Tempting the Bride - By Sherry Thomas Page 0,16

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 strong. 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,