Chapter 5

'Helen,' he said softly, as she felt herself drift back to consciousness, 'wake up.'

Helen opened her eyes and smiled sleepily at him. A glow of warmth that began deep inside her core began to seep through the rest of her body, as she remembered the delightfully satisfying climax to their lovemaking. She nuzzled closer to him and pressed her body against his and savoured the gentle sensual heat that rippled through her. She knew that it must be time for them to leave, but she wanted to prolong the moment. She wanted to feel, once more, that moment of ecstasy, when her body and mind had been at one as the intense pleasure of her release had erupted through her.

She began to caress the hairs on his chest, tracing the lines of his muscle down past his waist. As she felt him respond, she reached up and kissed him. She did not feel the same urgency as earlier and was happy to let passion and desire creep up slowly. It would allow her to savour every deliciously glorious sensation that was pulsating through her.

As she deepened the kiss, her hand continued to explore his body. She felt his ardour grow with every teasing touch, and it gave her great pleasure to feel the physical effect she was having on him. Helen was beginning to lose herself again when he stopped kissing her, and she felt him withdraw from her embrace.

He stood up and walked over to his discarded clothes and began to dress. As he walked towards the window, tieing his cravat loosely around his neck, she felt the dull ache of disappointment start to gnaw away at her.

She knew there was something catastrophically wrong. Helen sat up and wrapped the blanket loosely around her shoulders and rather than look at him, she stared at the glowing embers of the dying fire.

They were frozen in that position for several minutes. In the ensuing silence, Helen could hear him taking slow, deliberate breaths and knew that he was taking control of himself. But why? She had thought that a man of Huntingdon's reputation would have been more than willing to make love to her. After all, she was not a young, innocent lady fresh from the schoolroom, she was a widow; an experienced woman of the world. She thought that he knew the rules of the game. Indeed, she had played it many times herself.

When he had eventually spoken to her, to her surprise, he had apologised. He had even said that he had dishonoured her and he had to make amends. And then, after his unexpected apology, he had asked her to marry him.

Helen was now beginning to realise why he had withdrawn from her, despite of her blatant invitation. She had believed all the gossip Lady Helford had told her about the countless beautiful women he had seduced. When she had seen him looking incredibly handsome in the drawing-room the previous evening, dressed formally in black and white, he even looked the part. But, underneath the polished, elegant, carefree exterior, he portrayed to the world, he was not like that at all. He was honourable, and he had offered her his hand because he had thought he had wronged her. "Foolish man," she thought bitterly.

Helen had to put an end to this madness. A marriage between them would be out of the question. If he found out what she had done in Spain, and he would find out, he would be disgusted. And, of course, there was the promise she had made Haverstock. He had told her that one day, he would come and expect payment. And, on that day, she would have no choice but to fulfil it, whether she was married or not; he would not care.

The only thing she could think to do was to make him hate her. She had to convince him that she was a woman of no morals. She had to make him so angry that he would feel no guilt about what they had done and would withdraw the offer of marriage.

Firstly, she shocked him with the language that ladies in her position would never dream of using. She had told him that she had been driven by her own lust and that she had used him only as a conduit to satisfy her own carnality. Then, to shock him even further, she had made it sound like he was just another man she had used for her own sexual gratification.

In reality, it was far from the truth. During the past six years, since she had been in Lady Helford's employ, she had not made love to a man. And, he had been right, there had been a connection between them that went past the physical. She had felt a feeling of peace with him that she had not felt for a long time, perhaps ever. She had thought that the feeling had been one-sided, but she had been so dreadfully wrong.

Helen could still hear her glib, hollow words ringing in her ears. 'It was certainly a better way to spend my afternoon than having to listen to Lady Helford and her cronies, talk about their ailments or the latest on dits being discussed in fashionable drawing-rooms.'

She saw his body tense and a grim expression develop in his eyes, but she knew she had to go further. She had to make him revile her enough to reject her.

'I thought you understood the rules,' she said dispassionately. 'I am an experienced widow with my own wanton desires. I just thought that we could have an hour or two of mutual pleasure without any thought for the future.'

'So, you make a habit of this,' he said tartly.

She did not answer, she just smiled.

'Mrs Wakefield, I was mistaken in my initial opinion of you. I thought that you were a down-trodden ladies companion, but I was wrong. You are no better than a common whore.'

She felt the sting of his words like a slap on her cheek, but she could not show him how much they hurt her. It was not the first time she had been called a whore. During the years she spent in Spain after she had left Harry, she had lived her life outside the rules that govern polite society. The need to survive had been greater than the necessity to live one's life according to the strict rules of propriety. When she had been faced with the stark choice of living or dying, she had chosen life over death, even if it had meant degradation.

But, why did it hurt so much when he said it to her? He was just a stranger, a man she had only met the day before. However, he was unlike any man she had met before, he had a sense of misplaced honour. She had to persuade him that he owed her nothing. Therefore, she had to play her part, just like she had done in Spain all those years ago. She had to pretend that his hurtful words meant nothing to her.

'Perhaps I am a whore,' she managed to say indifferently. 'Why should you care?'

She could see that her words had angered him further. 'Well done,' he said sardonically. 'I really did believe all those lies you told me about "feeling again." When all you really wanted to do was to satisfy your own base desires.'

'And, tell me, my lord,' she said defiantly, 'what is wrong with that? How many times have you used honeyed words to coax a woman into your bed.'

'That is different,' he said defensively.

'Why?' Helen retorted, she knew that her words had struck home, 'because I am a so-called "respectable" woman with no physical needs or desires of my own. It was really quite simple, I wanted you, and you wanted me. Why should I not take advantage of an opportunity to sake my lust when it's presented to me? We are, after all, adults and capable of making our own decisions.'

He said nothing. He just looked at her with his stormy grey eyes that were full of fury.

'A man of your reputation,' she said, still looking at him and keeping her voice devoid of emotion, 'should understand the nature of this type of liaison.'

'And,' he replied, his voice threaded with steel, 'what type of "reputation" would that be?'

'Your reputation as a...' Helen stopped, but she continued to look at him. The coldness in his eyes had made her feel rather bleak, and she could feel her mask beginning to slip. She took a deep breath and composed herself. Showing any vulnerability would be displaying her weakness, and that was something she could not do. 'As a rake,' she managed to say without flinching at the words.

He turned away from her and looked out of the window. His hands were clenched, and Helen could feel his anger that was directed towards her. 'I wouldn't believe everything you hear from Lady Helford and her army of gossips. I can assure you that most of it is highly exaggerated.'

She knew that now, but it was too late the damage had been done. She should have known earlier when she was sitting on his lap, offering herself to him. When most men would have had no qualms about making love to her, she had felt a reticence in him. She had to coax and cajole him; she had had to seduce him.

She had misjudged him. She wanted to reach out and touch him and tell him what she had told him at the cliff's edge was true. That she wanted to, after all these years, feel again. She wanted to say to him that she had felt that connection between them as well. For Helen, it had been so much more than an intense physical release, she had felt an infinity with him emotionally.

She closed her eyes again to summon up the strength to disgust him for the final time. She must not make the mistake of confusing love with desire. That was a mistake she had made with Harry, and she had been paying the price for that ever since. She opened her eyes, squared her shoulders defiantly and looked into his eyes. 'It meant nothing,' she said boldly, but the words sounded hollow.

'Now you know that type of woman I am,' she said coolly, 'do you still wish to marry me.'

'No,' he said firmly, his back to her.

'Then I release you from your obligation,' she said tartly.

He walked across the room and refused to look at her. He picked up his greatcoat that was near the fireplace. 'Very well, Mrs Wakefield,' he said as he went towards the door, 'I will say no more on the matter.'

Helen nodded. She felt a cold shiver run through her and she pulled the blanket tightly around her. During their conversation, the fire had died out, and the room felt cold.

'I believe it has stopped raining,' he said curtly, 'can you find your way back to the Hall?'

'Yes, my lord,' she said, trying to hide the bleakness she felt, 'I can look after myself.'

'Very well,' he said abruptly, 'Good day, Mrs Wakefield.'

He left her standing in the parlour of the cottage without giving her a backwards glance. Once she had heard the door close, she sank onto the chair and put her hands over her face and let the tears she had held back begin to flow. She had been foolish. She had thought that she could control her long-buried emotions and that it would be easy to tame them back into place. However, she had forgotten that the heart was a complex organ and was not easily ruled by the head.

She took a deep breath and took control. She was still raw inside, but she had to continue even if it was just for her son.