Tempting the Bride Page 5

  “Precisely. I tried to bring Martin back in here, where he can’t get into much trouble. But as I told you, he wanted none of it.”

  “Right-ho,” Hastings managed. “Keep me abreast of any interesting developments, will you? I must be off now. My lady awaits.”

  He strolled toward the door, when it was all he could do not to sprint.

  “Your lady?” called Monteth behind him. “But you haven’t a wife.”

  Nor did Hastings want one who preferred another man. But should things go ill, his bachelor days would be numbered.

  Martin was no longer outside the club. Hastings hopped into a hansom cab and asked for the Savoy Hotel and great haste. It did not escape his attention that he might again stand guard while she trysted with Martin—but today he’d almost volunteer for the odious duty, if only he could thwart Mrs. Monteth.

  As the hansom cab approached its destination, he saw Martin enter the hotel, looking left and right as he went, radiating quite the aura of a man who knew he was up to no good. Hastings wasted no time in alighting from the hansom. He crossed the lobby to the clerk’s station. “The Quaids’ room.”

  “Room five on the top floor, sir.”

  “I was told there would be a key waiting for me,” he fibbed.

  “I’m sorry, sir. My instruction was that only the first person to ask for the room would be given a key.”

  “And was the first person to ask for a key the gentleman of a minute ago?”

  “No, sir. I gave the key to the lady who came a few minutes before him.”

  Martin had not instigated this tryst, judging by the cable he’d received. Yet if Miss Fitzhugh had been the one to arrange for this meeting, she would not have needed to ask for a key. She would have been the one who’d issued the instruction to give the key to Martin.

  The possibility that a third party was pulling the strings had just shot up to near certainty.

  “How many keys do you have to the room?”

  “Three, sir.”

  “Where are the other two?”

  “One is with the guest under whose name the room is registered. The other key we hold.”

  And if Helena Fitzhugh had taken the third key, then she was definitely not the one under whose name the room was registered.

  Hastings reached inside his day coat and slid across a one-pound note. “Give me the third key and say nothing of me to anyone.”

  The clerk looked at the note for a long moment—then quickly pocketed it. “Here you go, sir.”

  The key was heavy and cold in Hastings’s hand as he walked toward the lift. It had seemed imperative that he should have a key. But now that he did, he didn’t know what to do with it. He couldn’t very well interrupt a lovers’ rendezvous without clear and present danger.

  A moment later, clear and present danger arrived in the form of Mrs. Monteth, approaching the clerk’s station.

  His heart seized. Not the lift then, with its unpredictable speed. He walked to the stairs as fast as he dared without attracting undue attention, glancing at Mrs. Monteth every two seconds. The moment he was out of her sight, he sprinted up the steps, praying the lift would require a long wait and then stop at every floor along the way.

  His lungs burned. He ran faster.

  The Savoy was not as tall as the hotel Helena had stayed at in New York City, but still, from the top floor it was a long drop to the ground. Helena stood just inside the balcony, waiting.

  Sometimes it still seemed only last week that she and Andrew first met, and the world was glorious with the promise of happiness. Sometimes it seemed a lifetime ago, and she’d always had this crux of desolation in her heart.

  A scratch came at the door. She rushed to open it. Andrew stood before her, his face at once glowing and apologetic. “Sorry I’m late. Monteth wanted to drag me back inside the club for a drink—and I always underestimate how long it takes to get anywhere in London nowadays.”

  It didn’t matter why he was late; it mattered only that he was here. She pulled him in, shut the door, and threw her arms about him. “Andrew, Andrew, Andrew.”

  How well she remembered the first time she’d hugged him, impulsively, after he’d told her he didn’t see why she wouldn’t make a terrific publisher. They’d been on the banks of her brother’s trout stream, having known each other all of a week. But what a glorious week, spending every waking minute together. She’d gone to sleep each night with an enormous smile on her face.

  The present-day Andrew nuzzled her hair. “I’ve missed you terribly, Helena.”

  The sound of pounding feet reverberated in the passage—a vibration she felt in her own shins. Her chest tightened. Surely it couldn’t be Mrs. Monteth making such an uncivilized racket.

  “I shouldn’t be here at all,” Andrew went on. “But ever since we ran into each other at the rail station the other day, your question of whether a promise to your brother was more important than a promise to you has agonized me. I did promise to be always at your side, didn’t I?”

  She barely heard him. But she heard all too clearly the sound of a key turning in the lock. She sprang back from him as if he’d suddenly developed the pox.

  But it was only Hastings, clutching onto the doorjamb, breathing hard.

  “What are you doing here?” she cried, flabbergasted, relieved, and outraged. Her action might carry risks, but he had no right to interfere in such a crude manner.

  “It’s not what it looks like,” blurted Andrew at the same time.

  “I know what it is and I don’t care.” Hastings pushed the door shut behind them. “Mrs. Monteth is on her way up here. She also has a key.”

  Helena was cold all over. “I don’t believe you.”

  But there was no force in her words, only fear.

  “Did you send the cable to Mr. Martin?” demanded Hastings.

  “No, of course not. He sent the cable to me.”

  “I didn’t,” Andrew protested. “I received one from you.”

  She couldn’t speak at all.

  “Mrs. Monteth must have been the one to send cables to you both,” said Hastings forcefully, “arranging for this meeting so she could catch you in the act.”

  He opened the door a crack and looked out. “She’s coming out of the lift as we speak. And—dear God—the senior Mrs. Martin is with her.”

  “My mother?” Andrew’s voice quavered.

  The elder Mrs. Martin set strenuous standards for her sons—Andrew had ever feared her. If she learned that he had compromised a young lady of otherwise fine standing, she’d hold him in contempt for the rest of her days. It would crush him.

  Hastings closed the door and peered at the locking mechanism. “Someone has tampered with the door. It cannot be secured from inside.”

  “What are we to do?” Andrew gazed at Helena beseechingly. “What are we to do?”

  “Mrs. Monteth went to the clerk’s station after me,” said Hastings, holding the door shut with his person. “If the clerk kept quiet about me, as I’d asked, all she has learned is that a man and a woman had asked for the key. What do you want to do?”

  The question was addressed to Helena.

  She was surprised she heard Hastings so clearly—there seemed to be someone screaming inside her head. She swallowed. “Andrew, my dear, go into the bath and lock the door. If you love me, you will not make a single sound no matter what you hear.”

  “But, Helena—”

  “There is no time. Do as I say.”

  Andrew still hesitated. She grabbed him by the elbow and shoved him into the bath. “Not a sound—or I’ll never forgive you.”

  She shut the door of the bath in Andrew’s face and prayed she’d conveyed her point with enough authority. When she turned around, Hastings was already stripping off his jacket and waistcoat.

  He raised a brow. “You don’t mind, I hope?”

  Without waiting for an answer, he pushed her onto the divan in the center of the room. His hand behind her skull was warm and s
trong. His other hand opened her jacket as he bent his head to her neck.

  Her hair tumbled loose. His teeth grazed her neck, sending a hot jolt to her middle. His fingers worked the buttons of her blouse and pushed both the jacket and the blouse from her shoulders.

  Their eyes met. Without hesitation he kissed her. His weight was solid. His hair—she didn’t know when her fingers had plunged into his hair—was cool and soft. And the hunger in his kiss…contrary to everything she knew, he made her feel as if he’d never kissed anyone before and never wanted to kiss anyone else.

  Without ever making a conscious decision about it, she kissed him back.

  The door burst open.

  “Now I’ve caught you in delicto flagrante!” shouted Mrs. Monteth. “How do you explain yourself, Mr. Martin?”

  Hastings swore, pulled away, and rose. “That is in flagrante delicto, you gorgon. And what is the meaning of this? Get out before I throw you out, the both of you.”

  Helena barely remembered to squeal and clumsily right her clothes.

  Mrs. Monteth was stunned. “Lord Hastings, but—but—”

  “Leave, Mrs. Monteth. And you, too, Mrs. Martin. Can’t a man celebrate his elopement in peace?”

  “Elopement?” Mrs. Martin, a bird of a woman, gasped.

  Elopement? Helena felt as if she’d been electrocuted. She hastily lowered her head.

  “Yes, elopement,” said Hastings. “Surely you don’t think I would consign my best friend’s sister to this sort of situation, where apparently any nosy woman could interrupt us, without marrying her first.”

  Butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

  Helena clamped her right hand over her left. She was only trying to restrain herself from saying anything foolish or compromising before Mrs. Martin and Mrs. Monteth. But with this show of seemingly hand-wringing mortification, no one could see that she was not wearing a wedding band.

  Mrs. Martin squared her shoulders. “Our apologies, Lord Hastings, Lady Hastings. We wish you much happiness in your union.”

  Mrs. Monteth still sputtered. “But—but—”

  Mrs. Martin took her by the arm and yanked her out. Hastings closed the door and leaned his weight against it.

  Helena counted to ten, to give the women time to walk down the passage, out of hearing. Then she counted to another ten.

  Eight. Nine. Ten.

  “Eloped?” she erupted, barely managing to keep her voice to a reasonable volume. “Eloped? What in the world caused you to say that? Have you lost your mind?”

  He looked incredulous—and none too pleased. “You wanted me to tell them that we were having an affair of our own?”

  “Yes!”

  His expression turned sober, then blank. “The result would have been exactly the same: I’d have to marry you. So I decided to spare us the scandal.”

  He did not have to marry her. Or rather, she would not have married him under any circumstances. “You can’t make such decisions for me.”

  “I’ve been telling you ever since you came back from America not to put me in this kind of situation.”

  “Nobody put you in anything.” Her voice rose with her exasperation. “You inserted yourself into the situation.”

  “And where would you and Mr. Martin be if I hadn’t come along?”

  She shivered. “The worst would have happened—I will admit that. But that doesn’t mean the two matters are related. To save Mr. Martin, we had to create an illusion that you, not he, were my lover. That was it—nothing more.”

  “To save Mr. Martin? What do I care about—” He stopped. “And what then? What do I tell Fitz?”

  “The truth, of course. Tell him Mr. Martin and I were ambushed by Mrs. Monteth, and to shield him we chose to make it look as if the two of us were meeting illicitly.”

  “And you think that would be the end of the matter? That Fitz would allow such a state of things to stand, for Society to believe his best friend and his sister are sleeping together, without doing something about it? He would have compelled me to offer for you.”

  “And I’d have gratefully declined your offer. I will deal with Fitz. I will deal with the consequences of my own actions. I do not need any man to save me and I particularly do not need you.”

  His voice hardened. “So you will become a fallen woman? As you so often like to remind everyone, there isn’t just reputation to consider; there is also happiness. Do you not realize that you would not only tarnish your family’s reputation, but forever taint your brother’s and sister’s happiness? It doesn’t matter whether you stay in London and keep running your firm or repair to the country to rusticate; they could never be seen with you in public again, never talk about you, never let you see their future children except in utmost secrecy. And they would worry about you every hour of the day and pull their hair out over your obstinacy for the remainder of their natural lives. You would subject them to that?”

  The trap was closing about her. Her family was her Achilles’ heel. She did not fear consequences for herself, but she could not bear to hurt her loved ones.

  She thought she’d steeled herself for this moment—still she had to put a hand against the wall to keep herself upright. She wanted to rail against the unfairness of life: that he, with his debauchery and his illegitimate child living under his roof, was still accepted everywhere, but she, unless she accepted his suit, would suffer the harshest punishments for this one small overreach.

  But there was no point blaming the rules of the game when she’d known them all along.

  A timid knock came from the door of the bath. “May I come out now?”

  Andrew. She’d forgotten him. “Yes, do come out.”

  He opened the door and slunk into the parlor, his hand clutched around his hat. Her heart gave an awful throb at his red, disconsolate face. Her poor darling, he must think it was all his fault.

  “It’s quite all right, Andrew,” she said encouragingly.

  “No, it’s not.” His voice shook. “It’s all gone wrong—like your brother said it would.”

  She took hold of his hands, the brim of his hat hard in her palm. “Listen to me. This is not your fault.”

  Behind her Hastings rolled his eyes—no doubt he meant for her to see it in the mirror opposite. She clenched her jaw and repeated herself. “None of this is your fault.”

  Hastings shrugged into his waistcoat. “Stay here for now, Martin. Let me make sure it’s safe; then I’ll smuggle you out through a service door.”

  “Thank you,” Andrew said, his voice barely audible. “Most kind of you.”

  “And, Lady Hastings, I trust you will conduct yourself with some decorum.” Hastings shot her a look that was almost hostile in its intensity. She stared back, but had to break his gaze when her heart started to thump unpleasantly. “When I return, we’ll speak to your family, my love.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Hastings’s soon-to-be wife looked out the window of the hansom cab, her back straight, her jaw set, her hands clasped tight in her lap, as if she were Napoleon arriving upon the stark shores of Saint Helena, understanding deep in her bones that this time there would be no escape.

  The interior of the hansom cab was narrow. They sat shoulder to shoulder, the expanse of her skirt brushing against his knee. In the seconds before the scandalmongers had burst in on them, she had been anything but frigid. He could still taste their kiss upon his tongue, still feel the heat of her slender body pressed into his. But now she might as well have been on the far side of Siberia, as cold and remote as the Bering Sea.

  He had not meant to force her into marriage: It simply had not occurred to him that there were any other possible explanations for him to be seen making love to her. Apparently she thought him the sort of man who entertained himself by ruining unmarried young ladies from good families.

  And she’d rather become a pariah than his wife.

  It did not console him that he was largely to blame for her antagonistic views. She was blind, this g
irl, as blind as Justice, except her set of scales had broken years ago, and all she weighed in her hand were her prejudices.

  He looked down at his own hand, at his index finger poised atop his walking stick, applying the merest pressure to keep it upright, as if he hadn’t a care in the world beyond the balancing of this gentlemanly accessory.

  “It’s unfortunate that maid of yours left,” he heard himself say, in a tone as insubstantial as his hold on the walking stick. “She would have tied you to the bedpost without blinking an eye.”

  Her skirts twitched. She said nothing.

  “No matter,” he continued. “I’m sure I’ll find someone for the task. Perhaps I can teach you a few knots myself. You are a clever girl. There’s no reason you can’t truss yourself in a most satisfactory manner.”

  Her voice was a low growl. “The man I love is beyond my reach. I must marry a man who holds no appeal for me whatsoever. Have some decency, Hastings. Save your gloating until after the wedding.”

  There, he’d successfully provoked her again, out of habit—out of pure reflex, almost. And his satisfaction was emptier than ever, his heart all but losing its beat.

  He’d gone too far. Well before he opened his mouth, he’d known he’d go too far. Yet he hadn’t been able to help himself, the way a man who’d lost his footing on a steep hill only gathered speed as he stumbled toward a precipice.

  “I never do anything for as silly a reason as decency. I will, however, grant you a reprieve of silence, but that is only because now I shall expect even greater gratitude from you, once we are married.”

  His words were met with silence. For a stretch of several minutes, he looked out the window on his side of the hansom cab, dumbly noting their progress. Then he glanced back toward her.

  For the first time in their long acquaintance, he witnessed her with her shoulders slumped. And then a shocking realization: She was crying. He could not see it or hear it—her face was turned completely away from him and she made not the slightest of noises—but her despair was palpable, leaden, a thing that choked the air from his lungs.

  He looked away from her, back to the window, to the street outside overflowing with carriages and pedestrians. His own eyes were quite dry, but that was only because he’d long grown accustomed to despair, that old companion of his.