Her Husband's Harlot Read Online Free PDF Page B

of
pinkness that her astute friend had likely already observed. Truth be told, she
was fairly bursting to talk about the extraordinary events that had transpired a
few hours ago, but how did one discuss delirious fornication with one's husband
in polite company?
    Her cup
rattled as she settled it into the saucer, the steam from the tea curling upward
into the slants of morning light. From the mantel, the ormolu clock chimed
eight times. Despite the lack of sleep, Helena's insides frothed with energy. She
eyed the plate of tarts on the rosewood coffee table. Bejeweled with dollops of
Cook's delicious blackberry jam, the pastries seemed to wink at her. With a
resolute sigh, Helena turned her gaze back to her cup. If she wanted to win
Nicholas back, she needed to stick with her slimming plan.
    "My
dear, that tea, fine Ceylon though it may be, can hardly bear such studious
observation," Lady Marianne remarked. Seated on the adjacent Sheraton sofa,
she removed her butter-colored gloves in a graceful motion. "Wouldn't you
care to discuss what truly holds your attention?"
    Helena's
eyes darted to her friend's face. Gifted with silver blonde hair and
classically sculpted features, Marianne's beauty had the effect of staring
directly into the sun. She had known Marianne since the schoolroom and still she
could not help but blink at her friend's physical perfection. Despite the early
hour, no shadows detracted from the vividness of Marianne's gaze, and her skin
glowed with the health of the well-rested. Not that Marianne could have gotten
much sleep—she had been the one to deposit Helena at the Nunnery last night, en
route to her other entertainments. Dubbed The Merry Widow , Marianne
never stepped foot inside her townhouse before dawn.
    "Tea
is easier than candid conversation," Helena admitted. "I hardly know
where to begin."
    "Is
Lord Harteford at home this morning?" Marianne inquired.
    "No.
He ... he did not return last evening." Helena took a gulp of tea. "I
suppose he stayed at his club."
    "Excellent.
My calling at this ungodly hour will not be a wasted effort. I suggest, then,
that you start where my driver left you off—at the bawdy house," Marianne
said.
    Helena bit back a smile. Some things did not change. Nee Miss
Marianne Blunt, Lady Draven continued to well suit her maiden name.
    Truth
be told, she had missed Marianne dreadfully these five years past. At the age
of nineteen, Marianne had wed the wealthy and reclusive Lord Draven. She had
been promptly whisked off to the wilds of Yorkshire, a place apparently
unreachable by Helena's many posts. When Helena had perchance encountered the
newly widowed Marianne at an assembly last month, she had felt like an awkward dowd
next to her once bosom companion. Always beautiful, Marianne had exuded a new
sensual confidence and a brittle wit which distinguished her even amongst the
fast crowd she ran with.
    To
Helena, who favored intellectual salons populated by bluestockings and
spinsters, Marianne's glamorous self-possession had seemed slightly terrifying.
But once the two had started talking, the intimacy of their childhood days had
sprouted and re-sown itself. And while it was true that Marianne had changed in
some ways, in other ways she had changed not a whit. Marianne had always been
clever, the friend to turn to in a time of need. The day before, in a fit of
desperation Helena had found herself confessing about the state of her marriage
and the admission ticket she had found in Nicholas' rooms. Marianne's strategic
plan had been worthy of the great Wellington himself.
    Helena eyed her friend. "Are you always this tactful?"
    "I
arranged your visit to The Nunnery last evening, did I not? What would one call
that, if not tact?" Curiosity gleamed in Marianne's clear green eyes. "Did
all go as planned?"
    "Yes,
after your driver deposited me at the back entrance, the ... Abbess let me in."
    How
strange a name for a bawd, and stranger yet that Marianne should count the
proprietor of