Tempting the Bride - By Sherry Thomas Page 0,64
she’d thrown herself at him headlong, convinced of their perfect fit and future happiness?
She knew what he’d said to her, that all his misconduct had derived from his inability to declare his love. But she could see no love in his long history of insults and innuendos, only a thorough rottenness.
“I want to make her feel so welcome here that she never wants to leave,” he went on. “Will you help Papa, poppet?”
His voice could melt the enmity between heaven and hell. Bea, however, would not be so easily won over. She only continued to stare at her boots, as if the rest of the people in the room no longer existed. Or, as if by ignoring them all long enough, she could conjure them into nonexistence.
Miss McIntyre, Bea’s governess, chewed her lips nervously. Helena hadn’t meant to grow likewise anxious, hadn’t wanted to care about his success or lack thereof. But somehow she was holding her breath.
He spoke no more, but rubbed his thumb gently across the back of Bea’s small, fragile-looking hand, and waited. Helena disliked waiting; it made her restless and cross. But he possessed the patience of a hermit.
A minute passed. Two minutes. Three minutes. Bea’s governess was visibly fidgeting. Helena shifted her weight from one foot to the other, then back again. Another man would have banished Bea to her room without supper, but Hastings still waited, lifting his hand from Bea’s to smooth a strand of hair that had fallen loose from her braid.
Just as the tension in the nursery was becoming unbearable, Bea lifted her free hand and waved briefly in Helena’s general direction, with just her little finger held out. The governess emitted an audible sigh of relief. Helena exhaled almost as forcibly.
“Thank you, Bea,” she said. “I can’t tell you how touched I am. You have made me feel wonderfully welcome.”
Hastings shot her a look unreadable for its intensity. The chaos in her head began to multiply again. “I need to go my room to change and rest,” she said to Bea. “I leave your father here with you. Will you look after him?”
Bea nodded immediately, obviously relishing the thought. Her love for him made Helena’s heart pinch with a fresh pain.
As she walked past Hastings, he said softly, “Thank you.”
She left without answering. But once outside the nursery, she stopped and listened with the door slightly ajar. Contrary to what she’d expected, Bea did not suddenly become loquacious, “Papa” this and “Papa” that.
In fact, father and daughter remained resolutely silent. Helena pushed the door open an inch more and saw Hastings and Bea’s clasped hands. They stood before a glass container that held a small tortoise, solemnly watching the creature making its slow but determined round.
No grand murals awaited Helena in the mistress’s apartment, but an entire wall of books did, books that she had either already read and enjoyed or would dearly love to read as soon as she had the chance.
Had the previous woman who occupied this room, Hastings’s aunt, possessed similar taste to Helena? Or was this another instance of—
She did not let herself complete the thought.
Several maids helped sort her belongings into drawers and wardrobes. She supervised distractedly. After the staff had left, she sat down with a stack of books and tried to read. A knock came at her door half an hour later, when she was still only on page two of the first book. It was a footman, bearing a message from Hastings.
Dear Helena,
If you are not too weary from the journey, Bea and I would like to extend an invitation for you to join us for tea. She has decided, to my delight and surprise, to show you her favorite book. I hope you will enjoy reading it as much as we do.
Your servant,
Hastings
Had the invitation been issued by Hastings alone, Helena would have turned it down: The rail journey had been excruciating with him so near; she needed some more time to herself, away from him. But she did not have the heart to turn down Bea, if indeed it was the girl’s own idea to share her favorite book with Helena.
She was guided to a room that the footman referred to as Miss Bea’s tearoom. When the door opened before her, she stood for a moment on the threshold, taken aback by the painted vista that greeted her, a pretty pond surrounded by fetching little cottages that sprouted flowers from window boxes, pots affixed to the walls, and, in the