Tempting the Bride by Sherry Thomas Read Free Book Online

hand at it?”
    He waited the usual few seconds for her to say no. To his shock, she nodded and reached out for the brush in his hand. But then she didn’t move. He realized, after a while, that she meant for him to hold her hand and guide her.
    After what had happened when she was younger, he never felt quite worthy of her trust. But for some miraculous reason, she did trust him wholeheartedly.
    He wrapped his hand around hers, kissed her on the top of her head, and showed her what to do.

    A t half past three Monday afternoon, a coachman dressed in the Lexington livery came for Helena at her office.
    “Well, there is my carriage,” she said to Bridget. “I know you must be anxious to get back and prepare for your mistress’s return. Take a hansom. Mrs. Wilson has already been instructed to add the cost of your transportation to your wages.”
    “Thank you, miss, I might then. I want to make sure everything is ready—Lady Fitzhugh won’t have much time to change out of her traveling dress before she is to head to the duchess’s for tea.”
    “Indeed she won’t.”
    And neither, after so much trouble, would Helena enjoy much more than half an hour with Andrew—she, too, was expected at the five o’clock tea. And she had better arrive before Millie, to avoid questions about why she’d taken so much time en route.
    She hopped into the brougham, directed the coachman to a nearby post office, and made a telephone call to the Lexington town house, letting the staff know she’d be coming home on her own, accompanied by Millie’s maid; no need to send the carriage.
    Now to the hotel—and Andrew.
    Inside the carriage with all its shades drawn, she fiddled with the drawstring of her reticule. She thought she’d done enough, but what if she’d underprepared? Granted, her presence at the Savoy would raise no eyebrows—the hotel’s terrace was a popular place for a cup of afternoon tea. But would it not have been even better had shedisguised herself as a man with a big beard—or something of the sort?
    Damn Hastings and his incessant warnings of disaster. She ought to be exhilarated at the prospect of seeing Andrew again so soon, not fretting about everything that could go wrong.
    Enough with the troubling thoughts. She’d worked hard for this morsel of stolen time. She would clear her mind and relish her triumph.
    Or at least, she would do her utmost.
    H astings did not expect to see Andrew Martin at the club. After Fitz had spoken to him earlier in the Season, Martin had avoided locales where he might run into any of the Fitzhugh siblings. But with Fitz away, Martin probably thought the club a safe venue for whiling away a few hours.
    Except he wasn’t exactly
whiling
away the hours. He seemed distracted and jumpy, getting up from his chair every few minutes to pace about the periphery of the room. At some point during each circle, he’d pull out a piece of paper from the pocket of his day coat, read it, stuff it back into his pocket, sit down, chew his lips for some time, and then repeat the procedure all over again.
    As his restlessness grew, so did Hastings’s. Why the hell was Martin so agitated? And why did he keep looking at that piece of paper?
    The next time Martin crossed the room, Hastings rose and bumped into him.
    He steadied Martin. “Sorry, there, old fellow.”
    “My fault,” said Martin meekly.
    Many children talked of running away with the Gypsies; Hastings had actually done so—more than once. His pickpocketing skills were rusty, but Martin was a spectacularly easy target.
    Standing before a bookcase, his back to the room, Hastings looked down at the loot in his hand. It was a telegram.
Next Monday. The Savoy Hotel. Four o’clock in the afternoon. Ask
for the Quaids’ room.
    He looked at the date on the telegram. Today was the Monday that had been specified—and soon it would strike four on the clock. Had Helena Fitzhugh sent the cable despite all his warnings to the contrary?
    Martin