Chapter Two

W est cursed this damned inconvenient fever as he sat beside the fire in Silas’s unpretentious drawing room. It was two days since he’d crumpled into a humiliating heap after announcing his intentions to the woman he’d decided to marry. This was his first full evening downstairs.

For nearly a day after blacking out, he hadn’t returned to full awareness. When he did, he’d found himself lying in the bedroom he always used at Woodley Park, going back to his earliest boyhood. He’d grown up with the Nash children, and now he hoped to bring that relationship closer, one of family instead of friendship.

At least his dead faint had saved him from hearing Hel’s answer. He wasn’t optimistic enough to imagine she appreciated his offer. Had ever man set himself to win such a reluctant bride?

The sight of his lady where she sat across the room talking to Fenella Deerham would deter a weaker man. He must have Helena to thank for getting him off the stable floor, but she hadn’t come near him since. Caroline and Fenella had called to see him. Even Fenella’s hulking lover Anthony Townsend—what a dashed disparate couple that was—had stumped his way up to West’s bedroom to wish him a brusque northern-accented recovery.

But Helena’s absence had been eloquent. As was the way she kept well out of his way tonight, and avoided addressing him directly.

She did her best to make her rejection clear. Unfortunately for her, he knew her well enough to read beneath the discouraging manner.

Nobody who saw the striking black-haired woman in an emerald gown that set off her olive skin and flashing dark eyes to perfection would discern her abject terror. Nobody but the man who had been first to kiss her, and knew her better than anyone else on earth.

He and Helena had always understood each other. Their long estrangement hadn’t changed that.

But that didn’t mean he underestimated the obstacles ahead. Crewe, that selfish bastard, had hurt and humiliated her. West had loved the young Helena’s generous heart, but that generosity had left her dangerously vulnerable to a rake’s lures. Now like a half-broken horse, she shied from another rider.

“They make a right bonny pair, don’t they? Sunlight and shadow,” a rumbling voice murmured behind him.

West had been so busy staring at Helena, he’d missed Townsend’s approach, which was a joke when the fellow was the size of a house.

“Heaven and hell,” he said, before he had a chance to censor himself. He’d only met Townsend in the last day or so, and the big, dark man remained something of a mystery.

Townsend gave a grunt of laughter. “If you’re calling my Fenella hell, I’ll have to shoot you.”

West regarded him curiously. Until now, his principal impression of Fenella’s unlikely intended was a monumental form and a slight roughness of manner. Now he saw the intelligence gleaming in those deep-set eyes. He recalled that this man had built a huge fortune from nothing.

“You know damn well that’s not what I mean.”

“Aye, I do. Which is a good thing. I reckon yon Silas won’t appreciate a duel on the eve of his wedding.”

“Probably not.”

Silas and Caro shared a couch, staring at each other as though they couldn’t believe their luck. After their rocky courtship, West couldn’t blame them for their starry eyes.

Their closeness threw his difficulties with Helena into stark contrast. He didn’t begrudge his friends’ happiness, but he was painfully envious. When he looked at Silas and Caro, he wanted what they had.

And he wanted it with Helena.

“The lass is making every effort to pretend you don’t exist.”

“Yes,” West said shortly. If a stranger noticed Helena’s hostility, that meant old friends like Caro and Silas would, too. Unless they were so wrapped up in each other that the rest of the world could go hang.

“Which I’d take as an encouraging sign.”

West’s eyebrows rose. “What the devil?”

Townsend released another soft huff of amusement. “She’s powerfully interested if she has to try so hard to ignore you.”

“She’s been furious with me for years,” West found himself saying with unexpected honesty. He wasn’t a man given to confidences, but something about Anthony Townsend cut through social niceties. It must. In the five years since her husband’s death at Waterloo, Fenella had never looked at another man. Yet within mere weeks, Townsend had persuaded her to marry him. The couple planned a quiet ceremony in London before Silas and Caro left for China.

“Aye, I see you’re not in her good books.”

“I introduced her to Lord Crewe,” West said gloomily. “A mistake I sometimes fear I’ll pay for until Judgment Day.”

“He was a bad ‘un, all right. I had the dubious pleasure of making his acquaintance before he broke his neck on that drunken gallop and did the world a favor.”

West wasn’t quick enough to hide his surprise at the elevated circles Townsend moved in, and the man shrugged without resentment. “The sprigs of the nobility will stomach my unrefined manners when they want to take advantage of my money.”

“Silas always speaks highly of you,” West said. “And the rumor is after you saved the government’s bacon last year, there’s a peerage on the cards.”

Townsend’s gaze settled on the two women across the room. Lovely, blond-haired Fenella glanced up as if sensing his attention, and the smile she sent him was unmistakably sensual. With a shock that he had no right to feel, West realized that pure, delicate, proper Fenella Deerham was utterly in thrall to her fiancé. They’d share a bed tonight, or he was a Dutchman.

West felt even lonelier. Especially as Helena’s current coldness put her bed more out of reach than ever.

“I’d like to give Fenella every honor.”

It was West’s turn to laugh. “I doubt she gives a fig whether you’ve got a title or not. She’s always been beautiful, but now—”

“She burns like a flame.” The burly magnate blushed, and West liked him better for the awkwardness. “Pardon me. I’m not usually given to poetry.”

“Congratulations on your good fortune, old man. She’s a treasure. In my absence, London’s become Cupid’s realm.”

“Thank you. Now Helena is the last of our widows left to find a husband.”

“If I have any say, she won’t be a free woman for long.”

“So you mean marriage?”

“Of course. She’ll make the perfect wife, if I can convince her that I’m not another dissolute rake like Crewe.”

“You might have work to do there. Even I’ve heard the stories about your many conquests.”

West shrugged, his attention unwavering on the seemingly oblivious Helena. He didn’t feel guilty about his exploits. The women had been willing, the liaisons pleasurable, the partings mostly cordial. He hadn’t owed anyone his allegiance—until now.

“I had my moments, but it’s time to settle down and set up my nursery.” The horror in Townsend’s expression made him pause. “What?”

“I hope you didn’t say that to Helena. Or it’s no wonder your suit doesn’t prosper.”

Had he wooed her in the stables? He’d been burning up with fever and hardly remembered what he’d said. “Helena knows me too well to fall for sentimental twaddle. And too clever as well.”

All the Nashes were dauntingly intelligent. Silas was a famous botanist. Helena devoted her leisure time to higher mathematics, and funding charity schools for bright, but indigent children. Robert put his navigational and engineering gifts into service in the navy. Silas’s youngest sister Amy wrote papers on the new agricultural practices.

“No lass is too clever to object to sweet talk from a lad she fancies. I shouldn’t have to tell you that. You’re the one they call a devil with the ladies.”

“Damn it, Hel’s different.”

Townsend’s disapproval melted into disappointment. “I wouldn’t be too sure about that. And if her late husband was half the lout I thought him, she’s in dire need of tender handling. Kindness might even make her believe you’ve turned over a new leaf.”

West frowned at this man who promised to become a friend. “You don’t mince your words.”

“I’m no milksop aristocrat, you mean.”

West’s lips twitched. “I think I meant more than that.”

“You can’t punch me in the nose with the ladies present,” Townsend said placidly. “And you’re no fool either. Think about what I said. You’ll see I’m right.”

* * *

“He looks terribly ill,” Fenella said, her embroidery lying forgotten on her lap. Helena who wielded a needle with the finesse of a drunken axman, cast an envious glance at the tracery of violets and ivy on cream silk. “It’s so romantic that he risked his health to rush to your side.”

All thoughts of feminine accomplishments fled Helena’s mind, and she stared appalled at her friend. “What on earth did you say?”

Four pairs of curious eyes leveled on them. “Helena, are you all right? What’s happened?” Silas asked from across the room.

“Nothing,” she muttered. “Go back to gazing into Caro’s eyes and whispering romantic inanities.”

Caro gave a soft laugh. “She jests at scars who never felt a wound!”

Helena slitted her eyes at her besotted friend and returned her attention to Fenella. This time, she kept her voice low. “What utter balderdash. He’s here as Silas’s groomsman. They’ve been friends since childhood.”

For such a fairy-like creature, Fenella had a good line in unimpressed looks. “Don’t be a nitwit, Hel. He’s fond of Silas, but he crossed Europe to see you.”

I don’t want you to be my mistress. I want you to be my wife.

The words had haunted Helena since West had spoken them in the stables. They were no more acceptable now than they’d been then.

“You’re wrong.” The last thing she needed was her friends promoting West’s asinine courtship. “We don’t like each other.”

“He likes you.” Fenella picked up her tambour and calmly began stitching, as though she discussed the weather and not the prospect of a lifetime of misery for Helena. “He hasn’t taken his eyes off you all evening.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.” Helena’s hands clenched on her lap. “Since you’ve fallen head over heels with Anthony, you see romance everywhere.”

“I see it when I look at you and West.”

“Then your eyes deceive you. You’re living in a fantasy world where each of us finds true love and sails into the sunset clasped to a manly bosom.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing, when it’s Caro and Silas, or you and Anthony. I couldn’t be happier for you.”

It was true, she told herself, even as she stifled an unworthy twinge. She’d never do anything to jeopardize Caro or Fen’s happiness, but it was no fun sitting on the sidelines at a party.

As if Fen picked up her shameful envy, she went on. “You’d be happier if you had something new to look forward to. We’ll always be friends, but Caro and Silas will be away at least a year, and Anthony and I plan to live in Hampshire with the boys. You’ll be all alone in London.”

“I have other friends,” Helena said, and cringed at how defiant she sounded.

Anyway, it was true. A wealthy widow with a witty tongue could always find company. But since they’d met, she, Caro and Fenella had been inseparable. The other two Dashing Widows understood her in a way that nobody else, except perhaps Silas—and damn him, West—did.

Her hand trembled as she lifted her brandy to her lips. Here on the family estate, strict propriety was relaxed. Even completely tossed out the window. She could have a drink after dinner without raising eyebrows. And while all six people under this roof had been assigned bedrooms, she’d lay good money that neither of the engaged couples slept separately. The only guests sleeping alone tonight were Helena Wade and Vernon Grange. And given a rake’s ability to find a bedmate, she wouldn’t wager on West remaining lonely.

Stop it, Helena. You don’t care who West tups, as long as it’s not you.

Sometimes being understood had its drawbacks. Fenella’s blue eyes softened with compassion. “You have your schools, and your work, and all the intellectual life of London to occupy you, too.”

Oh, dear Lord. At this rate, she’d be sobbing into her brother’s best French brandy. She scowled at Fenella. “Don’t you dare pity me, Fenella Deerham.”

“I want you to be happy.”

“I’ll be happy.” She hoped that Fenella missed the hollow ring beneath her claim. “I have the world at my feet.”

“You do.”

“Gentlemen vie for my attention.”

“Lord Pascal has been most attentive.”

“He’s a very nice man.”

“He is.”

Helena’s eyes narrowed on her friend. “Stop agreeing with me.”

Fenella bit back a smile. “But everything you say is true.”

“I’ve always wanted to travel. Why should Silas and Caro have all the adventures?”

“No reason at all.”

“Fenella…” she warned.

Fen shook her head. “There’s no pleasing you.”

No, there wasn’t. And Helena didn’t know what in Hades was wrong with her. Life was good. She led a busy and useful existence. She was delighted her friends had found love—she’d all but cornered Caro into agreeing to marry Silas, hadn’t she?

She blamed all this blasted love everywhere. It made a woman restless and discontented. Perhaps when she returned to London, she’d do something about turning her agreeable friendship with handsome Lord Pascal into something more. A lover might help to heal the scars left from her marriage.

Pascal was pleasant company. In subtle ways, he’d made it clear that he’d welcome a closer connection. Dear heaven, half London already thought they shared a bed—and the gossip about that had reached as far as Moscow.

She’d take a lover. She’d see Italy and France and Greece. She’d meet interesting people and do exciting things. And she’d ignore the snide little voice that whispered in her ear that she’d do all those wonderful things alone.

It was natural to feel out of sorts with so many changes around her. She’d find her balance again. And life would become the rich banquet she’d always hoped it could be.

With sudden determination, she emptied her glass and set it on the side table.

But shaky self-confidence dissolved into trepidation when she met West’s unwinking green gaze across the opulent room.