Seven Wicked Nights (Turner #1.5)

Her mother moaned, covering her face with both hands. “Don’t say that—oh, please don’t! What will your father say?”


“Helen!” On cue, Sir William appeared in the doorway. From the set of his features, he was still toweringly angry at both daughters. “Where the devil were you?”

This time when Helen pulled against her mother’s grip, Millicent let her go. “Sit down, Mama. And you, Papa.”

Their father scowled, but their mother, as if sensing she would be glad to be seated when she heard Helen’s news, went directly to the sofa. When Sir William didn’t move in the same direction, Helen just waited, her chin up and her expression composed. Cleo went to her side without a word. Neither parent looked at her, only at Helen.

Perhaps that was to be expected. They’d said she was dead to them now, and she’d replied in kind. Still, they were her parents; it hurt that they could shut her out so easily and swiftly. And because it bothered her, she was content to let Helen break her news in any way she liked.

“You’d better have a good explanation for causing such trouble,” growled Sir William, but he finally sat.

“There is something I should have told you weeks ago,” her sister began. “Perhaps even months ago. I don’t love His Grace.”

Millicent blinked. Sir George scowled again. “Love? Is that why you disappeared? Some female fit of hysterics about love when you’ve got a duke waiting for you in the church?”

“You’re being too hasty,” Millicent cried. “Helen, dearest, you must give yourself time to fall in love with him—I don’t see how you couldn’t! Why, just look around at this house, this park, the lovely family—”

“I never loved him and I never could,” said Helen, raising her voice slightly. “I am in love with someone else and I intend to marry him.”

For a moment the silence seemed deafening.

“You can’t,” said her father shortly. “I’ve signed a marriage contract with Wessex. You’re marrying him.”

She shook her head. “No, Papa, I won’t. He doesn’t want to marry me now, either.”

Her father’s face reddened. “Nevertheless, he also signed that contract. It’s binding!”

“Not if both of us refuse!”

Sir George made a visible effort to contain his anger. His tone softened, becoming almost wheedling. “Helen, see reason. Your marriage will be the making of us all. Wessex is a good man; your mother is right, you’ll come to care for him. And you’ll be a duchess. You’ll be mistress of this house, dressed as finely as any of the duke’s sisters, accepted in the finest circles in London. You’ll never have a shop door closed in your face; your every wish can be indulged.”

Helen shook her head. “It’s not worth it. I am in love with James Blair, and I’m going to marry him.”

Her father’s eyes bulged. “The secretary? Now see here, Helen—don’t be ridiculous! What sort of cork-brained idea—?” He broke off suddenly, and slowly turned toward Cleo. “This is yourdoing, putting foolish romantic rubbish into her head!”

She shook her head. “I had no idea until this morning.”

“She didn’t,” Helen agreed. “I told no one, Papa.”

A vein was pulsing in Sir George’s forehead. “Helen,” he said through his teeth, “I pledged my best bit of land in that marriage contract. It’s the only property I’ve got that isn’t mortgaged to the hilt. It was a stroke of luck His Grace wanted it, or else he might not have offered for you. If you jilt the duke, he could sue me for that land, ruining us all beyond redemption.”

“I don’t think he’ll do that,” Helen murmured, her lips beginning to twitch.

Cleo bowed her head to hide her expression. Gareth wouldn’t sue anyone—or so he’d said, provided her father didn’t make a fuss over breaking the betrothal.

“And you’d risk it, for a secretary, a man with few prospects? A man who may very well lose his position for making off with his employer’s bride?” Sir George lurched to his feet. “Helen, I am ordering you: you are going to marry the duke today!”

“How can you be so willful?” wept Millicent. “How can you disdain a duke? Oh, I’d so looked forward to visiting Kingstag often and now we shall never be able to show our faces in all of Dorset!”

“His Grace might have you to visit, but if I were you, I’d make up with Cleo before asking.” Helen winked at her. Now that she’d told her secret, she seemed uncaring of anything else. Cleo, who had carried a similar secret like an arrow in her chest, grinned back. Yes, it was very freeing to cut the lines behind her, to decide to face forward without thought for whatever dismay lay in her wake.

“Please, Helen,” their mother begged. “Please reconsider. There’s still time….”