the blood suddenly drain from his head. An icy hand
clamped around his heart. With shaking fingers, he lifted the scrap of parchment
lying atop the report.
There
was no salutation, no signature, nothing but six words written in neat, black
ink:
I
know your dirty little secret.
FIVE
The
following afternoon, Helena followed Marianne into a dress shop situated on
fashionable Bond Street. A tiny silver bell tinkled overhead as they entered,
and an assistant dressed all in black came to greet them. As Helena looked
around the front salon, she noted that all the furnishings were done in tones
of white and gold, and the plush carpet was of the palest blue. A bow window
filtered afternoon sunlight into the shop, bathing everything in a mellow glow.
It gave one the impression of stepping into a chamber above the clouds.
The
assistant seated them in delicate gilt chairs and brought tea in paper-thin
porcelain cups. With an eye on the spotless upholstery, Helena gingerly sipped
her beverage. Moments later, Madame Rousseau emerged. The modiste looked as Helena feared she would; small, dark-haired, and relentlessly thin, the Frenchwoman had
snapping black eyes which missed nothing.
"Lady
Marianne, what a pleasure it is, as always," Madame Rousseau said in
softly-accented English. "And today you bring a friend. I am honored to
welcome you to my humble salon."
"Lady
Helena Harteford, may I introduce Amelie Rousseau? Madame Rousseau is the artiste behind my fine feathers," Marianne said.
"Beauty
such as Lady Marianne's requires little art,"
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