Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

B e calm. He knows nothing about last night. Of where you were or where she was.

“Good morrow, brother,” Morgan sang out, flinging open the door to Ambrose’s study.

He strode into the den as confidently as ever with his usual cheeky smile cemented to his face. Ambrose looked up from his papers, his blonde brows raised in annoyance; the look he sported whenever someone interrupted his work.

“How are you always so cheerful, even in the mornings?” Ambrose asked. He let out a sigh as he leaned back in his chair and swept a hand towards the empty seat across from him.

“God does have His favorites, old boy, and I am blessed to be one of them,” Morgan quipped back, taking the offered seat. “What has you so grumpy on such a beautiful autumn day?”

“This thing with George,” Ambrose replied, sparing no small talk. He picked up one of the papers on his desk, shook his head at it, and then tossed it down.

“It does not sit well with me.”

Morgan’s smile threatened to shrink, but he kept it in place and shrugged. Ambrose was not the only one who would not let go of the investigation into their fathers’ deaths. It would have been odd to suddenly stop after nearly twenty years of searching. Although the villain had been caught, and was currently paying for his sins in one of the most wretched prisons London had to offer, their search for the truth continued.

“Take heart, brother. You are just restless,” Morgan replied, keeping his feelings to himself. “You need to pursue a new fascination.”

“I have plenty of those,” Ambrose remarked, a smirk spreading across his face. “Barbara is…an ingenious woman when it comes to sating my particular fascinations.”

It surprised them all — Duncan’s wife, Alice, and Ezra’s wife, Lydia — when Helena’s dear friend, Barbara, had fallen in love with and married Ambrose. But there was no doubt that their feelings for one another were real, and they had baby Beau to show for it.

“I am sure she is,” Morgan mused, wagging his brows salaciously.

Ambrose chuckled as he stood up.

“Still, perhaps you are right. In any event, what brings you here so early? Hiding from last night’s vixen?”

Morgan barely disguised the sudden jerk of his body as the memory of last night filled him, but hid it behind a coughing laugh.

“You know me too well, brother,” he simply quipped back, rising from his own seat. “I came to remind you of Alice’s little party for Ezra and Lydia. It is tomorrow.”

Ambrose shook his head in disbelief.

“Ezra as a father. Can you believe it?” he asked.

“It is hard to accept,” Morgan agreed, “but I am happy for him and Lydia both. Lydia will be a brilliant mother, and Ezra — well, you see the way he dotes on her. He will be excellent at whatever she tells him to do.”

Ambrose chuckled.

“I am well aware of the party, Morgan,” Ambrose replied. “Barbara and Helena have both peppered me with their frequent reminders. Now, tell me truthfully why you are here. You do not expect me to believe that is the sole reason for your visit?”

It was not, but Morgan could not tell him that. He had come to determine whether or not Ambrose was aware of Helena’s midnight escape into the dark underbelly of London’s debauchery. However, judging from his laidback demeanor, it was clear that he was not.

Part of him wanted to tell Ambrose what he had seen, to warn him of Helena’s desire to find passion before Ambrose married her off, but as he thought of the way his mind and body had responded to her, he found himself unwilling and unable to speak the words.

“You caught me,” Morgan said, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “I simply came because I was out on a stroll and my legs grew weary from the brisk air. I came to warm myself by your hearth, maybe even plead a drink from an old friend.”

“My hearth and liquor are yours,” Ambrose replied.

He waved a hand towards the fireplace, then walked to his drink cart to pour them both a glass.

“Let us drink port, though,” he insisted, handing Morgan a glass. “Whiskey in the morning is only for the bad days, and as you suggested earlier, the day is not bad.”

The sweetness of the alcohol burned Morgan’s tongue as he swallowed it whole. His groin stirred as he thought of the way Helena had obeyed him the previous evening when she drank the sweet red wine from his lips. He needed something bitter; something harsh, to chase the memory away. Port would not do.

“Stay a while,” Ambrose offered as Morgan handed the empty glass back to him. “Perhaps we can have a row in the ring? It has been a while since either of us have practiced.”

“Another time,” Morgan promised, suddenly needing to put space between them. “I do not wish to tarry long. I have a meeting at noon with a new investor. I only wished to offer you a good morning and steal some heat. Now that I have accomplished both, I must be on my way.”

To Morgan’s relief, Ambrose nodded his head and did not press the matter further. If there was one thing they could all agree on, it was that a business could not run itself.

“I shall see myself out,” he noted, clapping Ambrose on the shoulder as he passed him.

“Come by the gaming hell this evening,” Ambrose offered. “Our blackjack table misses you.”

Morgan chuckled, told him he would be there, and left the study. He did not make it more than a few steps before he felt someone grab him by the neck of his jacket and haul him backward into another room.

“For one so tiny you are rather strong,” he quipped, turning around to see Helena as she shut the door to the library behind them.

Disappointment and relief battled one another as he took her in. She was once again attired in one of her pink dresses; a deep, reddish-purple design lined with a white fur collar and cuffs. Helena had always been drawn to such colors and they suited her well, but he suddenly imagined her in the black dress from the night before, and his smile dropped as he rubbed his face in an effort to dispel the memory.

“What did you tell him?” Helena demanded, her voice coming out in a harsh whisper.

“That you are a wicked, wicked girl, who needs to be put over a knee,” he retorted sarcastically, raising a mocking brow.

She huffed and swatted at his shoulder again with much more force than her form suggested, and damn him if he did not like it.

“You are not humorous!”

“Neither are you,” he replied, his tone now serious. “That little prank you concocted last night was irresponsible and downright idiotic.”

Helena’s blue eyes glittered with defiance as she straightened her shoulders and tilted her chin up to look at him.

“It was not a prank,” she said stoically, “And I will be returning. This time, you will not stop me.”

“The hell you will,” he seethed, rare temper making a show as he stepped towards her.

“I told you last night that those parties are not for you. You have no idea what sort of trouble you could end up in, and I will not allow my best friend’s little sister to find herself in such a state!”

Helena cocked a brow as she crossed her arms and delivered a smirk that indicated danger.

“You are right,” she agreed.

“Damn right I am.”

“I really do not want to end up in trouble.”

“I am so glad we finally agree.”

“So you will escort me.”

“I— what?” Morgan hissed.

“You will escort me,” Helena replied with a shrug of her left shoulder. “To make sure that I do not end up in danger. No one will try anything dastardly if you are by my side. I am sure of it.”

Morgan laughed wickedly as he ran a hand through his shoulder length brown hair.

“You are out of your mind if you think I would agree to that plan.”

“Why not?” she asked innocently, batting her blonde lashes. “Do you not wish to keep me out of harm’s way?”

The way she taunted him only heightened his arousal, and it both annoyed and pleased him to see her so fearless.

“I was wrong,” Morgan retorted, taking a step towards her. “You are not as innocent as you like to pretend.”

“Oh, come now, Morgan! How many times have I helped you pull off your tricks?” Helena asked.

Morgan raised a brow as he worked his jaw and pointed a finger at her.

“That is not fair,” he insisted. “Those were pranks, but this is something entirely different. Moreover, I have not asked for your help all that often.”

“The Dutton-Wilshire winter ball eight years ago?” she asked.

“That was one minor example,” Morgan countered.

“The Brimsley Garden Party in the country six years ago?”

“All you did was let the chickens out,” Morgan argued.

“What about at Lady Rowley’s coming out party five years ago?” Helena went on. “You had me flirt with the wait staff so you could spike the lemonade.”

“Oh, come on, that party was boring,” Morgan sighed, rolling his eyes. “We all needed a little fun to liven things up, and besides, you cannot tell me you did not love pretending to flirt with the help.”

“Well, it was the way I discovered how to get the best treats at parties,” Helena admitted with a careless shrug, and Morgan laughed as he shook his head.

Morgan begrudgingly admitted to himself that Helena had spoken the truth. On many occasions she had assisted him in pulling off several rather humorous bits at certain boring affairs, and she had always kept his secrets for him. Still…

“Well, while I have appreciated you secretly helping me out with a few pranks over the last few years, you must be able to see that the type of help you are now asking of me is quite another matter,” Ambrose said quietly, his humor fading.

Helena’s cocky, haughty smile also began to fade as she contemplated her words, making him feel all the more guilty about his contribution to the situation in which they now found themselves.

“Helena, look, I am very sorry that your brother is being so insistent…”

“Every man alive is allowed to kiss a woman with passion, even if they are not married,” Helena said boldly, cutting him off.

Morgan’s argument died on his lips and he gave her a compassionate look. She blushed, her haughtiness seeming to waver for a moment, but she swallowed and continued.

“I only wish to experience the same thing. One night. One kiss. Not with a man to whom I am already married. Not with just mere hope that he might make me feel like the women do in my books. I want it to be real. Even if it is only once.”

There was passion in her voice, but it was overshadowed by a tone of fear, which made Morgan pause. It was a fear that he understood well. Marriage, whether for a man or woman of noble birth, was a necessity. One of the reasons he had avoided such a union for so long was exactly that; the thought of being legally bound to someone with whom he shared no passion was a nightmare that he was constantly trying to outrun.

As if she knew she was gaining ground, Helena closed the space between them and put her hands on his shoulders. As she looked at him there was no anger or defiance in her eyes, just fundamental pleading for him to understand her.

Keeping his green eyes on her, he reached for her hands with his own and gently walked her forward until her back was pressed against the wall. She gasped softly as her backside made a small thump against the barrier, and he felt her body relax as he pressed himself fully upon her.

The scent of honeysuckle filled his nostrils and he immediately felt his mouth begin to water; dark fantasies filling his head as he pictured her in the gown from the night before.

“Is that what you want, little princess?” he whispered, his voice coming out raspy as he studied the way her breath had slowed. “Because I do not believe that is all you want. The way you sipped your wine from my hand? From me? ”

Helena’s pink tongue darted out before she captured her bottom lip with her teeth, worrying it slightly until it was a deeper shade of pink than the top.

“I will explain more later if you promise to agree now,” she whispered hurriedly, then, in a more desperate tone, “Please, Morgan?”

The plea was too much. Of everything. Too soft. Too genuine. Too damned seductive. She had won.

“Very well,” he whispered, slowly untangling her fingers from his.

He had to force himself to take a step back, to drag in air that was not scented with honeysuckle.

“Truly?” she asked readily, following him as he turned to make his way to the door.

“Seven nights,” he said over his shoulder, his hand paused on the doorknob, “And we go about these meetings my way.”

“Seven?” she questioned.

He nodded and turned to look at her.

“Take it from a man of experience, little Persephone. You will need more than one night to soothe these cravings you have. I shall give you seven nights as your guide to depravity, then our deal is off, and you will never speak to your brother about this, no matter the outcome. Are we clear?”

Helena’s eyes were wide and shining as she nodded.

“Say it,” he commanded.

“We are clear,” she rasped.

“We follow my rules. My protocols. I shall send you word when I am ready for you. You will not respond, and you will follow the instructions,” he commanded, the timbre of his voice thickening as the tension between them crackled. “Say, I understand.”

“I understand,” she answered. Her tone was sweet and willing, and damn him if her obedience did not make him want to push her back against the wall and kiss her until she begged him to stop. He gave a terse nod, unable to force a goodbye, and walked out of the library before he could get himself into any more trouble.