Read Abigail Jones (Chronicles of Abigail Jones #1) Online
Authors: Grace Callaway
Abigail Jones (Chronicles of Abigail Jones #1) (35 page)
So Helena had lain in her voluminous frilled night rail, still as death, eyes closed, waiting for Nicholas to do his duty. She had peeped once, enough to see that he wore a white nightshirt with laces that had become untied at his throat. She had just glimpsed a rather intriguing patch of dark, curling hair when his bleak voice made her shut her eyes again.
Be a lady
, she had repeated to herself.
Practice ladylike forbearance
.
"I'm sorry, Helena. I will—I will be as gentle as I can."
For a moment, she had wondered at the starkness of his voice. Then she had felt something hard, massive, pushing between her legs. With rising panic, she had realized that he meant to pierce her there, a space too small for so large ... and then the pain, the sudden, intense hot edge of it that cut off her breath. She had not remembered to shop for bonnets or pick wildflowers for a bouquet. With shame, Helena remembered that she had shrieked aloud without any resemblance to ladylike comportment.
Nicholas had sprung off her, a look of horror on his face.
He had avoided her ever since.
Oh, he remained polite, exquisitely so, the brief moments they encountered one another in the breakfast parlor or at a soiree. Inevitably, he would be leaving just as she arrived. As Helena recalled their last exchange at Lady Wetherly's ball five nights ago, a tear leaked out of one eye and trickled slowly below her mask. Her husband had bowed over her hand, his eyes impenetrable as smoked glass. He might have been a stranger and that their first introduction. He had been so different during their whirlwind courtship. Though their embraces had been few and chaste then, she could still remember the exotic male spice of his scent, the gentle brush of his lips against her hand.
What had she done to lose his affection?
"Has your mouth had enough of my cock? Perhaps you'd like to beg for it elsewhere, another wet, juicy hole waiting to be had."
The man's stunning words jarred Helena back to the room. Perhaps, she thought dizzily, it had been what she
hadn't
done. Could her mother have been wrong? Could the conjugal act be about something other than visits to the milliner or passive acceptance of one's wifely duty?
"Yes,
yes
! That's it, milord, harder, oooh, like that, how my cunny craves to be fed ..."
Surely Nicholas could not want a similar sort of behavior from me ... Could he?
'Twas almost unthinkable, but he
was
a man. Yesterday, in one of her secret, wistful meanderings through her husband's rooms, she had discovered the admission ticket to the bawdy house. Protruding from an envelope, the gleam of silver had caught her eye. Though she had chastised herself for intruding upon her husband's privacy, curiosity had nevertheless compelled her to extract the thinly pressed metal billet. The size of a playing card, the entry ticket had appeared innocuous enough at first. Embossed on the surface were the words "Get Thee to The Nunnery".
Turning the ticket over, her jaw had dropped. The crude image depicted an unclothed woman with enormous breasts genuflecting in a mockery of prayer. A date of admission had been inscribed beneath the figure. A sudden ringing had exploded in her ears as she had realized Nicholas was planning on attending this den of inequity the very next night.
Sheltered though she was, Helena had heard whispers about the infamous club. The Nunnery was rumored to be an expensive gaming and bawdy house where the classes mingled. During the weekly masquerade, peers of the realm hob-nobbed with merchants and solicitors and whoever else possessed sufficient coin to drink, gamble, and enjoy the company of the exquisite demi-monde. Even more shocking, according to her friend Lady Marianne Draven, certain married ladies of the
ton
frequented the masquerade as well.
"When one is disguised, one's true nature is unleashed," Marianne had said, with an indifferent wave of her fan. "After all, the need for amorous diversion is not the sole province of men. What is sauce for the gander and all that."
Helena knew she had risked all—her pride, her very reputation—to come tonight. She had thought in her love-addled mind to beg Nicholas to reconsider consorting with a whore; for her, the pain of a shattered heart would far surpass the physical pain she had experienced during their wedding consummation. She would do whatever he wanted to lift the fog from his eyes, to feel again the warmth of his affection. Fierce longing surged through her to be the kind of wife Nicholas would want. She would do anything to have him love her again.
Anything
.
And, she reasoned now with renewed determination, learning to please her husband in the bedchamber could not differ much from learning any other skill, could it? If she felt confident in anything, it rested in her aptitude as a pupil. She prided herself on being a student with good sense. Had not her tutors always commented on her quickness in acquiring proficiency in various subjects, from French to watercolors? Why, much to the amazement of her piano instructor it had taken her only a fortnight's practice to competently render a tricky passage of Master Bach's fugue in C-minor.
So, too, could she learn to be a wife.
All she required was instruction. Or, at the very least, the benefit of careful observation.
Emboldened by hope and desperation, Helena edged out of her hiding space and peered around the desk. With her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she could make out the lines of the furniture and—
Heavens!
—the soles of the woman's feet waving madly above the back of the settee. The figures themselves hovered below her line of vision. How could she observe and remain hidden at the same time? As she pondered the dilemma, she noticed the heavy velvet drapes to the left of the seating area. The curtains hung from ceiling to floor, and there looked to be voluminous layers of drapery behind them. Deep enough to conceal even several persons.
Perfect.
Only one task remained: to reach the curtains undetected. Helena ran her palms against the loose material of her tunic and felt the rustle of her petticoats. Her stays, too, restricted her movement. They would have to go. After several minutes of struggle, she managed to release the strings that bound the layers of undergarments to her and eased out of them like a butterfly shedding its fragile skin. Hoarse cries provided the perfect cover.
'Tis now or never.
She took a deep breath and crawled toward the curtains, her skirt barely a whisper against the carpet. With each movement forward, the distance seemed to lengthen. She expected discovery at any moment, an angry voice or a hand to halt her progress. Still, she crept onward with blind determination. By the time she slipped into the safety of the velvety folds, her palms were clammy, and her body shook with nervous excitement.
Then she bumped into a hard, warm object.
Her breath froze in her throat. As she thought to scream, a large hand clamped over her mouth while another trapped her at the waist. She was rendered immobile. Shock warred with a horrifying realization.
She was not alone.
"Be still or we risk discovery," a familiar voice whispered in her ear.
If possible, her heart thudded even faster.
"Do you understand?" His voice was so low she could barely hear it, but she would know those deep masculine tones anywhere. The mixture of dread and relief made her giddy. Slowly, she turned her head around and looked up into orbs of fathomless darkness.
Nicholas
. In the silvery moonlight from the windows behind them, she could see that he had removed his mask. Shadows obscured the details of his face, but she could make out the granite set of his jaw, the tight line of his lips.
She held her breath, waiting for her husband's reaction. What would he say to encountering his wife at such a time, in such a fashion?
"Do you understand?" he repeated as quietly as the last.
Numb with shock, she nodded.
Merciful heavens, he does not recognize me!
He released her, and belatedly she reached up to touch her cheek. She felt the feathery shell of the mask securely in place. Her fingers wandered to the profusion of brassy curls—red, she'd chosen, to disguise her own straight brown locks. Likely the paints, too, retained their concealing power. At the start of the evening she'd dipped her brush into the tiny copper pots with a liberal hand to complete the disguise. She'd felt a thrill of excitement peering into the looking glass. No one would recognize the demure Lady Helena in the brazenly red lips, smoky eyelids, and darkened lashes. No one would look at the water nymph with shamelessly red hair and scandalously low décolletage and see the Marchioness of Harteford.
Apparently not even the Marquess of Harteford himself.
To purchase Her Husband’s Harlot please click
here
.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Grace Callaway writes steamy historical romances set in the Regency and Victorian eras. Her debut manuscript, Her Husband’s Harlot, was a 2010 Romance Writers of America® Golden Heart® Finalist.
Outside of writing, she holds a doctorate from the University of Michigan and practices clinical psychology in a medical setting. She lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her family and enjoys hiking, cooking, ... and reading romance, of course!
For more about Grace:
http://www.facebook.com/GraceCallawayAuthor
Twitter: @Grace_Callaway
Table of Contents
