Winning Lord West Read online

  Abruptly her euphoria drained away. She hadn’t heard him sound so sincere since those ecstatic weeks at Woodley Park, when she’d imagined herself in love with him. He didn’t sound like the shallow man she’d judged him to be. He sounded like someone who took the trouble to know her.

  The fermenting fear in her stomach built to terror.

  Long ago she’d placed Vernon Grange in a box marked “hazardous.” And that was where she wanted him to stay. “I had no idea you thought of me at all, let alone always,” she said repressively.

  Something that might have been regret shadowed his features, before he resumed his lazy manner. He hadn’t been a languid boy. He’d been vivid with passion and enthusiasm. But then so had she. Her verve hadn’t survived her marriage.

  “What do you think of Artemis?”

  Helena wanted to dismiss West’s choice of horse, if only to avoid admitting that in arranging that glorious gallop, he knew her better than she knew herself. But she couldn’t lie about such a superb creature.

  “She’s a dream.” Then went on when satisfaction sparked in his eyes. “Can I buy her from you?”

  “She’s not for sale,” he said curtly. The bay snorted and shifted, as if West tightened his grip on the reins.

  “That’s a pity.” Helena leaned down to pat Artemis’s satiny neck. “I love her already.”

  “She’s not for sale because she’s already yours.”

  “West,” Helena began in a warning tone.

  He raised a hand in a conciliatory gesture. “But I’ll keep her for the moment.”

  “You’ll keep her because I haven’t accepted her,” Helena retorted, stifling a pang. If only the price of taking Artemis wasn’t so high.

  “No, I’ll keep her because you haven’t accepted me,” he said. Then added with an edge, “Yet.”

  Before Helena could muster the words to put him in his place, he wheeled his great monster of a horse around and galloped back toward his guests.

  Letters

  Dover, 25th May 1820

  My dearest Helena,

  Man proposes, and God disposes. Or at least Lord Liverpool does. According to our esteemed prime minister, my private pursuits must play second fiddle to the nation’s needs.

  I’m off to St. Petersburgh to solve a horrid diplomatic tangle for the Tsar. A horrid tangle that threatens to play havoc with the India trade, so you can imagine how the East India Company is up in arms about it all.

  I have no idea how long I’ll be away. Liverpool said it could be as much as three months.

  Damn it, Helena, the ship is about to sail to catch the tide. I have so much to say to you, most of which I know you’re not ready to hear. I’m sadly aware that we have years of past hurts to bridge.

  Write to me at the embassy in St. Petersburgh.

  Yours in haste.

  West

  P.S. I’m consigning Artemis to your care. If you won’t accept her as a gift, consider her a loan. No, as an expression of intentions that at present I’m too far away to make reality.

  ***

  London 26th May 1820

  Lord West,

  I wish you safe and swift travels – straight to the devil!

  You have no right to call me your dearest, and only a regrettable childhood association gives you the smallest right to use my Christian name. Don’t bother writing to me. I won’t read your letters. And I won’t set up a cozy correspondence as though we’re anything more than the merest acquaintances. The thought of the nation’s welfare in your careless hands gives me the shivers. It’s even less likely that I’d entrust my person to you.

  Sir, as far as I’m concerned, the Russians are welcome to you.

  With no respect whatsoever.

  Helena Crewe

  P.S. Most unwillingly, I’ve found Artemis a place in my stables. Inquiries indicate you have closed up your London house for the duration of your absence. I’m now making arrangements to send her down to Cranham. Your lack of care for her is yet another indication that you’re the same irresponsible boy you always were.

  ***

  St. Petersburgh, 30th June 1820

  My lovely Firebrand,

  Your sweet missive was waiting when I reached St. Petersburgh yesterday. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. Your words had the bracing effect on my spirits that I’m sure you intended. In comparison, I found myself thinking fondly back on the hellish journey across the Continent.

  I hope the letters I wrote on the way have warmed you up a little since then. It’s a good thing I like a challenge—which must be why they sent me on this plaguy quest to solve Russia’s quarrels in the first place.

  We arrived last night, and so far I’ve had little chance to see the city. We’re billeted in a pink and white palace on the Neva, with icing sugar decoration and big china stoves in every room. It doesn’t get dark at night at all. There are canals everywhere. It’s a most elegant place. I wish you were here to share your acerbic opinions and remind me I haven’t wandered into a fairy tale. Although I imagine once the Tsar’s negotiations start, any magic will vanish in a puff of bureaucratic pomposity.

  I also wish you were here because I find myself missing you and all your prickles. I’ll think of you as my dear little hedgehog. There, does that not melt your heart?

  Tomorrow the ambassador presents me to his Imperial Majesty, the Tsar. I’m sure you’ll want to hear about that, so I hope you won’t tear up the letter the moment arrives.

  With my dearest wishes.

  West

  P.S. I hope you’re making sure Artemis gets plenty of exercise, and you’re riding her, not some brick-handed groom who won’t appreciate the highly strung miracle she is.

  ***

  London, 28th July 1820

  My lord,

  Kindly desist from writing to me. As I consign any correspondence from you to the drawing room fire, all you’re doing is supplying me with exotic kindling. Your activities are of no interest and I’d prefer that we returned to being polite strangers. That relationship has served us well since we both grew up. At least I grew up. Nothing I’ve seen indicates that you have.

  Not yours.

  Helena, Lady Crewe

  P.S. As if I’d employ a heavy-handed groom. The unhealthy Russian air must have rotted your brain.

  ***

  Outside Moscow, 3rd September 1820

  My beautiful sweetheart,

  How villainously those of high degree lie to their humble servants. I’d hoped to be home by now and telling you in person of my unending admiration. Even as an impossible brat who was either hanging around the stables getting underfoot, or hidden in the corner of the library with your nose in some dusty volume, you were something special.

  I know I have much to atone for—what I can’t bear is that you feel I’m responsible for Crewe’s disgraceful behavior. We were both disappointed in him, although as his wife, you bore the brunt of his extravagance, drunkenness, and lechery. In comparison, a friend’s disillusionment pales to nothing.

  To Hades with me. I swore I’d wait until I saw you to address the matters that rise like a wall between us. It’s a wall I’m determined to scale. I imagine you waiting on the other side, like a captive princess.

  As you can see, all this Russian romance is softening my head. Of course, my Helena is no captive princess, but a warrior maiden. A man needs all his wit and weaponry to lay siege to her.

  The negotiations crawl along without noticeable progress. Every day, the Tsar goes hunting through birch forests, beautiful with coming autumn.

  Next week, we travel south to the Crimea without His Imperial Majesty. He feels his government—and the English interloper—needs to know the lay of the land down there to understand the full implications of this tangle. He’s off to the Congress of Troppau to strut on the world stage and enjoy some Western luxury. We might make headway without his royal interference.

  This is a strange, beautiful, stirring, half-barbaric country, for all
its wealth. I’d love to bring you here one day. I think your untamed spirit would feel at home. As I ride out every dawn, I imagine you galloping at my side, the way we galloped at Richmond half a world away.

  I hear Silas and Caro are more wrapped up in each other than ever. He really should marry the girl. And Fenella has a thousand admirers, but doesn’t give a fig for any of them. I also hear you and Lord Pascal have been seen together several times at the opera. I know he’s handsome, my darling, but the fellow will bore you to death once you’ve stopped looking at him and started listening to him. You need a man to keep you on your toes. A man undaunted by your magnificent brain.

  There’s a much more suitable lover available, although he’s currently occupied abroad on international affairs.

  I hope when you sleep, you dream of me.

  Your fervent admirer

  West

  P.S. When it comes time to put Artemis to stud, allow me to suggest my stallion Perseus. They will have beautiful, spirited offspring.

  ***

  Cranham, Wiltshire, 10th October 1820

  Sir,

  Despite repeated requests to refrain, still you pester me with unwanted confidences and reflections. Again I tell you they—like you—are of no interest. It seems cursed unfair that you are much more annoying at a distance than you ever were in London. The Russian doxies mustn’t keep you as amused as our local variety always has. I hesitate to recommend sin, but, my lord, you need to fill those long Russian nights with something other than the cold ashes of an old dalliance. If sin has palled through overfamiliarity, permit me to suggest that you take up knitting.

  Again, I insist that you cease this stupid game and leave me in peace.

  Hopefully for the last time.

  Lady Crewe

  P.S. Artemis remains your horse, even if she’s been eating her head off in my stables for the last six months. I begin to think you sent her to me as an economy measure. The arrangements for breeding her are none of my concern.

  ***

  London, 1st December 1820

  West, old chum!

  Congratulate the happiest man in England. Nay, the world. My glorious Caro has agreed to become my wife, and I’m ten miles high in the sky as a result.

  Can you tear yourself away from the bears and the balalaikas and the Cossacks long enough to come home and stand up with me? Our plan is to have a quiet wedding at Woodley Park on Valentine’s Day. Forgive the sentimental choice of date, but I’ve become disgustingly sap-headed since my beloved consented to marry me. Then a short honeymoon before Caro and I leave with the Horticultural Society’s expedition to China.

  The dates are fairly set in stone, so I’ll understand if noblesse obliges you to stay shivering in the snow and ice, running the Tsar’s errands.

  But given you’ve been my best friend since I could walk, I’ll be dashed sorry if you can’t make it to Leicestershire to raise a glass in my honor and make an embarrassing speech at the wedding breakfast.

  Anyway, let me know when you can. There’s nobody I’d rather have at my side when I pledge my life to the woman I love.

  Yours, etc.

  Stone

  The Wooing

  Chapter One

  Woodley Park, Leicestershire, February 1821

  Helena strolled out of her childhood home into a perfect winter morning. The air was cold enough to make her lungs ache, but the sky was pure blue and the light so clear that everything looked new minted. She stopped in the empty stable yard and sucked in a deep breath. The worries and stresses of city life drained away.

  She was a countrywoman at heart. Always had been.

  Instead of living in London most of the year, she should spend more time on her estate, Cranham. Especially with Caro and Silas traveling, and Fenella planning her wedding to Anthony Townsend.

  How she’d miss having her friends close by. She didn’t exaggerate when she credited the other members of the dashingly named Dashing Widows with saving her life in those dark days after Crewe’s death in a hunting accident. Not that she’d missed the philandering bastard, but nine turbulent years as his wife had left her bitter and withdrawn. Caro and Fen had reminded her she was more than just a foolish girl who had wed a rake and lived to regret it.

  Now Caro and Fenella looked forward to their own happiness, which was wonderful. Except…

  Except Helena felt left behind, still mired in the past. Sighing, she tapped her crop against her thigh. Enough self-pity. She’d had a bellyful of that, married to Crewe. With her friends embarking on new lives, she needed a fresh purpose, something to carry her through the inevitable loneliness.

  And she had plenty to be grateful for. She was her own woman with resources to take any path she chose.

  Luckily by the time her father drew up the wedding settlements, he didn’t trust the man his daughter had chosen. The late Lord Stone had made provision for Helena to have exclusive use of a substantial portion of her dowry. Within the first few years of marriage, Crewe had gone through his own fortune, as well as every penny he’d gained in wedding her. Without her father’s foresight, she’d have been destitute. Then last year, an inheritance from a bluestocking aunt had turned her from comfortable to wealthy.

  There was time enough to decide which worlds to conquer. Today she had a lovely morning, a fine horse waiting, and familiar haunts to revisit.

  With a light step, she headed for the stables. “Good morning, Becket,” she said as the head groom appeared, pushing a laden wheelbarrow.

  “Miss Helena,” he said, forgetting that she was no longer the family’s coddled daughter, but the much grander Countess of Crewe. If only she could forget, too. “We’ve missed you about the old place.”

  His lined face creased in a greeting that reminded Helena how happy she’d been growing up at Woodley Park. The estate had been Eden until the arrival of a snake, in the form of Gerald Wade, Lord Crewe.

  Becket had put her on her first pony before she could walk. He must be over eighty, but Silas couldn’t convince him to accept a comfortable retirement. Becket vowed that while the Nash horses needed care, he’d be on duty.

  “Did Artemis settle overnight?”

  “Aye. Like a champion. A right fine little mare she is.” His eyes sharpened. “Comes from Shelton Abbey, don’t she? Has the look of old Shah Persis.”

  Helena’s sallow skin didn’t hold a blush, but unaccustomed heat burned in her cheeks. “I bought her from Lord West earlier this year.”

  “The Granges don’t like to share their best horses. You was a lucky ‘un, then.”

  “Yes, I was.” She hoped that West, when he returned, would reconsider selling the mare and change her lie into the truth. Lord West might annoy and trouble her, but Artemis was a joy.

  Becket bobbed his head and trundled away out of earshot. When Helena entered the stables, Artemis stretched her neck over the loosebox door and whickered in welcome.

  “Hello, lovely girl.” Helena extended half a wizened apple on her palm and smiled as Artemis’s velvety nose brushed her skin in equine greed. When she scratched behind the Arab’s ears, they pricked forward in encouragement. “Did you miss me?”

  “Like the very devil.”

  The baritone drawl made Helena jump and drop the other half of the apple. Artemis wasn’t pleased.

  Nor was Helena.

  She closed her eyes, inhaled a breath of hay-scented air, prayed for composure, and turned. A tall, dark man leaned one broad shoulder against a post in the central aisle. He watched her with unwavering concentration.

  “Lord West,” she said coolly. “Still sneaking up on people, I see. You could give a cat lessons.”

  Sardonic humor curled his mouth and made him dazzlingly attractive, damn him. Her silly heart had started to race the moment he spoke. Sheer surprise, she told herself staunchly.

  “I’d rather give you lessons.”

  She didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Better take the time to learn a little humility. I tol
d you I wasn’t interested.”

  “Even after I wrote you all those fascinating letters?”

  “You’re most welcome to go back to writing. I’ll go back to ignoring you.”

  “A little difficult when we’re under the same roof until the wedding.”

  Oh, no. Although she knew Silas had asked West to be his groomsman, the coward inside her had hoped that her bugbear would stay in Russia. “You make it sound so scandalous, when you know it’s perfectly respectable.”

  “A man can live in hope.” He straightened and sauntered closer with that long, smooth stride that she remembered so well. Except now she had a chance to see him in stronger light, a gasp of dismay escaped her. “West, you’re not well.”

  His winged brows drew together in annoyance. “Like hell I’m not.”

  “You look dreadful.” It wasn’t altogether true. He’d lost a lot of weight in the months since they’d last met, and he was worryingly pale. But extreme thinness emphasized the purity of his bone structure, and in his striking face, the dark green eyes glittered with familiar wickedness.