Winning Lord West (Dashing Widows 3)
Chapter Twelve
In the library, Fen poured Helena a brandy. With a trembling hand, she accepted the glass and collapsed onto a sofa. Across the room, a footman kneeled before the hearth, lighting the fire. The tall clock in the corner chimed three. It was bitterly cold, and Helena curled her bare toes into the carpet in search of warmth. She hadn’t stopped to put slippers on when she’d rushed out of her room in a panic.
“Where’s Caro?” Her voice was scratchy.
Fen crossed to the window and opened the curtains on a starlit night. “Probably doing her best to make West comfortable.”
The footman rose and bowed to Helena. “Shall I arrange for refreshments, my lady?”
She mustered a smile. “Yes, please, John. The doctor will want something to eat when he’s finished, I imagine.”
“Very good, my lady.”
“Please pass my apologies to the staff for the interrupted night. I’ll come and speak to everyone once we know what’s happening.”
“We all wish Lord West well. He’s always been a favorite downstairs.”
Another reminder of how her life was entangled with West’s. “Thank you.”
Once John left, she placed her empty glass on a side table and stood. “I’m going upstairs. If Caro’s with him, why can’t I be there, too?”
Fen turned away from staring outside. “Helena, there’s nothing you can do.”
“He might want me.”
“If he asks for you, Silas will tell us.”
Regret and self-recrimination settled cold and heavy in her belly. She had no standing in West’s life. A wife could attend a sickbed. While she was nothing but a childhood friend and temporary mistress, damn it.
She began to pace, seeking some relief in movement. “Where is that doctor?”
Fen watched her with a troubled expression. “West has survived every bout of fever so far, Helena. He’s bad for a few days, then he’s well again. You saw it yourself this week.”
That was before she’d found ecstasy in his arms—and the heavenly peace of lying beside him after passion was sated. That was before the idea of a world without him sent her into an agony of fear. “This time is different.”
Fen didn’t ask why it was different, but then, Fen, unlike Caro, was renowned for her tact. Instead, she crossed the room and hugged Helena. “Don’t torment yourself.”
Briefly she rested in Fen’s embrace. Then she broke free to pace again. “I can’t help it.”
Fenella sank into her usual chair. “He’ll be up and about, and ready to dance at the wedding.”
“You can’t be sure.” Wringing her hands, Helena quartered the floor. She paused when a door banged in the wind. “What’s that?”
“I assume it’s the doctor arriving.” Fen reached for her embroidery. She wore a pink silk wrap, and she’d thought to put slippers on her feet. With her golden hair flowing around her shoulders and her lovely face soft with lack of sleep, she looked like a young girl.
Around them, Helena heard the unmistakable sounds of the house coming ali
ve. “I must see him.”
Fen placed a careful stitch. “And say what?”
Fen was right. What could she say? If she’d accepted West’s proposal, she’d have a wife’s rights.
But she was nobody.
She returned to the couch and stared into the distance, her mind awash with excruciating pictures of West dying without her saying goodbye. Or thank you.
John returned and set out the tea service. Helena appreciated the warm drink, although her stomach revolted at the sandwiches and pastries. Mrs. Ballard, the cook, had done a marvelous job at this unfriendly hour.