His watch indicated the hour was half past ten, and when he turned to study the ormolu clock on the mantel, both timepieces agreed. Normally, he never returned from an evening with Helene, or any of his clubs, until dawn, and even then a sleepy-eyed footman was always in the hall to greet him.
His thoughts turned to the evening he'd just spent with Helene, and Stephen reached up, idly rubbing his hand over the back of his neck, as if he could somehow rub away the discontent and ennui that had plagued him all night. Seated beside her in his box at the theatre he'd paid scant attention to the performance on stage, and then it was only to find fault with the actors, the musicians, the stage setting, and the perfume worn by the elderly dowager in the next box. In his state of restlessness, everything seemed to either bore or grate on him.
The unusually pleasant mood he'd enjoyed earlier, as Sherry partook of an early dinner and regaled him with her amusing-and often astute-observations about her latest discoveries in the newspapers, had begun to dissipate as soon as he left the house.
By the end of the play's first act, Helene had sensed his discontent, and smiling invitingly behind her fan, she had whispered, "Would you prefer to leave now, and create our own 'second act' in more congenial surroundings?"
Stephen had readily acceded to her suggestion that he take her to bed, but his performance there was as unsatisfying as the performance he'd witnessed at the theatre. Once he'd gotten his clothes off, he discovered he didn't want to indulge in the sort of leisurely sexual preliminaries he normally enjoyed; he simply wanted to spend himself in her. He'd wanted physical relief, not sensual pleasure; he'd gotten the former and given none of the latter.
Helene had noticed, of course, and as he shoved off the bedcovers to get up, she raised up on an elbow and watched him dressing. "What occupies your thoughts tonight?"
Guilty and frustrated, Stephen had bent down to press an apologetic kiss on her furrowed forehead, as he replied, "A situation that is entirely too complicated and too vexing to trouble you with." The explanation was an evasion, and they both knew it, just as they both knew a mistress was not ordinarily entitled to explanations or recriminations, but then Helene Devernay was far from ordinary. She was as sought-after and admired in her own right as any of the ton's acclaimed beauties. She chose her lovers to suit herself, and she had a wide field to choose from, all of them wealthy noblemen who were only waiting for the chance to offer her their "protection," as Stephen had done, in exchange for the exclusive right to her bed and her company.
She'd smiled at his evasion and traced her fingertip down the deep vee of his open shirt as she inquired with sham innocence, "I understand from a seamstress at Madame LaSalle's that you had urgent need of several gowns that you desired to be delivered to your home with utmost haste for a visitor there. How is that… situation?" she finished delicately.
Stephen straightened and regarded her with a mixture of amusement, irritation, and admiration for her perception. "The situation," he admitted bluntly, "is 'vexing' and 'complicated.' "
"I rather thought it might be," she said with a knowing smile, but Stephen heard the underlying note of sorrow in her voice. She was obviously concerned about the presence of an unknown woman in his home, and that puzzled him. In his elite social circle, not even the presence of a wife had any bearing on a man's decision to have a mistress. Amongst the ton, marriages generally took place between two congenial strangers who expected to remain exactly that, once the requisite heir was produced. Neither party was expected to alter their lifestyle to suit the other, and affairs were as rampant among women as men. Discretion, not morality, was what mattered to both parties in a ton marriage. Since both Helene and he understood all that, and since he was notmarried, Stephen was amazed that she would give even a passing thought to his female houseguest. Leaning down, he kissed her on the mouth as he ran his hand familiarly over her bare thigh. "You are making entirely too much of the matter. She is a homeless waif who is merely recovering from an injury at my home, while we await the arrival of her family."
But as Stephen left the house he provided for Helene, he reluctantly faced the fact that Charise Lancaster was a far cry from a pitiable homeless waif. In reality, she was courageous, intelligent, spontaneous, amusing, naturally sensual, and thoroughly entertaining. And the surprising, irritating truth was that he'd enjoyed her company tonight far more than he'd enjoyed taking Helene to the theatre or to bed. Sherry enjoyed his company too. She liked talking to him, and she liked being in his arms…
Those thoughts gave birth to an impractical possibility that he actually let himself consider as his carriage neared his home on Upper Brook Street: Burleton hadn't had anything to offer her except a minor noble title and the respectability of marriage, but she and her father had been willing to settle for only that. Within hours of Burleton's death, Stephen had made plans for a funeral and had begun making inquiries into the young man's affairs to see if any other final arrangements were needed. What he learned was that the young baron had a predilection for gaming. Not until this morning, when Matthew Bennett's firm provided him with a full dossier, did Stephen learn that Burleton had completely depleted what little fortune he'd inherited. Beyond a small mountain of gambling debts, which Stephen intended to settle, Burleton had nothing to leave behind-not an estate or the family jewels or even a coach. His excessive gambling had already depleted whatever money he'd gained by agreeing to marry Charise Lancaster.
Within a year or two, Sherry would have been living in genteel poverty, just as Burleton had been doing at the time of his death, with no benefit from her marriage beyond a noble title that wasn't equal to the least of the titles Stephen held. Stephen had no intention of marrying her, but he was able-and perhaps even willing-to offer her the world, provided they continued to enjoy each other in the weeks to come, and so long as she actually understood the arrangement and its terms…
So long as she actually understood the arrangement…
The ugliness of what he was actually considering hit him, and it sickened him. Charise Lancaster was a naive virgin, not a courtesan. Even if she had had the background and experience to understand what such a relationship would entail, which she did not, she was still much too young for him, and he was entirely too jaded for her.
Fortunately, he was not quite jaded enough, or debauched enough, or boredenough to actually offer her an arrangement that would have robbed her of her virtue and all chances of respectability. He could not believe he was so utterly lacking in morality, so vile, that he was capable of killing a young, would-be bridegroom and then, in less than a fortnight, actually considering making a mistress of the young man's affianced bride. It wasn't merely revolting, it was madness. He accepted that he obviously had lost all his ideals over the years, but until that moment, he'd never felt he'd lost his mind as well.