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inhaling the musky scent of their shared pleasure, she
had experienced a shattering joy. A bewildering pain.
    "He
did not know it was me," Helena said through stiff lips.
    "I
beg your pardon?"
    "Last
night, Harteford did not know it was me. It was dark, and I did not remove my
mask or wig."
    "But
surely when you spoke ..."
    "I
spoke in French to disguise my voice."
    "To
disguise your voice ... but why?" Marianne asked.
    "Because
... because ..." Helena strove to explain the fever that had overcome her.
Behind the mask, she had been a different sort of woman than her ordinary self.
The sort of woman who might entice a man, who might respond to his desires with
brazen wants of her own. Wants that she had not known existed until Nicholas
unleashed them with his bold hands and his wicked mouth.
    A
shiver ran up her legs remembering the way he had kissed her breasts at the
same time that his turgid flesh invaded her. Overcome by a desperate hunger, she
had pleaded for more of him; 'twas as if she was starved for his touch, on her, inside her ... Disguised by flaming red hair and paint, she had truly transformed
into a harlot! The sense of freedom had been as exhilarating as it had been
foreign.
    Only
afterward, when Nicholas had extricated himself from her embrace and began to
dress with cool efficiency, had reality returned. What had come over her? How
could she have responded with such enthusiasm, such unbridled wantonness ,
to his caresses? Sweet heavens, what would Nicholas do if she was to expose
herself to him then and there, as a doxy who had but moments ago begged him for
more and more? A tide of shame and horror had crashed over her as the words of
his marriage proposal suddenly echoed in her mind.
     I
ask the greatest privilege of your hand in marriage . While I am undeserving of your pure and virtuous
nature, I do prize it above all. I will strive to be a worthy husband, if you
will have me.
    Pure
and virtuous? No indeed—she was positively shameless.
    Blanching,
Helena said, "I was afraid to reveal my true identity. You see, after it
was over, he got up and dressed like nothing had happened. He ... he did not
even look at me."
    "Well,
if he thought you were a whore," Marianne said reasonably, "how else
was he to treat you?"
    And
there was the crux of the problem. She, Helena Morgan, the Marchioness of
Harteford, had played the part of a strumpet so convincingly that she had
fooled her own husband. But what if her actions had not been playacting at all?
What if ... what if it was her virtue that was false? Recalling Nicholas'
indifferent manner after their coupling last night, Helena shivered. Could he
love her, knowing her true nature? Or would he think himself deceived? Duped,
by his harlot of a wife.
    "Did
he say anything to you at all?"
    "Pardon?"
Helena whispered.
    "Any
words conveyed. To your person," Marianne repeated impatiently.
    Squirming
with humiliation, Helena admitted, "Yes. Before he left, he said, Thank
you. And he ... he left a fifty pound note on the desk."
    "A
fifty pound note! You shall certainly not run short of pin money this month."
    "That
is not amusing, Marianne," Helena said, feeling hot pressure behind her
eyelids.
    Marianne's
eyes gleamed. "Oh, but I think it is. Imagine, the Marquess of Harteford
paying for favors that he has already purchased through marriage. Surely you
see the humor in that."
    "I
most certainly do not ! My husband will be most ... vexed if he
was to find out." With an agitated hand, Helena dashed away the tears that
had spilled over. "He will never forgive me for deceiving him in such a
fashion."
    "From
that perspective ..." Marianne shrugged. "Things would have been
rather simpler if you had confessed yourself then and there. Why did you not?"
    Helena
lowered her head. "I was afraid."
    "Afraid?
After such an enjoyable coupling? I confess, my dear, you have got me quite,
quite confused."
    "Marianne,
when you were married, did you ever ... ever ..."
    "Yes,
my