Free Her Husband's Harlot by Grace Callaway Page A

was obvious enough, wasn't it? She jotted in Nicholas and Helena . The sight of her name linked with her husband's
drew a wistful smile. The next item on the list: locale. Given that Nicholas
was hardly likely to barge into her bedchamber (or her, his), the site of the
seduction would have to begin elsewhere, in a more public arena. Well, why not
combine refreshments with location, and start with an intimate dinner for two?
    Inspired,
Helena hurried past a startled-looking Bessie and down the staircase. She
headed to the drawing room first, deciding that a pre-prandial drink might
prove an elegant touch. She knew her husband preferred whiskey over sherry; she
would be sure to have the finest single malt served in a crystal glass. As she
surveyed the well-appointed space, imagining the addition of candles and
pink-hued flowers to flare the romantic spirit, she could not help but feel a
touch of satisfaction. She may have disappointed Nicholas in the way of marital
relations, but in other ways she had assumed her wifely duties in a most
proficient manner.
    Before
their marriage, Nicholas had paid little mind to the running of his household—he
had simply continued with the archaic system instituted by the former marquess. When Helena had crossed the proverbial
threshold of her new home for the first time, she had been secretly horrified at
the dusty rooms and aged furnishings.
Bits of the plaster moldings had routinely crumbled onto the stained carpets
(and, if one was not careful, onto one's coiffure). The servants had slouched
around in uniforms tattered at the edges; more significantly, she'd later
learned, the wages of the house staff had not been increased for several years.
    Helena
had spent much of her time as a new bride attending to the domestic chaos. She
was rather proud of the results. As she looked about the clean and airy room,
she noted with satisfaction that the surfaces shone with polish and the
Aubusson rug had been restored to a silky luster. With the substantial increase
in their earnings, the staff had showed a renewed vigor and commitment to their
duties. They beamed as brightly as the golden buttons on their new livery.
    Smiling
wistfully, Helena pictured Nicholas and her sitting by the fire on the new maize
damask loveseat. After a day of work, he would appreciate the fine whiskey and
witty conversation she would supply him with. Perhaps she would arrange for
some hors d'oeuvres as well. She recalled that Nicholas had seemed partial to the
watercress sandwiches her mother served at tea and decided to add those to the
list of preparations. She was about to ring for the housekeeper to discuss the
dinner menu when she heard the front door open and close. Crikstaff's somber
tones could be heard, followed by a deeper, commanding voice.
    Every
fiber of her being sparked with recognition. And, truth be told, a panicky sort
of anticipation.
    Nicholas
was home.
    Helena heard the footsteps approaching the drawing room. She
flung herself onto the loveseat and frantically arranged her skirts, striving
for a casual yet attractive pose. Dash it all, how would Marianne sit? She
tried crossing her ankles. No, too prim. She uncrossed them and propped her elbow
against the armrest instead, thrusting her bosom forward. The steps grew closer
and closer. Her lips froze in a welcoming smile as the breath raced in and out
of her lungs. The steps were pausing now, outside the door ... and then they continued
past. It took a moment for her numbed mind to recognize what was happening.
    Nicholas
was walking away. He was leaving. Again.
    Instinct
took over. Somehow, she was at the door, flinging it open, her voice shaping
his name. She cringed at the shrill, desperate tone that escaped her. She sounded
less like a siren bent on seduction on more like a Billingsgate fishwife.
    "Harteford,"
she managed more calmly over the thudding in her ears. "Y-you are home."
    Nicholas
turned on the stairwell landing. Lord, but the sight of him