Helena
expected one of grooms to take her home.
To her dismay, Kit appeared around the corner of Allworth House, driving
a gig at a snail’s pace towards her while she stood in foot-tapping impatience
on the bottom step of the main entrance.
He drew up beside her at last and she eyed the weary-looking cob in the
shafts suspiciously. It was old enough
to have grey in its cheek. Surely Allworth
had better cattle than that in his stables.
A footman
handed her up and she settled beside a stony-faced Kit, keeping her head turned
away as he clucked the horse into motion.
Any relief Helena felt as they left the house behind was swamped by her
indignation at her tight-lipped companion.
Irritably, she reached up and retied the ribbons of her bonnet beneath
her chin. While she had waited in the
hall for Kit to arrange to convey her home, her fumbling fingers had made a
poor job of her first attempt. Her
second was little better.
At least she
did not look a pauper. Her dove grey
travelling dress was not new but it was of fine wool and showed no signs of
wear, and her wine-red pelisse with its silver-embroidered, black frogging was
of excellent quality. Kit would not know
they were the sole such items she possessed.
The fresh air
was clearing her head and the churning of her stomach eased a little. Ignoring Kit, she studied the countryside as
the old horse dawdled down the long avenue from Allworth to the road. The first green buds were on the tall trees
that stood like sentinels on either side and beneath them bluebells nodded
their heads in the breeze. Home
soon. She held the thought close. Peace and safety.
The feeling
was fleeting. Her ordeal was not
over. There was one more humiliation to
endure, one final embarrassment before she reached sanctuary.
The gig
passed the ornamental gates and turned sluggishly onto the road. Kit slapped the reins across the horse’s
rump, but apart from a baleful look back at him the cob did not react and they
wandered along at the same pace as before.
From the sound of annoyance he made, Kit seemed just as frustrated as
Helena at their slow progress. She dared
a sideways glance at him. Full daylight
did nothing to improve his pallor, though he sat upright as he drove. She seemed to remember him being stooped
forward the day before. She remembered
him too as a young man of fashion.
Though he had never desired to be a dandy or join the ranks of the
Corinthians, Kit had never been less than perfectly turned out. Now he was wearing a pair of old breeches and
worn and unpolished top-boots. His
jacket was threadbare at the cuffs and at the collar. At least he was clean-shaven. Unconsciously, Helena tilted her nose towards
him, seeking the scent of the cologne he had always used. His head turned at her movement and she quickly
looked ahead, only to discover they were approaching the place where her
carriage had been waylaid. Her chest
tightened and her mouth went dry.
Kit reached
into his coat pocket, drew something out and offered it to her. It was her muff-pistol. For a second she eyed the stubby,
twin-barrelled little weapon, then reached out and curled her fingers around
its ivory grip. The hardness was
comforting, the weight seeming to strengthen her. It was warm.
Kit’s warmth, she realised.
She put the
pistol in her reticule. When she looked
up again they had passed the spot and her fear had gone.
“Thank you,”
she said, stiffly.
“I cleaned
and reloaded it myself,” Kit told her.
Helena could
not resist. “I am honoured, my lord.”
The sarcasm
was enough to deflect his attention back to the road but Helena’s heartbeat
still quickened. The turn-off they must
take was drawing near. She held her
breath as the moment lengthened and the old horse plodded on. Swallowing her pride at last, Helena lowered
her head and closed her eyes. “We must
turn here, my lord.” She cringed
inwardly at the hoarseness in her voice.
The gig stopped and she opened her eyes, knew Kit was staring at her and
glimpsed his arm lift and point ahead.
“But Merrifields is this way.”
“I don’t live
at Merrifields,” Helena said quietly, eyes fixed on
the reticule in her lap.
“You
don’t?” Kit sounded bewildered.
She shook her
head, glad the poke of her bonnet hid her blush. “I live at East Hallow Farm.”
Silence
followed. Helena peeked from under the
bonnet’s brim but Kit had lifted the reins and set the horse down the
lane. At that moment, when he asked no
questions, she could almost have forgiven him.
She looked ahead. The farm was
visible above the hedge. Smoke rose
sluggishly from its chimneys. They
should be swept. In her mind she was
already sitting in her own parlour, planning, working at last for herself.
“No need to
go into the yard,” she said. “You can
turn more easily in the space in front of it and set me down there.”
“Very
well.” Instead of following her
directions he pulled up and turned to face her.
“My lady -.”
Helena held
up a hand. “Sir, I don’t -.”
“Please, just
listen for a moment. I promise I will
say nothing to tax you. I know you are
fatigued and I would not tire you further.”
Helena looked
keenly at his face and saw nothing but candour.
Her gaze strayed homeward.
Reluctantly she gave a single nod.
Kit’s thin
smile held none of his earlier cynicism.
“We did not meet again in the easiest of circumstances, and I know you
have taken no pleasure in our re-acquaintance.
I do not profess to fully understand what I have done to cause you to
take me in such dislike.” He ignored her
snort of derision. “I do wish you to
understand that I have always held you in the most noble regard.”
Helena looked
sharply at him.
“And I always
will,” he finished softly.
His eyes were
searching her face for some reaction but she willed it to remain immobile. She cared nothing for his regard, noble or
otherwise. Her gaze went to the farm then
back to the intensity of the dark eyes watching her. Helena inclined her head.
“Thank you,
my lord. Now, will you please take me
home?”
Kit urged the
cob off the rutted lane and into the open ground in front of East Hallow
Farm. The gig turned slowly and he took
the chance to look the place over. It
was as neat as any working farm should be, built as three sides of a square
with a big stone house on one side of the yard, stables and byre on the other,
both joined at one end by storehouses, dairy and buttery. Though Helena had been away, the smoke from
the chimneys showed someone was in residence.
The horse
balked a bit in the turn and Kit wished he could curse aloud the groom who
thought the sorry beast was all he could handle. But that would only provoke his passenger,
and he had had enough of her ill-mannered, hoydenish behaviour for one day and
was tired of making allowances for it.
Her frigid response to his attempt to at least part on speaking terms
was the limit as far as he was concerned.
As he drew
the gig to a halt, Helena was already rising from her seat. Kit got down quickly and went to the other
side of the gig to help her dismount.
Couldn’t the silly chit wait? Was
she really so anxious to be free of him that a few seconds made a difference? He could see her stockinged
ankle as her foot groped for the brass stirrup fitted to the gig to aid
mounting and dismounting. Irked by her
impatience, he reached up, clasping his hands around her waist and made to
swing her lightly to the ground.
He almost
managed it.
From the way
she stiffened Kit knew he had taken Helena by surprise. He heard the catch in her breath as he
whirled her off her feet. Her hands
sought his shoulders to steady herself and her weight leaned into him.
His arm
betrayed him. ‘Damn and blast the
thing!’ he swore and landed Helena much more heavily than he intended. She stumbled and Kit stumbled too, while
cramping pain shot through his weakened limb.
Even so, he would have kept his footing had not Helena landed full on
his chest just as he raised his foot to step back and brace himself. He heard her indignant squeak as he tumbled
backwards, still holding her, and landed with a thump on the turf beside the
lane. An instant later, Helena landed on
top of him and drove the breath from his body.
She seemed too stunned to move and Kit lay winded, yet very conscious of
the warm weight of her pressing down on him and her face inches from his own. He looked into the liquid darkness of her
eyes. A second later he saw their fire
ignite.
“You
provoking man,” Helena hissed through clenched teeth. Then she wriggled.
Kit felt her
weight shift on top of him. They were
belly to belly, her arms flung out to the sides seeking purchase on the grass,
her thighs rubbing his as she tried to get her knees under her. Alarm surged through him as quickly as
desire. He wanted to kiss her. God, he wanted more than that! And the physical sign of it was about to
become as obvious to Helena as it was to him.
Her body shifted, and for a second Kit hoped she would manage to slide
off and he could roll away and hide his arousal. Then she slipped back, her stomach bumping
his and increasing the sensation he was helpless to suppress.
“Helena,” he
gasped, “please stop… squirming around.
You’re making… things worse.”
She had the
heel of one shoe caught in the hem of her petticoat, defeating all her efforts
to get up. In desperation, Kit reached
out to roll her off him. Considering his
luck so far that day, it was inevitable that one of his hands would land below
and to the rear of her hip. In his
aroused state he was slow to realise that the warm, firm roundness he had
grasped was no place for a gentleman to touch a lady. Only when Helena’s struggles stopped abruptly
did he jerk his hand away. By then it
was too late.
Her mouth was
close to his, warm breath caressing his cheek as she panted from her
exertions. For a moment her long lashes
fluttered down and her lips parted as if in invitation. Then her rich brown eyes were looking dazedly
into Kit’s. He could not turn from them,
though he knew she could not fail to see the desire in his own. He watched her realisation dawn, saw it
change to shock, to anger, to disgust.
With a
ripping of petticoats Helena was on her feet and backing away in a
heartbeat. As she had risen, one of her
hands had pressed down on Kit’s chest.
The scar tissue protested and Kit gasped in pain, a sound he knew she
would misinterpret.
Disbelief was
on Helena’s face by the time Kit struggled to his feet, and rightly so. No man of honour would ever behave in so
reprehensible a fashion to a lady, especially when he had given her his
protection. That no gentleman would
expect to find himself in such a position with a lady was no excuse. That too had been his fault.
Cheeks
flaming scarlet and eyes ablaze with rage, Helena glared at him. He quailed under her fury. The evidence of his misconduct was still
plainly outlined in the front of his breeches and he saw Helena’s gaze flicker
to the offending area, as though she needed confirmation that something so
outrageous had really happened. When she
raised her eyes they were filled with contempt.
Her chin came up.
“A noble
regard.” Her voice was distorted by
anger and heavy with scorn. She turned
and stalked away.
“Helena,
forgive….”
She spun on
him and the weight of her outrage humbled Kit to silence.
“Never!” she
spat. “Never!”