Regency Mistresses: A Practical Mistress / The Wanton Bride

‘Indeed there is. I have come to advise you that I have arranged for a load of fuel to be delivered. Has the coalman already been? You look a little sooty …’

Helen inwardly winced, but nevertheless brought her mucky fingers into view and wiped them, very deliberately, with a handkerchief whipped from a pocket. ‘As you can see, sir, the delivery has indeed just arrived and, being unexpected, was inconvenient.’ She rolled the stained cloth into a ball and hid it in a fist. ‘Whilst not wanting to look a gift horse in the mouth, perhaps you would care to explain why you thought to interfere in something that is not your concern.’

‘But it is my concern, Mrs Marlowe,’ he softly corrected. He leaned back in his chair, lifting a boot to settle at an angle on the other leg. His long lashes screened the expression in his eyes as he said, ‘Maintaining this house is now my responsibility. The structure is damp and I have decided it would benefit from some warmth in the rooms.’

Slowly Helen absorbed the awful significance of what she had heard. ‘Westlea House is now your property?’

‘Yes.’

‘The deal is all done? It is finalised so soon?’ Her voice was little more than a horrified whisper. As though the full force of the news had finally penetrated, Helen allowed a startled glance to flit about the parlour, as if trying to imprint every faded feature on her mind.

‘The sale was finalised a few days ago. I’m surprised that your brother has not already found an opportunity to tell you of it.’ Jason paused, looking thoughtful. ‘Has George said anything at all to you about the terms and conditions we agreed?’

Helen absently shook her head. She cared little for knowing the details of the deal. Besides, she could guess that the terms and conditions to which he referred centred on the speedy ejection from the premises of George’s sisters.

Suddenly she perceived exactly why her brother had been so eager to immediately leave when this man arrived. George had cravenly scampered away lest the news slip out and cause a bad atmosphere. He would not like his sister to harangue him, in front of such an influential acquaintance, over the indecently hasty sale of their childhood home. Helen grimly realised that, had her brother been still within range, she might have forgone a verbal assault in favour of a physical one. Her fingers unconsciously wrung the handkerchief until it loudly yielded. She looked down at the shredded linen, then carefully put it out of sight in a pocket.

It was useless blaming Jason Hunter for depriving her of her beloved Westlea House. It was all George’s fault. She walked in a daze to the window and gazed out sightlessly at a smart phaeton. Her trancelike state prevented her from noticing that a neighbour out walking had hesitated to peer inquisitively between the expensive equipage and her front door. Suddenly Helen whirled about to launch some breathless questions. ‘Must we leave here immediately? Is that the real reason you have come today? To give us notice to quit?’

Having accepted the comfort of a chair for barely a few minutes, Jason was again on his feet. He shoved his hands in his pockets and, tipping up his head, frowned at the ceiling. ‘No, that is not the reason I came here, Mrs Marlowe. I was actually speaking the truth when I said I wanted to tell you a merchant would be calling.’

Helen flushed beneath the tacit warning that he resented the implication he was a liar. But she was to anguished by the loss of Westlea House to offer an apology. All she would now deal in were hard facts. ‘When must we leave?’ she demanded to know, struggling to sound coolly polite.

‘You may stay here until your brother finds you suitable accommodation.’

Helen smothered a laugh with the back of a quivering hand. ‘You must be a patient man then, Sir Jason, for I will never find Rowan Walk suitable.’

‘Then George must rent another property. If he fails to do so, he will forfeit a sum of money. It is a condition of the sale, signed and witnessed, that you and your sister are housed somewhere that is acceptable to you.’

Helen’s fists tightened at her sides. ‘And that condition was your idea?’

Jason signalled a brief affirmative with a lazy hand and an expressive lift of his dark brows.

‘If you are expecting me to thank you, sir, I am afraid I cannot. If you withhold George’s money, he will use that as an excuse to continue to keep us short. Besides, this house is the one acceptable to us.’

‘If it is really what you want, you may stay here.’

Helen’s topaz eyes flew wide in astonishment. A moment later they had narrowed suspiciously. George’s theory on this man’s interest in Charlotte niggled mercilessly at her mind. Gentlemen did not offer shelter to young ladies unless they were relations … or the target of lustful intentions. ‘What do you mean … we may stay here?’ she enquired in a glacial tone.

‘I mean that your brother must rent you somewhere to live. This house is now mine and I would consider granting a tenancy on it.’

‘You would not when you discover how little my brother would be prepared to pay you,’ Helen said with a brittle laugh. ‘The property on Rowan Walk is taken for six months and he will not squander the expense of that. I told you he had committed to it when last we met. Perhaps you had forgotten what I said.’

‘I haven’t forgotten one thing you said to me, Mrs Marlowe. And, I repeat, if you want to remain here, I’m sure something can be arranged.’

Helen again felt an alarming frisson race through her. Had she misjudged and berated George unfairly? Her brother might think her too naïve, but unbeknown to him she had personal experience of the negotiations between rich men and poor women.

Two years ago she had received, and rebuffed, a proposition from a gentleman wanting to offer her his protection. Colin Bridgeman had written to her of his respectful admiration and of how he was confident that something could be arranged between them. Helen had felt at the time quite angry when Mr Bridgeman had ignored her curt note of refusal and written again, coaxingly, of the benefits she would receive. She had been on the point of telling George to speak to the insufferable lecher. Now, of course, she was glad she had kept the matter private—doubtless George would have insisted that she take up Mr Bridgeman’s kind offer.

Helen shot a wary glance at Jason’s face. He returned her regard with quite pleasant directness.

She had spoken to him once before in a blunt way that would guarantee her ostracism by polite society should they ever know of it. Taking a deep, inspiriting breath Helen blurted out, ‘I must beg your pardon, sir, and your forbearance, but I find I must again speak to you in a way that will be considered shockingly improper.’

‘Please say what you must. I’d rather there was no misunderstanding between us.’

But having boldly got that far, even his gentle prompting could not bolster her courage. Looking up at his worryingly handsome face, she decided first to try and prise some clues from him. ‘When you arrived here today … I expect you overheard … that is … I’m sure you know George and I were arguing.’ Large amber eyes peeked up through a web of inky lashes to discern his reaction.

‘I admit I was aware of a heated exchange.’ Jason’s mouth tilted, but he seemed unwilling to elaborate.

‘I’m not sure how much you overheard …’ Helen probed.

Jason felt tempted to smooth back the lustrous strand of hair that clung stubbornly to her soot-smudged cheek. Instead he murmured, ‘Please don’t embarrass yourself by mentioning it further, Mrs Marlowe. Suffice to say that I was not disappointed on hearing your opinion of me.’

Helen felt fiery blood rush beneath her complexion.

Seeing he had heightened her confusion, Jason soothed softly, ‘My intention was not to embarrass you, Mrs Marlowe. Let’s say no more of it.’

Helen cleared her throat. ‘I find I cannot just dismiss it, sir, for I’m not now sure that George deserved the ticking off I gave him.’

‘And what has changed your mind?’

‘Something you have said …’

Jason twisted a slight smile. ‘Ah, I see. You no longer think me a principled rake … just a rake. Will you enlighten me as to how I have disgraced myself in such a short while?’

Helen nodded, but his mild mockery had made words again awkwardly clutter her throat.

Jason walked to the cold marble mantel and braced a lean hand against it. ‘Let me hazard a guess and save you the ordeal of telling me. You think that any benefits I have offered will be subject to unpleasant conditions. Let me reassure you. I do not need to coerce widows in straitened circumstances into sleeping with me.’

Helen’s beautiful eyes shot to his face as the awful truth registered. He thought she was hinting he found her attractive.

‘Me?’ Helen gasped in a voice that hovered between ridicule and outrage. ‘Oh, no! I don’t think you want me at all. I think it is Charlotte you’re after.’

Chapter Seven

‘Charlotte? Your younger sister?’

Helen had to admit that his astonishment seemed genuine. His brow, visible beneath a fall of dark hair, had furrowed, and he looked ready to laugh. Feeling unaccountably nettled by his reaction, she gave a curt nod.

‘You think that I have designs on your sister’s virtue.’ It was a toneless statement and he now looked far from amused.

Helen felt her pique wilt beneath his latent anger. She chewed nervously at her lower lip and tried to avoid the ominous glitter in his eyes. But still she wanted to hear his denial. ‘Are you saying you didn’t intend to attach strings to your generosity?’

‘Is there any point in saying anything at all? It seems I’ve already been found guilty as charged.’

‘No! That’s not true. I told George I did not think you capable of callously seducing a chaste young woman.’ She had come closer to him in her agitation and a small hand raised as though she would clasp his forearm in emphasis.

Just for an instant their eyes coupled, travelled together to her outstretched fingers. Helen quickly curled the slender digits into her palm and the fist dropped to her side.