Page 10 of Falling For The Dowager

“Do you wish to dwell on it, lass?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you want to tell me if you’re more hurt by the infidelity, the coming bairn, or about the gossip… That’s why you came up here, isn’t it?” Dickon guessed as Helena looked up into his face.

She didn’t deny it, and if all he’d read about London society was as poisoning as it sounded, he could not blame her.

“Can’t all three upset me?” she asked, swiping again at her face as she stared up at him.

“Aye, of course, but do you think there is one that plagues you most?”

“I think I am a shallow woman to be bothered by the gossip. Would you judge me for a saint if I said I was most upset that the doctors were right, and it was my fault all along?”

“No, of course not, madam,” he said hastily but not quick enough for her sharp tongue and quicker wit.

“Then you would know whether I was worthy of sympathy.”

“You have it for what it is worth. I wish to know what words might soothe you the most.”

“You do?”

“Aye.” He gave her a weak grin, “So if you said it was the wee bairn, I might suggest you visit Farmer Steward and his wife with their twins. One of them has colic and screams whenever he comes to church until our priest asked them to cease for fear his sermons would not be heard. I even walked behind the pair of them after the first service, and the wee brat cast up his accounts all down his pa’s back. Spend a bit of time in that cottage, and it might cure you.”

Helena looked at him for one long moment, tears still sparkling in her eyes, and her lip wobbled as if she might start crying again, but instead she let out a shaky little laugh. “What is the balm for an injured soul you would offer up?”

“Oh indeed,” Dickon warmed to his theme and continued, “I feel certain if any woman were truly to claim to want a bairn, they should spend time with one, unfiltered and truly, so they can understand what it is like.”

“That is not traditional…” Helena leant back in his arms, so her shoulders rested on the armrest, but she did not pull away. “Ladies do not do that. Besides, what if I were to do that, and still wanted one?”

Dickon pulled a face, “I suppose then there would be no cure for that.”

A single tear slipped out from her left eye and rolled down her cheek.

“But I think you are brave enough to face that.”

“How can you possibly say that?” Helena asked. “After all, I ran from London and hid up here. Away from it all.”

“Of course you are brave,” Dickon said, “you faced all this for the entirety of your marriage.” A thought occurred to him, and he reached out in the small, slight space, pushing one of the strands of hair off her face. “After all, you had to listen to the doctors saying it was your fault, but they were being paid by him, never forget that.”

Helena moved abruptly, her hand catching and holding him in place against her cheek. The touch was solid and strong, and despite himself, all Dickon could think was how soft her skin was, how well his hand looked there cupping her cheek, and how much he wanted to kiss her again. That despite the hardships she’d endured, Helena had to be the most graceful, truly the sweetest woman he’d ever held within his arms, and her dead husband was the biggest fool on this side of the equator.

“Not a single one of my friends has ever been so blunt,” she said, her blue eyes staring into his, making it impossible to look away or escape the feeling he was drowning in those ocean-blue depths. “Thank you.”

That said, she closed the distance between them and pressed her lips against his own. It was a gentle kiss of thanks. Not the kind of passion they had shared in the forest earlier today, but so soft and coaxing, trusting and kind, that Dickon could not resist it. He reached up and encased her head with his hands, holding her tightly to him, deepening the kiss until her lips parted and their tongues touched. The taste of whisky danced over his tongue rich and vibrant and so enticing. But now was not the moment for more. He paced himself as he pressed more fervent kisses to her face, brow, and hair, and pulled her in close.

Against his chest, Helena let out a half sigh, half moan, and there was a sense of accomplishment in knowing they both wanted to enjoy the next act, ached for it even. Yet, his sense of duty and their willpower would not take that step. No, they would need to be sober… Dickon stopped himself. He would not let himself consider what it might be like to actually bed Helena. No, he would be satisfied with simply holding her. That, in itself, was a privilege.

Leaning farther back amongst the squashy plush pillows, Dickon rested his eyes, fully enjoying the sense of wholeness that seemed to exist between the two of them. From outside the study windows, there came a hoot of an owl and the distant sound of Mrs. Fuller and Anna chatting. Contentment and a sense of sleepiness crept through him, and knowing that such feeling rarely occurred indoors since he was a creature of the wild and a man best suited to the natural world, to find this here, inside, with this woman curled up close to him, felt all the more precious.

CHAPTER 7

When Helena woke up, it was with the sensation of a chest rising and falling beneath her cheek. It felt safe. There was a steely band of an arm resting on her back. Blearily, she moved forward and lifted her head. The study was still and dark, the embers in the fireplace were dark, and the soft sound of the parkland could be heard through the ajar window. The half-light looked like dawn to her uneducated eyes.

Slowly, she rose up from the seat, careful not to disturb Callum. He looked younger than when awake, and there was a vulnerability to his softened jawline and his long dark eyelashes. A little dash of almost femininity when he normally was so masculine. How had she been so foolish as to curl up and sleep in his arms? And yet the smile that spread over her lips was undeniable, and she had to shake herself to stop a giggle rising through her. He made her blush. He made her smile. And most importantly of all, he made her feel as if the outside world did not matter because, with him, she would be safe.

With careful, studious movements, Helena got out of the armchair and moved across to the window, looking down into the quiet, sleepy garden below. A strange urge surged in her chest, a desire to be outside, to be amongst the wet woodland, and the heavy hanging damsons and hawthorn berries. She had to resist the craving to wake Callum and slip outside.

“What are you dreaming about?” he asked.