With a self-conscious gesture, Helena’s hand strayed to the high lace neckline. She’d bought the yellow and white gown last season, but had decided she didn’t like its Elizabethan collar. She had no idea why her maid had packed it. But when she’d looked in her mirror this morning and seen the marks of West’s teeth, she’d decided this dress was her latest favorite. “It’s new.”
“More demure than you usually wear,” Caro said from the sofa.
Helena’s cheeks heated. Making a great show of filling her cup, she avoided her friends’ eyes. “I feel like a change of style. Would either of you like tea?”
“I’ll ring for more,” Caro said. “That’s been sitting there for half an hour.”
While Caro summoned a footman and arranged more refreshments, Helena sought a seat in the room’s darkest corner. Luckily it was a typical February day, gray, wet, miserable. Gloomy. Despite copious amounts of Milk of Roses, her face was still pink with whisker burn. Tonight, she’d make sure that West shaved before he came to her, however exciting his beard had felt rasping against her skin.
Tonight…
How odd it felt to anticipate a meeting with a lover. And what a lover. She shivered to recall the way his mouth had explored every inch of her. From her toes to her eyebrows and everything—everything!—in between. She shifted on her brocade chair and stifled a gasp of discomfort. Today her body ached in so many unfamiliar places.
“Amy’s back the day after tomorrow,” Caro said, returning to her place without looking at Helena, which was a good thing. She feared she looked completely besotted.
The woeful fact was that she felt completely besotted. She put it down to discovering sexual fulfillment so late in life. But right now, her logical world was awash with butterflies and unicorns and rainbows.
“I’ve never met her,” Fen said. “She lives here most of the time, doesn’t she?”
“Yes,” Helena said. “She does a jolly good job of running the place. She might be only seventeen, but she’s quite the expert on modern farming. The rest of the family arrives the day before the wedding.”
Heaven help her, she’d better get a grip on her reactions before her younger sister turned up. Her two oldest sisters, Mary and Sally, would be too busy managing their broods of children to pay her much heed. But Amy had the sharpest eyes in England—and the least discretion. It was lucky she was staying with Sally right now, or Helena’s fall from grace would no longer be a secret.
“It’s a pity Robert couldn’t be here, too,” Caro said. “He’s mapping some obscure corner of the South American coast and couldn’t get leave.”
“I haven’t met him either,” Fen said.
“He stayed with Helena last year in London, when he’d just come back from New South Wales. He’s frightfully handsome and gallant and naval.”
“Oh, I’m sure he sets hearts fluttering.”
Helena smiled. “Ladies are swooning between here and Sydney, and every port in between.”
“I hope this weather doesn’t worsen before the wedding,” Fen said as the butler brought in a laden tray. “Travel’s so difficult if there’s heavy snow.”
“All the Nashes are punishing riders,” Caro said, as Fen rose to serve the tea. “Silas’s sisters would push through a blizzard to be here.”
It was true. The Nashes had big brains and famous stables. As Helena sipped a fresh cup of tea, she’d gathered enough composure to ask after West without sounding like a complete nitwit. “Where are the gentlemen?”
“Silas’s horse was favoring its right foreleg this morning,” Caro said, setting her cup into its saucer. “They’re in the stables seeing to the problem.”
“Silas and West are. Anthony’s just gone along for show,” Fen said serenely, wandering back to her couch with a full cup. “The poor darling doesn’t know one end of a horse from another.”
“But he could out-sail the other two with his hands tied behind his back,” Helena said. In recent weeks, she’d become very fond of Anthony Townsend. She admired both his acumen and his lack of artifice. And his devotion to Fenella, who had emerged from long grief to find happiness with him.
“I’m sure a prime whip like Fen appreciates a man who lets her take the reins,” Caro said. “If she married an arrogant brute like West, he’d never let her drive.”
“He’s not an arrogant brute,” Helena said, then dipped her head in mortification.
A resonant silence fell.
“You’ve changed your tune.” Caro cast her a quizzical glance. “He’s always set your back up. I’ve never been sure why. I think he’s utterly charming.”
So charming that before she fell in love with Silas, Caro had considered taking West as a lover. With an audible clink, Helena returned her cup to its saucer. She knew she was absurd—Caro was mad about Silas—but the idea of West kissing her friend made Helena want to shoot her.
Telling herself to settle down, she affected an airy tone. “He’s back from Russia with some of the stuffing knocked out of him. As a result, he’s more bearable than usual.”
Bravo. That was much more like her.