“Thank you.” With a sigh, she settled back against him. “I’m sorry I spent all these years blaming you. It was childish. My disastrous marriage is my fault.”
West sat up abruptly, dislodging her from his chest. “You were a naïve girl, just seventeen, and Crewe set out to snare you.”
She looked troubled, lying upon the pillows and staring up at him from fathomless black eyes. “I should have been clever enough to see what he was.”
“At that stage, few people did. In his younger days, he did his best to hide his vices. I’d known him longer than you, and I assumed like most of us, he sowed a few wild oats before settling down. And he could be damned charming when he wanted something. You didn’t stand a chance. You’ve stopped blaming me for what happened. It’s time to stop blaming yourself.”
He watched her consider his statement without accepting it. By God, before they left Woodley, he’d convince her to f
orgive herself, or die trying. “I have a suspicion about Crewe.”
Her lips twitched. “I had lots of suspicions about Crewe. Most of which unfortunately proved true.”
“For a man who scattered his seed far and wide, I never heard he fathered a bastard.”
“Oh? Perhaps he was careful.”
Not bloody likely. “Perhaps he was sterile.”
A faint line appeared between her marked black brows. “The opium and brandy can’t have helped.”
West shrugged and lay down, sliding his arm around her. “It’s purely a theory. But if you’re embarking on a life of sin, don’t rely too much on past history.”
“A life of sin?”
He smiled at her. “Obviously I’d like you to sin with me alone.”
Her lips flattened in disapproval. “That would be like getting married.”
“Perish the thought.”
A surprisingly peaceful silence fell as she snuggled against him. What a night it had been—and a million miles from what he’d expected. He hadn’t been sure he’d manage to steal a kiss, and now they were lovers.
“Are you tired?” she murmured after a long while. She inched one hand under the sheet and across his belly.
West, who had lapsed into a pleasant reverie, went on instant alert. “Are you?”
Her black eyes sparked with devilry. She looked like the spirited girl, not the self-contained and acerbic widow he’d known in London. “We’re only here another week. Time’s a-wasting.”
With one powerful movement, he rolled over her, staring down into a face alight with laughter and desire. “I’ve acquired an imperious mistress.”
Her hands ran up his chest and linked behind his neck. “Aren’t you lucky?”
“Aren’t I just?” His cock hardened and nudged between her legs. One part of him wasn’t sleepy at all.
She kissed him, her mouth hot and eager. While his tongue swept between her lips, he toyed with her nipple. She tilted her hips in brazen invitation.
Sizzling sensual pleasure beckoned. West wasn’t a man to say no.
Chapter Eight
When Helena wandered downstairs the next day, it was close to noon. She made her way to the morning room where Caro and Fenella sat gossiping over tea.
West’s theory that her fellow Dashing Widows were too spellbound to notice much else around them was borne out. Helena was a notorious early riser—most days in London she rode in Hyde Park at dawn—but neither of her friends questioned her tardy appearance.
Helena fell upon the tea table with enthusiasm. A night of debauchery played havoc with a polite appetite.
“That’s a pretty dress,” Fenella said from the couch near the fire. As usual, she had her embroidery on her lap. “I haven’t seen it before.”