“I enjoyed it.”
“Yes, I thought you did. You have children in your life?”
Holding his hand out to indicate that she should proceed him down the narrow staircase, he said, “A close friend has young boys. I’ve become something of an adopted uncle.”
“You’ll do well with your own children someday.”
He gave a soft laugh. “I hope so. I’m looking forward to the challenge one day, which brings me to the reason for my visit.”
She paused on the stairs, her voice only half-teasing as she asked, “You’re here because you’re in need of an orphan?”
“Not precisely, no. Would there be somewhere we could talk . . . privately?” Now that the time to ask her was here, he felt his tie getting uncomfortably tight, and a prickle of sweat broke out on the back of his neck. He’d had years to overcome his nerves in business negotiations, but this was something different.
Her brow rose in curiosity. “My office.” Turning, she led him down the stairs, and he followed, breathing in her scent like someone who had been starved for sex for too long. Even as he thought it, he knew his fascination was with her and not sex. Not only sex.
A few moments later she was closing the door, gesturing to the chair before her desk. Her office was small, but uncluttered and polished like her. Everything had its place and its use: a chest of drawers held a tea set on top of it, and he was certain the drawers held important papers; a stand in the corner held her coat; a small stove was there for warmth; and a low row of built-in cabinetry sat below the double windows no doubt containing more papers. The walls held bucolic and brightly colored works of art, lending the room a sunny atmosphere that reminded him of her home. It was a comfortable place that made one feel cozy and at home just by stepping inside it.
He waited politely for her to circle around and take her own seat before sitting. His throat was dry again, and he had to swallow several times before finding his voice. “I won’t quibble. I’ve already taken up far too much of your time.”
“It’s no trouble at all, Mr. Crenshaw. You were actually very helpful. Please don’t worry yourself, but I am intrigued.” The smile she gave him seemed genuine. He couldn’t help but stare at the imperfection of her two front teeth on top; they were slightly longer and out of alignment with the others, but the flaw only made her more real, more appealing somehow. “The last time we spoke like this your parents were forcing your sister to wed, and we were plotting to go find her and save her reputation. I’m confident that whatever it is this time cannot be that terrible.”
His stomach dropped at the reminder of the low opinion she must have of his family. His parents. What right did he have to ask her for this massive favor?
Something of his thoughts must have shown on his face, because she said, “Oh no.”
He took in a breath, her sweet scent touching him again, making the nerves in his stomach dance. Best to get this over with so they could both go about their day as if this morning had never happened. “I find myself in need of a temporary fiancée, and I hoped you would agree to the task.”
Chapter 6
I dare not show you where I am vulnerable, lest . . . you should transfix me at once.
Charlotte Brontë
Helena stared at the man across the desk from her. His deep brown eyes looked as earnest as ever with the slightest tinge of misery, and her heart ached a little at the sight while a thousand butterfly wings flickered in her stomach. His request had caught her completely by surprise. In fact, she was certain that she had misheard. When she was taken aback, she reverted to the training of her youth, to be proper in all ways, even in the most improper of circumstances.
“Are you asking me to marry you, Mr. Crenshaw?” Her voice was as even and tempered as if she had asked about the weather, while her heart pounded in her chest.
He wasn’t asking her to marry him. Of course he wasn’t. He had said temporary, which by its very nature seemed to mean the engagement would not reach its usual end, so why did it feel as if he were serious and this were real?
“More specifically, to become engaged, but only for a little while.”
“I-I don’t . . . I’m afraid I don’t understand.” Her body felt heated, and she had to struggle to stay seated and not get up and pace about the room.
“No, I suppose I haven’t explained it. Let me start from the beginning.” He sat back, his long legs stretching out before him.
She noted the way the fine wool of his trousers pressed against his thighs, something she hadn’t been able to unsee after that dinner and Lady Blaylock’s perusal. What did he do to get the thigh muscles of a laborer? Did he labor in his factories? She thought of an engraving she had once seen of the Farnese Hercules. Would his legs resemble those of the statue, all hard sinew and intriguing indentations where muscle met muscle? Forcing herself to look back up at his face, she realized his lips were moving and he was talking and she had missed the beginning.
“Leopards cannot change their spots, and neither can my father.”
“Your father?” Yes, this request had to be because of his father. To clarify, she asked, “He wants you married?”
His brow rose slightly at her inattention. “His brush with ill health has him recommitted to seeing all of his children settled, myself included.” He looked toward the window, the tendon in his jaw clenching and unclenching as he appeared to struggle with what he wanted to say. “He wants me married and producing children as quickly as possible. He wants to be assured that the Crenshaw legacy is kept intact and on track before he . . .”
Before he died. “But he is recovering, yes? He hasn’t taken a turn for the worse?” she asked in rising alarm.
“No, no, he hasn’t. He appears to be recovering under the good care of his doctors. I believe the scare was enough to galvanize him into action, as it were, to have an heir after me.”
For some unfathomable reason, a pit seemed to open up in her stomach. Her heart was merely seconds away from falling into it. “I suppose you Americans aren’t that different after all.”
The corner of his mouth ticked up in a grim estimation of a smile. “No.”
“But this isn’t what you want?”
“No.” He paused. “Well, yes, I do want a wife. I do want children. The Crenshaw legacy is important to me. I wish to have children to carry it on long after I’m gone.”
The words were not unexpected or careless, but they carried sharp edges just the same. Edges pointed enough to make them prick her as they landed. There was no future for them even without his wish for children. It was stupid that an ache rose in her throat, but it was there just the same. She swallowed and stared at the folded newspaper on her desk until the ache eased enough for her to find her voice again. “Then I don’t understand the problem. You’re approaching thirty. Isn’t it time you consider his wishes and settle down with a family?”