Tempting the Bride - By Sherry Thomas Page 0,9
to be brooding.”
“Brooding? Me? I was but imagining the pleasures that await me tonight. Must make hay while the sun yet shines, you see, before it is off to the country to rusticate.”
Monteth sighed. “You have my envy, Hastings—make hay while the sun yet shines indeed. Don’t marry too soon like the lot of us.”
“I’ll make sure not to mention our conversation to Mrs. Monteth,” Hastings said lightly. “How is the missus, by the way?”
“Always up to something, that woman,” grumbled Monteth.
“I hope she isn’t conspiring against you?”
“Not me, thankfully—not yet, at least. But the wife is always conspiring against somebody.”
It was not an exaggeration. Mrs. Monteth was not so much a gossip as a self-appointed guardian of virtue and righteousness. She spied on the servants, opened random doors at country house parties—for which reason she was seldom invited anywhere these days—and did just about everything in her power to expose and punish the private moral failings of those around her.
“So whom is the missus going after this week?”
“Don’t know,” grumbled Monteth. “But she’s been spending an awful lot of time with her sister.”
Hastings felt an odd tingle in his spine. “Could she have something on Mr. Martin?”
Monteth shook his head. “That man sits in a room with his books and his typewriter and never comes out. The missus wouldn’t waste her time on him.”
If Monteth only knew.
“No,” continued Monteth. “Martin doesn’t have the stones to overstep the bounds.”
Martin had done it once. He could most certainly do it again, his promise to Fitz notwithstanding.
“Well,” said Hastings. “Keep me abreast of the missus’s intrigues, will you? Nothing I love more than a good old-fashioned scandal.”
CHAPTER 2
Work had become Helena’s refuge, solid stretches of time during which she could forget that she’d become a prisoner in her own life. A particular source of solace of late had been Tales from Old Toad Pond, a collection of children’s books, the rights to which she’d acquired earlier in the year.
The books depicted the escapades of a pair of ducklings and their friends around a seemingly placid pond that nevertheless offered all the adventures any young heart could desire—or handle, as foxes came sniffing in spring, crocodiles arrived to escape the heat of Egypt in summer, and silly little bunnies sometimes set their houses on fire while toasting carrots during the equinox celebrations.
Helena planned to publish one story a month for twelve months, beginning in September, and then a handsome boxed collection for the following Christmas, to be followed by a single volume containing all the previously published stories, plus a pair of new ones to make for a lucky fourteen in total.
She’d never met Miss Evangeline South, the author of the tales, but found the woman easy to work with. The tales hadn’t originally been intended to be a round-the-year series, and Helena had asked for a number of modifications. The changes completed thus far had been made quickly, and very much to Helena’s satisfaction.
She toyed with the idea of hiring a calligrapher to render the text of the books, which would increase her initial cost of production, but which—
A knock came at her door.
“Yes?”
Miss Boyle, her secretary, poked in her head. “Miss, Lord Hastings to see you.”
Helena’s chair scraped rather audibly.
Hastings occasionally came to fetch her at Fitz’s behest, but Fitz and Millie were not in London—they were on their way to the Lake District, in fact.
“You may show him in, but warn him I have only a few minutes to spare.”
“Yes, miss.”
Helena took a quick look at herself in the small mirror on the wall. She was in her usual white shirtwaist, an antique cameo brooch at her throat. Her sister, Venetia, two years older than she, was the Great Beauty of their generation. Helena was often grateful that she hadn’t been burdened with Venetia’s stunning looks, which made most men and quite a number of women incapable of seeing Venetia beyond her face.
Today, however, she wished she were as staggeringly beautiful as Venetia. She would have enjoyed flaunting all that gorgeousness before Hastings, and rendering him agape at what he could not have.
Hastings walked in with the smile of the Cheshire cat and the gait of a Siberian tiger, a big man who moved surely but lightly, always on the prowl.
Helena gritted her teeth—she could swear she’d never noticed his gait before the beginning of this year.
He sat down. “Miss Fitzhugh, how glad I am that you can spare five minutes to see me.”
“I’d offer you a seat, but I