Her Husband's Harlot by Grace Callaway Page A

existence. Chewing
moodily, he reflected on the sumptuous breakfast that would have greeted him at
home. Since Helena's arrival, the quality of the fare served on his table had
improved dramatically. Nowadays, coddled eggs, grilled kidney, and
well-seasoned potatoes greeted him in the morning. On some days, there were cornmeal
cakes, tender rounds brushed with a buttered rum sauce and dotted with currants.
A feast fit for a king—but apparently not for the likes of him.
    Because he had chosen to skulk like a thief from his own house at the break of
dawn. Without waking his valet. Without eating a majestic breakfast.
    Without
running into his wife.
    Nicholas
tossed the bun aside. It bounced along the wooden planks, attracting a swarm of
squawking gulls. He felt like a bloody jackanapes for avoiding his own wife. But
for Helena's sake, he had to stay away. To spare her from his bestial needs ...
and God knew what else was lying in wait for him.
    I
know your dirty little secret.
    As he
had so many times since finding the note, he told himself that in all
likelihood it was merely a prank: an act of spite by some disgruntled worker. That
fellow Bragg came readily enough to mind. The note's message was vague, after
all, so that any recipient with a guilty conscience would feel spooked and brought
down a notch or two. That was likely the full intent of it. A deed of harmless
malice—one with no teeth.
    But
what if it was not just a hoax?
    What
if someone actually knew who he'd been ... and what he'd done?
    Panic
rippled over his heart as he contemplated the water with bleak eyes. He couldn't
risk the taint of his past touching Helena. For now, it was best to distance
himself from her. He'd done a fair job of that, until yesterday. Having run out
of clean shirts, he'd had to return to the townhouse. He'd thought to make a
discreet entry and exit, only his wife had stepped out of the drawing room at
precisely the wrong moment.
    Her
voice had called to him, the sweetest of snares. He'd been caught, red-handed
as a poacher, with no choice but to face her. To gaze upon her innocent,
smiling face, her eyes warm as a golden wheat field and her hair wild and loose
as if she'd recently tumbled in one. Instantly, he'd been gripped by competing
torrents of desire and guilt. Aye, it had nigh suffocated him, robbed him of
mind and breath to even converse with her.
    So he'd
stood there like a bloody fool.
    Wanting
her.
    Hating
himself.
    What
had transpired next bewildered him even further.
    They
had actually quarreled . Or something perilously close to that. Though
there had been no harsh words or raised voices, the tension in the room had
been as thick as the fog that presently surrounded him. And over what? A bloody
party, for Christ's sake. Helena had never cared before whether or not he
accompanied her on the torturous rounds of the Season—why did she care now, and
so vehemently? At the mention of the musicale, his heretofore gentle, sweet-tempered
wife had suddenly vanished, to be replaced by a goddess whose ire blazed
brighter than the sun.
    Did
she like musicales so much then?
    The spark
in her eyes as she'd done battle with him—he'd never seen such spirit in her
before. In fact, she had seemed like another person altogether. In all the time
he had known Helena, she had never asked anything of him. Always, she had been
accommodating, acquiescent, the epitome of womanly virtue.
    What the
hell had happened to his demure wife?
    It
was bloody confusing.
    And
more than a little arousing.
    Nicholas
rubbed his forehead, damp from the misty air. Damn his lustful appetites to
hell and back. The truth was a good fight always stirred his juices. It had
been a fortunate thing that he'd made his exit quickly, graceless as it was. A
minute more and he might have done something to truly regret. It was just
another reminder of the differences between the two of them: his wife had
engaged him in a genteel disagreement, while he'd had the urge to solve