HE couldn’t believe it. He was immensely proud of his strength of will. He was also so randy he thought he would grind his teeth to dust. He’d had to button Helen’s gown up the back, but still he had managed to hold firm. He leaned forward to kiss her shoulder blade, then bit down on his lip. “No,” he’d said aloud to the ceiling of the bedchamber. “I will keep to my vow.” “Who do you think you are, Galahad?” Helen was irritated with him. Because he wouldn’t make frantic love to her, three times in fifteen minutes? He just smiled. “In one month from now, we can stay in bed until we are smiling and witless.” “I suppose you are right,” she said finally at least two hours later, when they were riding back to Court Hammering in the carriage he had rented. At his arched eyebrow, she added, “We will wait. We will find the lamp. We will discover if indeed Gerard Yorke is alive. We will find out who killed poor Reverend Mathers. In short, we have a lot on our plate.
