Page 33

She nearly laughed. That wasn’t true. The real mistake had been crossing his path in the first place—tainting his precious ideal of distinction and grace with her scandal-stained name.

Helena rested her head against the bedpost, her body sagging with exhaustion. The effects of the champagne were fading, leaving her lightheaded and ready to collapse.

"So why do it?" she whispered, raising a shoulder.

Lowen’s hands curled into fists at his sides, his knuckles white as they tightened and relaxed. “I thought you too far beneath me to legitimately pursue, and even though I agreed to marry you, I felt the need to punish you for it.”

“So I must bear the burden of your shame?” she scoffed weakly.

Strangely, her husband said nothing, only watching her through heavy-lidded eyes as she wiped at her face.

Too shaky and defeated to hold herself upright, Helena collapsed onto the bed, still fully dressed in her ballgown, shoes, and jewelry.

“I shall call for your lady’s maid,” Lowen said, moving toward the bell pull.

“No,” she interjected, fluttering her eyelids in an effort to stay awake. “Do not wake her. I can undress myself.”

“You’re already falling asleep,” he said, not unkindly, taking a seat beside her again. “At least allow me to remove your shoes.”

“I don’t want your help.” Helena tried to wriggle away, but he was sitting on part of her dress. Frustrated, she sat up and tugged at the fabric.

Lowen placed a firm but gentle hand on her wrist, halting her. “You’ll tear your gown.” He shifted, freeing the hem from beneath him, then quietly set to work removing her shoes.

After placing them neatly on the floor, he glanced at her again. “Let me help you get ready for bed,” he said softly.

Helena offered no resistance, quietly allowing him to lift her legs so he could remove her garters and stockings.

With his hands on her thighs, a familiar, enticing feeling pulsed between her legs.

Suddenly, she roused with the memory of their kiss, and beneath her shift, her nipples tightened in anticipation.

She let the hem of her gown fall temptingly to her hip as he gently rolled down the delicate silk of her stockings, his brow furrowed in concentration.

“Do you need help with your gown?” he asked roughly, looking somewhere past her, color high on his cheeks.

“I do.” Helena swallowed hard, then slowly and carefully drew herself up onto her knees, turning her back to him. Her breath hitched as she felt his hands at the fastenings of her dress. He worked quickly, and once he finished, he stepped back, allowing Helena to remove the gown on her own.

After tossing it aside, she glanced back at Lowen, who now had his back to her. “Where do you keep your nightgowns?” he asked.

Helena said nothing as she began untying her stays, a wicked idea taking root in her mind. It wasn’t a particularly good idea, made bolder by the champagne—and by her own desire for satisfaction. There was one thing she wanted from Lowen now—the only thing she knew he would have no complaint over.

Perhaps the only thing she could do right in this marriage was giving herself to him in bed. She doubted he would find fault in that.

"Helena?" he questioned after her silence.

"In the armoire next to the looking glass," she answered quickly.

She removed the rest of her garments, suppressing a shudder at the cold bite of air. Her nerve faltered a little as she waited naked for him atop the counterpane.

She heard him inhale sharply when he turned to look at her.

"What are you doing?"

"You said I was beneath you," she said, her voice cracking slightly as she repeated his words. Nonetheless, she began removing the pins from her hair, tossing them carelessly to the floor.

"Don’t you want me beneath you?"

"Not like this.”

Whether he realized it or not, he had drawn nearer, the nightgown limp in his fist.

"Why not?" she asked softly, shaking out her hair so it fell in honeyed streams over her shoulders. "You’re my husband."

They were face to face now.

"Helena. You don’t know what you’re doing," Lowen murmured, though his eyes drifted down to her breasts—and then lower still.

Helena scooted to the edge of the bed, opening her legs to him, and he fixed his gaze between her thighs.

"I do.”

Touch me. Caress me. Kiss me.

Her body screamed for him—pleading, begging, wailing.

Could she not even do this right?

Was this pathetic ploy for affection working against her as well?

She was about to weep again—until she saw her nightgown fall to the floor and felt Lowen’s hand cup her cheek, his thumb gently dabbing at a stray tear.

He circled the moisture, trailing it down to her parted lips, where she tasted its salt on his skin.

Then, with the same dampened touch, he found the sensitive pearl between her thighs.

At the sensation, Helena shivered, pleasure rippling outward and tightening low in her belly, making her pulse and throb with need.

She moaned softly. She had touched herself there before—but for someone else to do it, for Lowen to do it, felt infinitely better.

Heart pounding, she reached for his lapels, tugging at them in silent plea. He understood at once, shrugging out of his coat with a rough, eager movement that sent a thrilling shiver through her.

The buttons of his waistcoat nearly popped off as they both struggled to undo them. He threw it aside, followed by his cravat, tossing it carelessly to the floor. Helena’s pulse raced, her heart thudding in her ears like the frantic beat of a frightened rabbit.

Lowen tugged his shirt free of his breeches, but instead of removing it, he leaned forward. With careful, insistent hands, he pushed her back onto the bed, and widened her legs.

“I need you now,” he growled as he climbed over her, the weight of his body settling between her thighs.

His lips found hers, and Helena surged with delight, pulling him closer so that her sensitive nipples grazed the soft fabric of his shirt. His kiss deepened, wild and urgent, pulling from her every bit of feeling she hadn’t known she had, as if he was taking her breath and her very soul with it.

She melted into him, momentarily lost in the raw pleasure of the kiss, until she felt him shift, his body moving above her.

He propped an arm up as the other fumbled at his falls.

It was only when the sharp plunge of his cock split her in half that Helena had woken from her stupor.

Her gasp of shock was swallowed by Lowen, who still kissed her ferociously in his frenzy, unaware of the pain that was tearing her apart.

She dug her nails into his back for relief, an action he’d hardly noticed.

Despite this, Helena had no desire to stop. Instead, she hid her face in the crook of his neck while he moved within her. Trying to ignore the pain, she closed her eyes and concentrated on the wild rhythm of their bodies as one, and the strength of his arms around her, as if trapping her in a cage.

Lowen’s movements were deep and relentless, each thrust sending a sharp pain through her lower belly.

His hand gripped the back of her neck, pulling her closer, while his other hand seized her buttock, forcing her to widen her legs further.

The strength with which he held her only intensified her sense of helplessness.

He pressed his lips to her forehead, his breath warm against her skin as he whispered her name, sending an involuntary shiver down her spine.

As the pain slowly ebbed, Helena’s body began to respond—her hips rising instinctively, just as the modiste had once said.

Her body knew what to do, and she found herself moving with him, whimpering and mewing in a mix of pain and pleasure.

The slickness of her sex was audible with each plunge, raw and lewd, a sound that seemed to urge him on.

His thrusts grew harder, faster, as though he were pushing her to some precipice.

The grip on her neck tightened, almost possessive, until with a groan and a kiss to her temple, he shuddered and collapsed atop her, his weight pressing her into the bed.

"Helena, you feel—you feel heavenly," Lowen whispered, catching his breath as he smoothed back some of her hair and placed another kiss on her temple. "Are you well?"

Helena nodded wordlessly, tilting her head toward him for another kiss, but he pushed himself off her. Dismayed, she dropped her head back, staring up at the canopy, waiting for him to leave. When she heard no movement, she glanced up at him.

With a peculiar expression, he ran his fingers down her inner thighs, examining them closely, the tips stained with blood.

“D-did I hurt you?” he rasped.

“No,” she lied, closing her legs.

Her breath hitched suddenly, tears pricked at her eyes, and without warning, they spilled over. She couldn’t help it. She began to weep. The revelation of how Lowen truly felt about her, their first coupling, the way her body had responded to it—it was too much to bear.

“Helena. No, please.” She felt the bed dip as he lay next to her.

His arms encircled her, but she remained stiff against him, unable to take comfort in his touch.

“I’m sorry. I should’ve—I should’ve been gentle.

Helena, I’m so sorry.” His voice cracked with a choked sob, and it only made her weep harder.

He gathered her against him, holding her protectively while her broken cries shook the counterpane.

After a long moment, he disentangled himself, his movements slow as though he were reluctant to remove himself from her.

“I’m going to clean you up,” he told her gently, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

Helena heard the faint splash of water as he went to the washbasin, then felt him return, his hand gently coaxing her legs apart. She watched silently, her body trembling as he carefully cleaned her, applying gentle pressure to her most sensitive areas.

This care felt more intimate than their lovemaking, and Helena struggled to maintain her composure.

She had wanted Lowen’s touch—had initiated it herself, desperate for tenderness, for some sign of affection.

But now, as she lay still beneath the canopy, she resisted the urge to curl into herself.

His gentleness, offered only after the fact, felt foreign.

Perhaps because, though she had reached for him, he had taken her with a roughness she hadn’t anticipated. She couldn’t help but wonder if their coupling had been his way of punishing her after all.

At the thought, she bit her lip to stifle another sob.

When he finished, he helped her into a fresh nightgown. She didn’t have the energy to protest or even speak. She simply let him do it. Then he returned to her, holding her again as she cried softly into his chest.

Eventually, exhaustion claimed her, and Helena finally drifted into a troubled sleep in his arms.