Regency Mistresses: A Practical Mistress\The Wanton Bride (13 page)

Some fifteen minutes ago Iris had noticed Jason and Helen go to the terrace. She had imagined he
was simply being courteous, for Helen had the appearance of being flushed and in need of a little air. But now they were back inside and Helen seemed the opposite of refreshed. Slashes of pink were more vividly highlighting her cheekbones and her eyes were extraordinarily bright. Not only that, her new hairstyle looked in disarray, with tendrils draping about her face. Iris was an expert in the art of covert dalliance in company and could easily spot the signs that betrayed when others had indulged.

Iris narrowed her eyes on Helen’s distinguished escort. Of course, Jason seemed unruffled … as ever he did. Iris pursed her lips—insufferable thoughts were pricking at her mind. Had the skinny little drab managed something she so far had failed to achieve and hooked the
ton’s
most charismatic rake? It seemed too incredible to contemplate one moment longer and yet … Helen was a needy widow. Iris looked back to her sister-in-law to make a thorough female assessment. A fierce glint fired in her eyes: the conclusion to which she came was that Helen had the radiant aplomb of a woman who had just secured a wealthy protector.

‘You invited Bridgeman to Charlotte’s betrothal party? Why, in God’s name?’

George’s angry demand interrupted Iris’s agitated thoughts. ‘I deemed it the least I could do,’ she exploded
in exasperation. ‘You virtually implied Colin could have Charlotte as his wife. It is best we smooth things over with him. We do not want to lose his friendship.’

‘
I
do,’ George said with sour significance. ‘You have so many friends, my dear … all gentlemen. Surely you could lose just the one?’ George looked past his wife’s shoulder to see that the unwanted guest appeared to be making his way relentlessly towards them.

Colin Bridgeman was about George’s age, but there ended all similarity. Bridgeman was of average height, fair of complexion with sandy hair. George was tall and swarthy. Colin was thin and favoured peacock colours whereas George was beginning to spread about the middle and dressed quite conservatively.

George had never really liked Colin, but they were old acquaintances and, with few friends between them, he was a ready companion when no better was to be had. Before George married they had gone roistering about town. Now more sedate pastimes of dice and cards, or taking a tipple, drew them together at the clubs.

When he turned thirty, Colin had taken a sizeable inheritance from his grandfather’s trust. But years of having little in his pockets had left him
close-fisted. Then, recently, George had unexpectedly found a way to prise apart Bridgeman’s fingers, and in doing so he had opened a can of worms.

When Colin offered to forward him a loan to keep the duns at bay … and a little in reserve … in return for permission to pay court to Charlotte, George had thought it perfectly acceptable. He was even pleased to think that Colin’s approach meant he had not taken offence at having had rejected his quite reasonable offer for Westlea House. Had Jason Hunter not offered handsomely for the property, Colin would be the new owner.

Now George wished he had not taken a penny piece of the man’s cash. He would not have done so, he commiserated with himself, had it not seemed that Charlotte’s swain was destined to remain a pauper. George had no real wish to see his young sister unhappy, but neither had he any intention of continuing to support her financially. He therefore had decided to be practical. It had occurred to George, and had been an added incentive, that were Bridgeman to marry a woman younger and prettier, his wife might be abandoned by her latest conquest.

In that affair, George exonerated Colin. He had come to accept that it was his wife who instigated her liaisons. Once he would have denied such knowledge, finding it humiliating and distressing. George
watched his wife simpering as her paramour came closer and suddenly realised he no longer cared very much what she did.

On the strength of the two men soon becoming brothers-in-law George had thus accepted substantial financial assistance. Rushing to lay hands on the cash, he had heedlessly signed the contract before properly checking the clauses. Now he knew that the rate of interest charged to him was extortionate; not only that, but the loan was also repayable on demand. And he had just that morning received such a demand: Bridgeman wanted his money immediately returned with interest.

Had he realised the precarious position he would land himself in, he would not have given Philip Goode his permission to marry Charlotte. But Jason had made it clear that Philip had his patronage and was destined for success. George might not like Jason, but he was one of the
ton’s
most influential and affluent gentlemen. He had happily pondered on being showered with plaudits for being canny enough to welcome a wolf in sheep’s clothing into the family.

George scowled to himself as he saw his young sister laughing with her future husband. Goode might be destined for success, but he seemed destined for disaster! If he could not pacify Bridgeman
and wheedle a little time to pay, he might yet find himself languishing in gaol….

‘The blushing bride-to-be looks exceptionally charming this evening.’

George gave a well-feigned start as he turned to Bridgeman. ‘Colin … there you are …’

‘Of course, here I am. I’m sure any betrothal party is not complete without the jilted fiancé putting in an appearance.’

George noted his wife wince at that sarcasm and swiftly steered Colin away a few paces. ‘Now steady on, Bridgeman,’ he hissed. ‘No such arrangements were ever properly made. God’s teeth! You didn’t even call on Charlotte once.’

‘Not for want of trying. Whenever I said I was ready to pay a visit, you told me to wait for your instruction on it. Then you instructed me she was to marry this whippersnapper.’ He cast a derisive look in the direction of Philip Goode.

‘Her choice, Colin; her choice,’ George sighed out. ‘A brother can’t interfere with the workings of a sister’s tender heart.’

‘That’s not what you said in Hyde Park when you dragged her home and sent the boy off with a flea in his ear,’ Colin reminded him acidly. He gave George an estimating look. ‘I would say it has more to do with his cousin’s money than anything else. You prefer
Hunter’s coin to mine, just as you did with Westlea House. So be it,’ he snapped. ‘Give me back mine, together with the interest you owe, and we’ll say no more about it.’

George blanched. ‘I will repay it as soon as I can, you know that.’

‘That might not be soon enough,’ Colin said with a gleam of malice darkening his eyes. ‘I want it by noon tomorrow or I’ll have you dunned.’ He cast a look towards where Helen and Charlotte stood centrally within a group of friends. ‘Of course, you have more than one sister … perhaps we may yet find a solution …’

George gulped and Colin’s profile received a drop-jawed look.
‘Helen? You
want to marry
Helen
instead?’ As he digested that thought, his features relaxed into a wondrous smile.

‘Marry her? I don’t think so. She’s past her prime and a might too spirited for what’s nice in a wife. But I’ll be happy to take her to bed and pay for the privilege.’

‘Y
ou want to proposition Helen?’

‘Yes.’ Another brooding stare sloped from under Bridgeman’s sandy lashes at the group of young women chatting together.

George’s eyes swivelled nervously as he realised someone might have overheard their shocking exchange. He quickly manoeuvred Colin by the elbow to a safe distance. ‘We are men of the world so I am not about to take offence even though the lady in question is my sister,’ he rattled off in an undertone. ‘In fact,
I
know it for a sensible solution. If she won’t find a husband, what’s to be done?’ His shoulders elevated as far as his ears. ‘An informal arrangement with a gentleman is all that’s left unless she’s content to grow old pinching pennies.’ George’s brow corrugated in vexation. ‘Trouble is,
Helen can be damnably headstrong and uncooperative at times.’

‘I know,’ Bridgeman sourly agreed. He recalled the terse notes he’d received years ago when she’d rebuffed him. He had not thereafter pursued her; his pride would not let him. But he had not forgotten her either, and the lust to possess her was as strong. It was a while since he’d seen her and he could detect some physical changes. Her face was more sharply honed, and her body less curvaceous, yet for him she still held an irresistible allure. Her full rosy lips were presently parted in an appealing smile and hands that seemed pale as porcelain, and equally fragile, were expressively gesturing whilst she talked. As though sensing she was under observation, she turned her glossy dark head and her joyful smile withered.

Bridgeman’s fleshy mouth twisted sardonically. She hadn’t warmed towards him. She certainly would not have liked the idea of him as a brother-in-law, of that he was sure. But the piquancy of wedding one sister whilst brooding on bedding the other had certainly given him a reason to consider marrying a chit with no dowry.

Colin came to awareness of George curiously eyeing him, no doubt wondering what kept him so moodily quiet. ‘I take it she has never told you that I offered her my protection a few years ago.’

George’s jaw lengthened almost to his chest.

‘She turned me down. It’s up to you to make sure she doesn’t again do so. There’s only so much injury a fellow can take before being inclined to retaliate.’

George looked startled by the unsubtle threat. ‘If she won’t have you, she won’t—there’s nothing I can do about it!’

‘But you are her brother,’ Colin stressed silkily. ‘And I have every faith in your powers of persuasion.’ He gripped George’s shoulder. ‘I’ll give you a little time to work your magic. In case you need an incentive to be diligent …’ he gave a terse nod at a group of young gentlemen ‘… why do you not go and ask Tarquin Beaumont how he liked the Fleet?’

Helen settled into comfortable squabs and, stripping off her gloves, her warm fingertips pressed dents into the supple hide either side of her. Her eyes darted about the interior of the coach. Before this evening such a luxurious conveyance had been unknown to her. Realising that her hands were lightly quivering, she clasped them together in her lap.

Many hours ago, when Jason had arrived to collect her in this plush carriage, she had noticed curtains twitching in the houses opposite, yet she had continued to feel quite calm.

But now the evening was drawing to a close and she felt less serenely confident. She swayed on the seat as the coach smoothly negotiated a rut whilst conveying her to Chelsea and a new life as a gentleman’s mistress.

They were just a short time from being lovers, but he had not rushed her to leave the theatre and embark on the journey. In fact, she had been the one to suggest they left a few minutes before the final curtain to beat the crush of carriage drivers racing to get the Drury Lane crowds back to the suburbs. She had made the remark like a veteran theatregoer, yet something else had been her prime motivation. She had run the gauntlet of speculative stares when entering the theatre; she had no wish to do so again on leaving it.

But the sly glances and whispers were to be expected, and, in a way, perhaps it was best to encounter them early on. The sooner the gossip started, the sooner it would be finished. In a few weeks another scandalous
on dit
would be doing the rounds and talk of whether or not Sir Jason Hunter had brought Mrs Marlowe under his protection would be less diverting.

Helen guessed that polite society had not made up its mind if Jason was squiring her because his cousin was marrying her sister or whether his interest in her
was more personal. During the intervals those with uncontrollable inquisitiveness had invited themselves in to Jason’s box with the sole intention, it seemed, of finding out. Amongst others, whose names she had forgot, Helen had been introduced to Lord and Lady Silverston and Viscountess Montague. Then Lady Mornington and her spinster sister had swept in and begun a bold interrogation. Helen had marvelled at Jason’s skill in answering a question without revealing a thing. The twins had thus surged out as the curtain rose on the next act, no wiser about Mrs Marlowe’s claim on the eligible baronet’s affections than when they had arrived. On the surface everybody
seemed
charming; but Helen had long been adept at spotting insincerity.

Yet, on the whole, she had enjoyed her first outing with Jason. She slipped a glance from under her lashes at the lounging figure opposite. Why was she suddenly feeling awkward and anxious? He had acted no differently towards her this evening than at any other time since they had renewed their acquaintance. Whether shielding her from malicious eyes and tongues or fetching her refreshment, he had been unfailingly courteous and attentive. She had no reason not to trust him to treat her kindly in bed, too. It would be different, of course, to the intimacy she had shared with Harry. They had been
lovers in the truest sense of the word. Jason desired her, treated her with respect, but she wanted a little affection, too.

‘Is it far?’ Helen glanced through the shadows at the gentleman opposite looking to be perfectly at his ease.

‘We are nearly there,’ he answered and she heard the gentle humour in his tone.

Helen felt warmth flood her cheeks. ‘I … It is just I am quite hungry, that’s all. Are we dining first?’

‘Of course,’ he said softly. ‘Do you think me an uncouth barbarian?’

Helen smiled at his self-mockery and relaxed a little. ‘Not at all. In fact, I was just appreciating how gallant you are. I never doubted that you would do every thing quite properly, sir,’ she lightly teased him.

‘Well, to prove you wrong, I am about to do something quite irregular.’ Slowly he unfolded his crossed arms and held them out. ‘Come and sit with me,’ he huskily invited.

After a fleeting hesitation Helen relinquished her seat and settled close to him. Immediately a muscular arm came about her and she nestled her head quite naturally against his chest. She could sense the hard masculine lines of his body beneath his fine clothes and the verbena cologne he used was pleasantly
soothing. Within a few moments her heartbeat had steadied to a more regular rhythm and, feeling cosy and content, she slipped a hand on to the large fingers resting on his knee. He turned his hand, welcoming her tender touch with a brush of a thumb before his lips also saluted her fingers. Slowly he returned their clasped hands to rest on his thigh.

‘People will be whispering about us now, won’t they?’

‘Yes …’

Helen gave a little sigh and nodded in resignation.

‘Have you been worrying about it?’

After a moment Helen said, ‘Not really for I can imagine what they might be saying. But nobody knows for sure how it is between us … only us.’

‘Has your sister quizzed you over it?’

Helen nodded again and choked a little apologetic laugh. ‘As we are speaking plainly, I know you will not mind if I tell you something quite shocking. I am afraid Charlotte is wholly under the impression that your interest in me must be honourable.’ She knuckled a laugh into submission. ‘I have not had the heart to tell her that her hints about double weddings and so on are wildly far of the mark.’

When Jason remained quiet, she twisted her face up to look at him, fearing he might not, after all, have found it an amusing anecdote. His eyes were blocked
from view by an angular jaw that looked dusky enough to need a razor. Helen subdued the temptation to sense his skin graze her palm. Instead she angled her head to see his expression and interpret his mood. ‘Are you angry? I would not have mentioned it to you, only I thought … I thought it might make you laugh,’ she weakly explained. She swallowed, feeling rather foolish. ‘I hope you do not think I have said something to make Charlotte think that …’

‘Why would I suspect any such thing? After all, you have made it clear to me that you have no wish to remarry. Have you changed your mind?’

Helen’s gaze was locked to darkly gleaming eyes that seemed able to probe her soul. She had loved and married Harry Marlowe; she would never want anyone else as her husband … would she? ‘No … of course I have not changed my mind,’ she whispered. The denial was out, but with devastating insight she abruptly knew it to be false. There
was
a man she would marry, if only he would ask her …

Obliterating years fell away and she recalled being in her teens and daydreaming of Jason Hunter. Those girlish fantasies had faded when they no longer saw one another and then had extinguished beneath her love for Harry Marlowe. Now she could quite painfully recall sitting on the grass in Surrey pulling petals whilst chanting … he loves me, he loves me not …

‘No harm is done. And I don’t think it will hurt to postpone dashing Charlotte’s hopes, do you?’ Jason’s voice splintered her poignant reminiscence. ‘Once she is a married woman, she might be inclined to see things differently.’

Helen managed a single nod, but her alarming self-knowledge had left her mind reeling and her body weak. She made to slump into the seat by his side to ponder on the discovery that Harry didn’t, after all, have sole claim on her heart. But he again drew her against him. He tilted up her face and just before their lips touched she sensed she was submerging in eyes like glittering pools of desire.

Helen felt an exquisite ache low in her abdomen start sapping strength from her limbs, for his mouth was moving on hers with wonderfully erotic expertise. Her cloak was loosened and his fingers skimmed her midriff, trailing fire in their wake. Helen felt her anxieties drift away and abandoned herself to the sensual delight he was bestowing. Slowly a small hand crept up to curl about his nape and when next his tongue slid seductively on her lower lip, she flicked hers to it in welcome.

Jason sensed Helen melting beneath his caresses. She was moulding her body against him and igniting in him profound passion. His kiss became slow and deep, his hands swift and confident. Her bodice
and chemise were deftly opened and tantalising fingers stroked over silky warm flesh that instantly rose to fill his palms. Jason’s slick lips slid to her throat, to the tender nook at her shoulder, before finally claiming the aching little nub her bowed back begged him to soothe.

His tongue moved with skilful slowness, flicking, touching, circling until Helen felt maddened, delirious with delight, and her little guttural cries seemed to well from deep in her throat.

Jason felt a burst of tenderness moderate his urgent need to immediately possess her, for five small fingers had again intertwined with his to clasp together their hands. Besides which, he had no real wish for their first loving to be quickly consummated on the seat of his coach when they were barely fifteen minutes away from a feather bed and many hours of sensual pleasure. He raised his dark head and eyes like smouldering coals roved over a beautiful face set in rigid lines of desire.

Jason continued to kiss her as he brought together the edges of lace to cover her breasts and marvelled that she could be such an intriguing mix of innocent and wanton.

And that conundrum started unwanted thoughts rotating in his mind. Helen Marlow was a woman who didn’t want a husband, but who needed a lover.
A perfect paramour … under normal circumstances. But this wasn’t normal for him. He was different. He was falling hopelessly in love and he didn’t want Helen to be his mistress—he wanted her for his wife.

Her brother’s thievery might have precipitated her into finding a protector, but he sensed she would, in any event, have been ripe for seduction. He was reasonably sure he was to be her first lover since her husband, and Harry Marlowe had been dead more than half a decade. There was a raw hunger in Helen that made her pliant and responsive to his touch. He kissed her again with sweetness and felt her immediate thrill of anticipation as to what he might do next.

But perhaps it was not just
his
touch she wanted or needed. He was prepared to marry her, but she might have allowed the first philanderer to call by to share her bed so long as he had a few pretty compliments and enough cash to keep Westlea House for her. Even as the disturbing thoughts tormented Jason he knew them absurd. Helen Marlowe was the antithesis of a vain courtesan susceptible to flattery.

And he would have sworn
he
was not a jealous man. But a savage new emotion was poisoning his mind and defeating his restraint. Deft fingers swept up her skirt to expose lissom milky legs before spreading to explore the sensitive darker skin on the
inside of her thigh. His kisses coarsened and deepened, widening her mouth.

Helen’s hands instinctively drove between them and she jerked back her head. A reproachful look held his defiant gaze and then, with a sigh, she wound her arms about his neck and lay her dusky head against his shoulder.

With a low oath Jason sank against the seat, a powerful arm anchoring her to his side. His head fell back and his lids drooped low as he realised he had after all proved himself an uncouth barbarian. He’d startled her, yet the residue of sensual languor in her stayed. Glancing down at her, he could see dark lashes fanned on pale cheeks and a mouth that looked slick and swollen and achingly inviting. He forked a tender hand over her chin, a thumb brushing soothingly against her turgid lips. For some reason it was the closest he could come to apology.