Winning Lord West (Dashing Widows 3)
“Adorable.”
She gave a snort of sour amusement. “I can’t have been too adorable. You forgot me easily enough.”
“I never forgot you.”
She shot him a disbelieving glance. “Fever must affect your memory. You toddled off to Oxford after that summer, and decided I was of no interest whatsoever.”
“Good God, Helena,” he protested. “Don’t tell me you’re holding that against me. I was a stripling of eighteen who suddenly had the whole world before him.”
“No.” She shook her head. “You know why I can’t forgive you.”
“Well, it’s time you did.” He regarded her with exasperation. “It’s not my fault you made such a fool of yourself over Crewe.”
“You brought him into our lives.”
“Damn it, half a dozen fellows stayed with me at Shelton Abbey that summer. You’re the one who settled her fancy on the only ne’er-do-well. Every one of the other five turned out to be pillars of society. I know hating me helped you weather the miseries of your marriage, but Crewe has been dead for two years. It’s time you placed blame where it belongs. With an unworldly girl’s romantic longings and a blackguard’s wiles.”
She leaped up and stared at West in hurt rage. Right now, if he fainted in front of her, she’d let him lie where he fell. “You’ve grown spiteful in Russia.” She turned away in a swirl of vermillion skirts. “I’ll send a servant to help you back to your bed.”
He surged to his feet and caught her arm before she marched out. “Wait, Hel. I don’t want to fight.”
She struggled to ignore how white he’d gone. “Yet you set yourself to anger me.”
“Just tell me I’m not too late.”
“You were too late eleven years ago. I won’t be your mistress.”
He released her and slumped back on the bench in a quaking heap. “It’s worse than that, my cranky Lady Crewe.”
“Nothing could be worse than that.” She hardly heard what he said. “Let me take you back to the house. You should be in bed.”
“You’re still offering to join me?” But his question lacked the usual spark.
“It wouldn’t do me much good, by the look of you. You don’t need excitement. You need a warm brick wrapped in flannel and a dose of laudanum.”
He leaned back and shut his eyes. “Don’t fuss, Hel.”
Her gaze narrowed. She might care about his wellbeing—purely as one human to another—but she hadn’t forgotten she was annoyed. “As far as I’m concerned, sir, you can curl up in the straw and shrivel away to nothing. But I doubt if Silas wants his best friend giving his last gasp a week before his wedding. It would cast a pall over the celebrations.”
West’s lips twitched. “So sharp tongued.”
“Now aren’t you glad that I refused you?”
“Your nagging doesn’t scare me.”
“It should. No man wants a harridan for a mistress.”
He opened his eyes. The green was glassy, and his shivering was worse. Dear heaven, this malady was nasty. “I don’t want a harridan for a mistress.”
&
nbsp; She frowned. He must be delirious. “So what’s all that nonsense about missing me?”
He sighed. “Oh, all that is as true as I live.”
“Stop teasing, West. It’s not funny.”
“I’m deadly serious. More serious than I’ve ever been.” His voice was deep and slow, and terrifyingly sincere. “Our timing has always been out of joint, Hel. We were too young when we played at sweethearts. By the time I realized that I was a blockhead to let you go, you’d married Crewe. I waited through your year of mourning to make my move, then damned Liverpool sent me two thousand miles away. But now I’m brooking no more delay. You’re here, and I’m here, and no man will say me nay.”