Regency Mistresses: A Practical Mistress / The Wanton Bride

Those past halcyon days were a world away from how she lived now. Now Charlotte and she socialised with people of their own station: people whose financial status limited their entertainment to simple at-homes. Outings to the theatre or exhibitions were treats that came rarely, for even the cost of travelling to such venues was beyond their means.

From the top of his glossy dark head to the toe of the gleaming leather boot in her line of vision, Sir Jason Hunter exuded an air of affluence and power that was stifling in its intensity. She had dared to go and see him, uninvited, to tell him he could not have this house. With wounding clarity she understood that, if he wanted it, he would take it. She raised her head and a flitting glance about her beloved, faded room encouraged her that he might decide Westlea House an unattractive investment after all. Her musings were brought abruptly to a close by a cultured baritone voice.

‘I must apologise for the poor welcome you received when you called on me. My butler was confused as to your identity.’

‘I’m not sure why,’ Helen returned coolly. ‘I gave my name.’

‘What name did you give?’ Jason asked. He leaned forward, linking his fingers and resting his forearms on his knees. He felt tempted to rub together his palms. The room was stone cold and a pale spring afternoon let little light into it. Nevertheless he could see her exquisite eyes watching him.

‘I said I was Mrs Marlowe, née Kingston,’ Helen answered him. ‘I fail to see what is confusing in that.’

Jason’s mouth took on a wry slant, for suddenly he understood how the sorry episode had come about. Helen Marlowe had a softly spoken, melodic quality to her voice. Marlowe, née had sounded to his deaf butler like Margo May. ‘Cedric announced you as Mrs Kingston.’

‘Why? Can he not hear?’

‘Not very well,’ Jason admitted with a ghost of a smile. ‘Nevertheless, that is no excuse for his bizarre interpretation of my instruction to show my visitor to a side room. The incident won’t go unpunished. I have long tolerated his eccentric ways. It is time, I think, to let him go.’

‘I would not have you do that on my account,’ Helen immediately objected. ‘He looks to be an aged gentleman. I doubt he would get another position, especially if afflicted with poor hearing.’ Helen knew too well the rigours of possessing little money; she didn’t want it on her conscience that she had robbed an old man of his wages in his twilight years. She gave Jason a trenchant look. ‘Besides, even if the draughty cloakroom was not your idea, I imagine the lengthy wait I endured was.’

Jason looked at the proud tilt to her sculpted little chin and felt utterly despicable to have subjected her to such discomfort and humiliation. ‘I’m afraid it was,’ he honestly said. ‘And I am hoping that in some way I can make amends. I won’t have you think I indulge in petty spitefulness because your brother and I don’t see eye to eye.’

Helen met his gaze challengingly.

‘That is what you think, isn’t it?’

‘It was,’ Helen replied, ‘until you clarified matters a moment ago.’

Jason’s grey eyes narrowed on her. ‘And what do you think now?’

‘I think you believed my sister-in-law had paid you a visit. I think you decided to punish her by keeping her waiting for you. Why? Had you had a lovers’ tiff?’

Chapter Four

‘Lovers’ tiff?’

The query was mildly quizzical, yet Jason’s eyes resembled flint.

Helen felt her mouth become dry and her tongue trembled moisture to her lips. Moments ago he had said he would like to make amends for showing her such poor hospitality earlier that day. It was unexpected, but most welcome news. A favour from this man was exactly what she wanted, but ladies … even those of shabby gentility … did not speak of a gentleman’s amours. Such impertinence was hardly likely to cultivate his goodwill.

Since Helen learned she had been mistaken for Iris Kingston a single thought had dominated her mind and she fervently wished she had curbed her inclination to voice it. Sir Jason had believed George’s wife to be his visitor and his intention had been to eventually oblige her with his presence. Was Iris so besotted with the arrogant man that she would have allowed him to humble her in such a way?

Helen had good reason to dislike her sister-in-law, yet felt oddly piqued on her behalf. She was also a little indignant on her own account. How was she to know if, as Mrs Marlowe, she might have been turned away from his door?

The room was dim, his face in shadow; nevertheless, Helen winced on noticing a definite mocking slant to his lips. She feared he knew of her regret at having acted with such spontaneous vulgarity.

Iris had succeeded in her ambition to become his mistress. George had said they had been openly flirting earlier in the week … blatantly flaunting their affair. Such behaviour was sure to invite comment, thus Helen’s face was beautifully prim as she announced, ‘I am afraid I cannot pretend ignorance of your liaison with my sister-in-law. I have heard the rumours …’ A hideous idea made her falter and demand, ‘I hope you do not imagine I intentionally set out to impersonate Iris in the hope such a ruse would get me over your threshold.’

‘Had you announced yourself simply as Mrs Marlowe, it would have guaranteed that you not only got over my threshold, but got my immediate attention.’

A cluck of disbelief dismissed that. ‘You would not have known who on earth Mrs Marlowe was. When last we conversed, I was Miss Kingston.’

‘Be assured, I would have known who you were.’

Helen’s eyes darted to his at that husky affirmation. But still he made no remark about her impropriety. No doubt he considered it beneath his dignity to do so. But she could tell the matter had affected him. His composure could not completely camouflage that he was annoyed.

A tense silence ensued and Helen was conscious that he might now take himself off without questioning her further. Perhaps he had deduced from her attitude that she had gone to his house with the intention of interfering in his affairs. Sibling loyalty—however inappropriate—could conceivably propel her to confront the man who was making a cuckold of her brother. He had apologised and soothed his conscience, something she had yet to achieve for her own.

She was alert to a slight movement he made, sure it meant he was making ready to leave. ‘I must say sorry, too,’ Helen blurted. ‘I was rude. I should not have been quite so explicit … that is … I accept that your association with George’s wife is none of my concern. My brother is able to fight his own battles.’

‘Is he? It occurs to me that perhaps he sent you to see me.’

Helen tensed at that observation and a surge of guilt stained her cheeks. It had indeed been her brother’s angry challenge—whether uttered in jest or not—that had prompted her visit.

‘Why would he do such a thing?’ Helen flicked a nervous gesture. ‘You would be hardly likely to pay attention to my opinion.’

‘I’m doing so now….’

Tawny eyes sought to read his expression in the half-light. He had not sounded sarcastic, but it was hard to tell. ‘If you are being sincere, sir, I must take advantage of the opportunity to … to …’ She faltered, frowned at her fingers with the strain of being diplomatic. Her opinion, should she honestly give it, was hardly likely to be well received. How much attention would he want to pay to the fact that Charlotte and she endured hardship because his mistress was avaricious and selfish?

The loss of their allowance, and Charlotte’s dowry, the imminent sale of Westlea House—all had come about since George took a gold-digger to wife. The thought that now she must petition the gold-digger’s lover in order that she and her sister could have some basic necessities made ire burn in her blood. But she would not again make mention of the dratted woman. Rather she would concentrate on keeping her home.

‘My brother is being dunned by his creditors and that is why he wants to sell this house. It is home to me and my sister Charlotte.’

Jason gained his feet in a lithe movement. ‘And you have heard that I want to buy it.’ It was a neutral statement.

‘Yes,’ Helen said, very conscious of the height and breadth of him as he passed her chair.

‘You don’t want me to have it?’

‘It is rather that I do not want to lose it,’ Helen said carefully.

Jason turned his back to the empty grate and cast up a glance at a ceiling meshed with cracks. ‘I expect you will prefer living elsewhere. The upkeep of a property such as this is high.’

‘It suits us to stay,’ Helen interrupted firmly.

‘George has arranged other accommodation for you and your sister, yet you’d rather stay here?’

‘Indeed I would.’ Helen breathed fiercely. So he knew that George wanted to locate them in a seedy neighbourhood. ‘Our home might be rather shabby, but I am afraid even a flash house on Rowan Walk would be unacceptable. In fact, I have no intention of being dispatched there.’

Jason moved closer to the petite figure that had jumped to its feet. He could tell from her raised chin and tight fists that she was furiously embarrassed. And he understood why. ‘Rowan Walk?’ he echoed in disbelief. ‘What the devil is he thinking of housing his sisters in such an area?’

‘He is thinking of what he can afford,’ Helen retorted immediately. ‘I am sure he would have chosen somewhere more salubrious had his wife not squandered so much on gowns and hats and other selfish whims in order to hook you—’ She abruptly bit at her lower lip to stem further angry complaints.

‘Go on …’ Jason quietly invited.

‘Very well, I shall.’ The declaration was child-like in its defiance. ‘My brother is being dunned and I am to lose my home because your mistress is a selfish spendthrift. Whether you know it or not, sir, indirectly you are a reason we suffer.’

It was too late to perhaps phrase things more tactfully, but there was less volume to Helen’s voice when she continued, ‘George has dressmakers’ accounts and so on that he simply cannot pay …’