“No.” Eager hands snatched at his arms.
Puzzled he stared at her. “No?”
“No.” Licking her lips, she tasted West. “No, don’t go.”
He straightened. “So really it’s yes?”
West was always presented comme il faut, with never a hair out of place. No wonder the government sent him abroad as England’s perfect gentleman. Now he looked ferocious and on edge, a thousand miles from the nonpareil who graced London’s drawing rooms. The thick black hair was mussed. His creased shirt hung loose about his narrow hips. Stubble darkened his jaw, potent reminder of his masculinity.
“For God’s sake, Hel,” he burst out when she didn’t speak. “You must know you’re safe with me. Not every man’s a bastard like Crewe.”
Not even the mention of her vile husband pierced the spell falling over her. “You’ve grown up devilish handsome, you know, West,” she said slowly. “I’ve never taken the time to appreciate you properly.”
To her delight, this world-weary libertine blushed a painful red. “What flummery.”
An instinct she hesitated to trust after the debacle with Crewe insisted that this time she wouldn’t end in a humiliated huddle. This time she chose a lover worthy of the name. After tonight, she’d understand the glow that surrounded Fen and Caro.
Years of tension flowed away, leaving behind pure desire. She must look revoltingly dreamy. Like West, she’d waited so long for this moment.
“Take me to bed.”
***
West must be dreaming. Had he fallen asleep waiting for Helena? Surely she hadn’t just invited him to tup her.
“West?”
No dream then. Thank you, God. He’d spent his entire adult life wanting her. Now lovely, unattainable Helena was here, warm, willing, and welcoming.
“I was planning the many ways I mean to pleasure you.”
“Perhaps you should stick to the basics.” Uncertainty dimmed her eyes. “Remember I’m out of practice.”
She was more than out of practice—she was a rank beginner. Crewe must have gone at his wife completely ham-fisted. West wanted to break the bastard’s neck all over again.
“A woman who rides a horse like you do will have no trouble with another sort of riding.”
Her low, sultry chuckle made him as hard as a fence post. Even as a girl, she’d had this siren’s voice, husky, alluring, suggestive.
He caught her by the hips and kissed her, poignantly aware that despite nine years of marriage, she was in essence still virginal. Difficult to remember when she curled against him and opened her mouth. Impossible when her tongue flickered around his in a hectic dance that threatened to blow his head off.
She wrenched away and glared at him, all fire and arrogance. “Don’t you dare.”
“What—”
“You’re feeling sorry for me again.”
“Damn it, Helena, I’m trying to be considerate.”
“Don’t,” she growled. “If Crewe couldn’t break me, nothing can.”
What a damned sapskull he was. He did her an injustice. Tonight she’d revealed her vulnerability, and he’d let that blind him to her resilience. She deserved everything he could give. More, she thrived on someone matching her. He only had to recall those impudent letters to recognize that. “I don’t want to break you. I want to make you whole.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I am whole. You know me, West. I’m no shrinking violet.”
This woman threw herself over towering fences on horses most men would hesitate to mount. She always rode at the front of the pack. If he wanted to keep up with her, he must play the game to the best of his ability.
The challenge fired his blood.