at talent and hard work. And that would have been a far superior way to earn my attention than those loathsome methods of your choosing.”
He looked into her eyes, lovely, imperious eyes that had enslaved him from the very beginning. “You are right. I’m sorry.”
Her lips parted. For a moment it looked as if she were about to say something in response, but she didn’t. She ate the remainder of her sandwich in silence, wiped her hand on a napkin, and left.
Helena was about to go to bed when a knock came at the door. “Yes?”
It was Hastings, who could have used the connecting door between their bedrooms, but had chosen to approach via the formal entrance to her apartment.
She’d last seen him at Bea’s tea only hours ago, so there was no need for her pulse to accelerate at his proximity. But accelerate it did. Her hands had been all over his hair—and all over the rest of him. She’d licked his beautiful neck. And she’d offered to take his manhood into her mouth and pleasure him until he—
“You need something, Lord Hastings?” At least her voice sounded properly remote.
He had a large envelope in hand. “I have another manuscript for you.”
“Another Old Toad Pond tale?”
“No, something much less suitable for children.”
“What is that?”
“An erotic story.”
She blinked, taken aback. “Do children’s writers also dabble in pornography these days?”
He hesitated. “It’s an erotic story about you and me.”
Her heart thudded with both vexation and, unfortunately, further arousal. “You think I’d like a story about how you rogered me and enjoyed it?”
His eyes were on the envelope in his hand, his fingers wrinkling a corner of the flap. “It wasn’t written to titillate—or maybe I should say it wasn’t written merely to titillate. When your family took you to America at the beginning of the year, they hoped that time and distance would cool your passion for Mr. Martin. I, on the other hand, feared that deprivation would make you reckless, leading you to be caught. Should that be the case I would, of course, step in and offer marriage. And you would accept my hand to spare your family the scandal. But I couldn’t help imagining how miserable we’d be in that marriage, which led me to the writing of the story.”
His explanation made no sense to her. “And the story would have made us less miserable?”
“It’s—” He took a deep breath. “Yes, I thought it would. It’s a love letter, you see, full of everything that I could never say to you in person.”
A sweet misery engulfed her. So he did try, in however indirect a manner, to court her.
“Regrettably,” he went on, “I probably wrote and illustrate the story in such a way as to guarantee that you will never read past the first two pages.”
She could strangle him in her disappointment. “You are really your own best enemy, aren’t you?”
He raised his face, his eyes a sea grey in the light of the lamps. “Yes, I’ve known that a long time.”
She said nothing in response, but he could almost hear her scream, You idiot, in her head. He tapped his fingers against the envelope that contained everything he should have said to her long ago—or a copy of it, since the original was still in her office at Fitzhugh and Company.
“I’ll leave this with you, then.” He set down the envelope on an end table. “Good night.”
At the door, however, her voice stopped him. “When I was still at his house, Fitz told me to remember that you are sensitive and proud. I don’t mind people who are sensitive and proud, but you are to sensitive and proud what the Taj Mahal is to an ordinary mausoleum—a white marble monument with gardens, minarets, and a reflecting pool to boot.”
She exhaled long and unsteadily, as if trying to calm herself. “Why? Why are you like this?”
He had no idea how to answer such a question.
Her eyes narrowed, then she turned toward the mantel. He realized she was only following the direction of his line of sight, and he had been, without quite intending to, looking toward the photograph of his mother.
She walked to the mantel for a closer look at the photograph, which depicted his mother in costume. The small plaque on the frame read, Belinda Montagu as Viola. “Good gracious,” she muttered. “Is this your mother?”
He’d inherited the curls and the cheekbones from his mother; the resemblance was undeniable. “Yes.”
Helena turned around. “She was an actress?”
He could