Chapter Twelve

I n the library, Fen poured Helena a brandy. With a trembling hand, she accepted the glass and collapsed onto a sofa. Across the room, a footman kneeled before the hearth, lighting the fire. The tall clock in the corner chimed three. It was bitterly cold, and Helena curled her bare toes into the carpet in search of warmth. She hadn’t stopped to put slippers on when she’d rushed out of her room in a panic.

“Where’s Caro?” Her voice was scratchy.

Fen crossed to the window and opened the curtains on a starlit night. “Probably doing her best to make West comfortable.”

The footman rose and bowed to Helena. “Shall I arrange for refreshments, my lady?”

She mustered a smile. “Yes, please, John. The doctor will want something to eat when he’s finished, I imagine.”

“Very good, my lady.”

“Please pass my apologies to the staff for the interrupted night. I’ll come and speak to everyone once we know what’s happening.”

“We all wish Lord West well. He’s always been a favorite downstairs.”

Another reminder of how her life was entwined with West’s. “Thank you.”

Once John left, she placed her empty glass on a side table and stood. “I’m going upstairs. If Caro’s with him, why can’t I be there, too?”

Fen turned away from staring outside. “Helena, there’s nothing you can do.”

“He might want me.”

“If he asks for you, Silas will tell us.”

Regret and self-recrimination settled cold and heavy in her belly. She had no standing in West’s life. A wife could attend a sickbed. While she was nothing but a childhood friend and temporary mistress, damn it.

She began to pace, seeking some relief in movement. “Where is that doctor?”

Fen watched her with a troubled expression. “West has survived every bout of fever so far, Helena. He’s bad for a few days, then he’s well again. You saw it yourself this week.”

That was before she’d found ecstasy in his arms—and the heavenly peace of lying beside him after passion was sated. That was before the idea of a world without him sent her into an agony of fear. “This time is different.”

Fen didn’t ask why it was different, but then, Fen, unlike Caro, was renowned for her tact. Instead, she crossed the room and hugged Helena. “Don’t torment yourself.”

Briefly she rested in Fen’s embrace. Then she broke free to pace again. “I can’t help it.”

Fenella sank into her usual chair. “He’ll be up and about, and ready to dance at the wedding.”

“You can’t be sure.” Wringing her hands, Helena quartered the floor. She paused when a door banged in the wind. “What’s that?”

“I assume it’s the doctor arriving.” Fen reached for her embroidery. She wore a pink silk wrap, and she’d thought to put slippers on her feet. With her golden hair flowing around her shoulders and her lovely face soft with lack of sleep, she looked like a young girl.

Around them, Helena heard the unmistakable sounds of the house coming alive. “I must see him.”

Fen placed a careful stitch. “And say what?”

Fen was right. What could she say? If she’d accepted West’s proposal, she’d have a wife’s rights.

But she was nobody.

She returned to the couch and stared into the distance, her mind awash with excruciating pictures of West dying without her saying goodbye. Or thank you.

John returned and set out the tea service. Helena appreciated the warm drink, although her stomach revolted at the sandwiches and pastries. Mrs. Ballard, the cook, had done a marvelous job at this unfriendly hour.

After he left, silence fell. Helena supposed she should go upstairs and dress. If she meant to waylay the doctor and wheedle a visit to the sickroom, she’d rather not be wearing her nightdress.

Caro came in, looking tired. “Is that tea?”

Helena rose to pour. “What news?”

“He’s in and out of consciousness. The doctor says the fever is taking its course.”

The teapot rattled against the cup as Helena’s hand shook. “What the devil does that mean?”

Caro accepted the tea with a weary smile. “That the fever is taking its course, I expect. Oh, lovely. Ham sandwiches. Ridiculous to be hungry in the middle of the night, but I am.”

“To Hades with your hunger,” Helena exploded. “West could be dying up there.”

Caro eyed her with disapproval. “He’s come through before.”

Fenella sipped her tea. “Hel, for heaven’s sake, take a deep breath and sit down. It won’t do anyone a morsel of good if you go to pieces.”

Helena slumped onto the sofa and brushed the heavy fall of hair back from her face. “I’m making rather a fool of myself, aren’t I?”

“We all go a little mad when we’re in love.” Fen’s voice was gentle. “It’s nice to see you’re not immune.”

“In love?” she asked, shocked. Then so many things that in her panic had gone unnoticed crashed down on her like a huge wave. Her tone sharpened. “You know. You both know.”

“That you and West are head over heels? Of course we do,” Fen said comfortably.

Of course they did.

When she’d battered at their bedroom door, neither Caro nor Silas had evinced a shred of surprise that Helena was the one who knew West was ill. Nor for that matter, had Fen or Anthony.

And Silas had headed toward her room without asking where West was.

She frowned. “How did you know we’d reached an…understanding?”

Which was a mealy-mouthed way to describe their transcendent hours together. She didn’t pursue the head over heels remark. Her feelings were too confused right now for her to mount a suitable defense.

Caro rolled her eyes. “Where do I start? I know we’re both distracted, but we’re not blind. You and West were so busy, trying not to look at each other. I saw the marks on your neck the other morning, despite that stylish high collar. And the two of you came in yesterday afternoon looking distinctly heavy-eyed, you naughty pair. Not to mention that for the last few days, your acid wit has verged on sweet. Not a sarcastic remark to be heard.”

Helena shifted uncomfortably. “How revolting.”

“I think it’s lovely,” Fenella said.

“You would,” Caro said, casting her an unimpressed glance.

Helena spread her hands. “Why didn’t you say something? Fen’s the soul of delicacy, but discretion isn’t your way.”

Caro was unoffended. “Because if we did, you’d dig in your heels, and do your best to ruin everything out of sheer contrariness.”

Helena scowled at her closest friends. “You make me sound blindly obstinate.”

“When you’re always the voice of reason,” Caro said, taking a fair stab at sarcasm herself.

“So now your secret’s out, what do you plan to do?” Fen asked. “Has he proposed?”

“You’ve got marriage on the brain. West and I are taking a few days to scratch a mutual itch, then we go back to being mostly polite strangers.”

“If you say so,” Fen said.

“Really,” Helena said.

“That seems sensible,” Caro said.

“I mean it.”

Fenella returned to her embroidery. “Helena, nobody’s arguing with you.”

Helena made a disgruntled sound and leaned back in her chair. “I have this awful feeling you’re both trying to manage me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Hel. You’re more than capable of steering your own life,” Caro said cheerfully. “You don’t need us.”

“That’s right.” She winced as she heard the unnecessary emphasis she gave the words.

So did Caro. Her lips curved into a smirk.

Helena’s scowl deepened. “Don’t you dare laugh at me, Caroline Beaumont.”

“I wouldn’t be so bold.” Her smirk became a giggle.

“Caro,” Helena said in a warning tone.

Caro returned her cup to its saucer. “It’s just…” She took a breath to steady her voice. It didn’t make a noticeable difference. “I know West is frightfully ill, and it’s been a dreadful night, and you’re worried sick about him, but…” Another gurgle of laughter escaped. “But I can’t help seeing Lord West staggering out of the shadows, wearing only a sheet. It was like…like Caesar’s ghost had come to haunt the house.”

She went off into whoops, and Fen started to laugh, too. Helena glowered at them. How could they laugh when West was so sick?

Then she recalled that odd moment, horrendous at the time, now strangely comic. She remembered West’s clever, but unlikely claim that he was sleepwalking. And she burst into laughter herself.

* * *

The morning of Caro and Silas’s wedding dawned bright with sunshine, as if even nature blessed this union. As West dressed, he glanced out the window at the pristine beauty of fields and hills. It had snowed, and pure sparkling white changed the Nash estate from a familiar landscape into the setting for a fairy tale.

As soon as he regained his senses, he’d sent for his valet from London. The man fussed around him now, smoothing out any wrinkles bold enough to mar the perfection of his dark blue coat and cream silk waistcoat.

This bout of fever had been bad, and chafing at the inactivity, he’d spent most of the last four days in bed. He’d managed to make it downstairs to dinner the last two nights, but the effort had exhausted him.

Enforced rest had left him with far too much time to think. And the thoughts hadn’t been congenial. At times, he’d wished he was still out of his head.

West had always enjoyed rude good health. When he’d first contracted this damned malady, he’d assumed it would prove a brief inconvenience, then become an unpleasant memory.

That, it turned out, had been optimistic ignorance. For six months now, he’d suffered regular bouts of appalling physical misery. After this latest attack, he couldn’t avoid the bleak fact that his illness had become a permanent part of his life.

And he loathed it.

“Am I discommoding your lordship?” Cooper asked nervously, straightening West’s snowy white cuffs.

Distracted from gloomy musings, West glanced at the valet. “No. Why?”

“You looked rather fierce, sir.”

West’s thoughts had trended toward grimness since he’d collapsed into Anthony Townsend’s arms, wearing nothing but a sheet. “No. I’m fine.”

Except he wasn’t.

As he stood before the mirror, his legs wobbled, and he felt alarmingly lightheaded. But damn it, he’d get through this wedding ceremony, or he might as well put a bullet through his brain.

* * *

The ancient village church was packed, and a crowd formed outside, despite the snow. Lining the pews were local friends, privileged villagers, and various Nashes who had arrived over the last few days. Silas was well loved, and everyone was delighted that he and his bride were so devoted.

West and Silas had driven up in an open carriage. Silas claimed he wanted to arrive in style, but West knew it was to save him from making the short walk. He’d wanted to snarl at his friend that he wasn’t a bloody invalid. Until he admitted the unpalatable truth that even such an easy stroll was beyond him.

Now they stood at the altar while the last of the congregation found their places. Fen and Anthony came in. The first time he’d seen them together, they’d seemed an incongruous couple. Delicate Fenella and her rough, gruff shipping magnate.

Now West was convinced she couldn’t have found anyone better. She looked lovely in a pink velvet gown trimmed with swansdown. She’d always been pretty, but love transformed her to radiant beauty.

Accompanying them were two half-grown boys. The fair one he recognized as Fenella’s son Brandon, while the dark one had such a look of his uncle that he must be Carey Townsend, Anthony’s ward.

Reluctantly his gaze moved past Fen and Anthony to where Helena paused in the doorway to speak to an elderly cousin. Every muscle tightened in forbidden longing.

Helena. His joy. His torment. His obsession. The impossible fate.

Since his illness, he’d seen little of her. Deliberately.

She’d dared propriety to visit his sickroom, but he’d ensured they weren’t alone. He’d sensed her increasing frustration, but he didn’t yet trust himself to do the right thing. At least when she had him cornered in a bedroom.

As soon as he could hold a pen, he’d asked the reliably discreet Cooper to deliver a note. The message had promised a discussion after the wedding. Once the house emptied of all those hawk-eyed relatives, and West had the strength to say what he must. For her sake.

The note had prompted an immediate visit. He should have known it would. But he’d pretended to be asleep, and she’d retreated in defeat. She’d tried again, of course. His Helena wasn’t one to accept the first setback. But the guests filling the house hampered her movements, and the doctor had insisted on constant nursing for West while he recovered.

These stratagems only put off the evil hour. He’d have to talk to her soon. It was unfair to leave her dangling.

Although a clever creature like Helena must already know something had changed.

West was determined to meet her in a public place, with no chance of laying his hands on her. Because if he did, every scruple would fly out the window. When Helena was within reach, he didn’t trust his ability to master his baser urges.

Today or tomorrow, he’d set her free. Despite all her claims to emotional detachment, he knew she wouldn’t thank him now. However, he was sure she’d thank him in time.

Poor comfort, but all he could muster at this moment.

With her usual eye-catching saunter, Helena moved into the body of the church. In all this crowd, he saw only her. And damn it, if she didn’t instantly look over the sea of heads toward him. Despite everything, heat blasted him.

Heat. Sorrow. And something else that he forbade a name.

Before he made an ass of himself, he broke the connection and turned to stare at the flower-bedecked altar. Silas’s greenhouses had come up trumps again.

But the image of Helena, tall, elegant and somehow tragically alone, despite her clamorous family about her, remained burned on his eyes. She wore crimson, and her shining hair was bundled up beneath an absurd confection of feathers and ribbons and pearls.

“What the devil is the matter with you?” Silas growled out of the side of his mouth. “I will not have my groomsman looking like a bilious seagull.”

He raised his eyebrows. “A bilious seagull?”

“Yes. The beaky nose makes the resemblance unmistakable.” Silas released a hiss of exasperation. “Damn it, it’s my wedding. Try and act like it’s a jolly occasion. Your problems with my dashed troublesome sister will keep.”

Silas had a point. “Sorry, old man.”

But Silas had fallen silent, transfixed by what he saw at the church door. The organist started to play as West turned. Silas’s pretty, tawny-haired sister Amy stepped forward, wearing a fashionable light blue gown. Caro followed a few paces behind.

West caught his breath. Caro had always been lovely, but today she dazzled. She wore a gown of rich gold silk, and her deep brown hair was braided in a crown around her head. She carried a bouquet of spring flowers. Lily of the valley, snowdrops and violets, twined about with ivy to symbolize fidelity. Befitting a woman of her originality, no man walked by her side. She gave herself to Silas with an independent will and a loving heart.

She looked proud and happy, and transfigured by love. As if the angels agreed, the sun chose that moment to stream through the stained glass windows and bathe her in brilliant light.

“You’re a lucky man, old son,” he said to Silas.

“More than I deserve.” Silas smiled at his bride. She smiled back, and misery punched West. He didn’t resent his friend’s good fortune, but he knew that he’d never look across a crowded church to see the woman he wanted walking toward him.

With a rustle, the congregation rose. The vicar stepped forward with the prayer book in his hands. West packed away his selfish concerns so he could watch his best friend pledge himself to the woman he loved.