Wedded in Scandal

Chapter 7

Helaine felt a flare of panic choke through her. “N-no. Of course I was Lord Metzger’s—”

“In name, of course,” he interrupted. “But his mistress in fact? You were never that.”

She tried to read his expression, but couldn’t, perhaps because she was still struggling to manage her own tempestuous emotions. All she could tell was that there was no point in further lies.

“How did you know?” she asked.

“Your kiss, though beyond delightful, was not the kiss of a seasoned courtesan.”

She had a flash of illogical jealousy that he should know these things and she should not. How many courtesans had he kissed? How many innocents? Meanwhile, he folded his arms across his chest and gazed at her.

“How did this happen? Did Metzger lie? Were you not able to defend your reputation?” There was anger in his tone.

“No!” she gasped. “No. He was an old family friend and…” How to explain this without revealing too much? “He had cause to feel sorry for me. So one day, he suggested the ruse. He was a powerful man at the time. I went to a few balls on his sleeve and once kissed him beneath the mistletoe when we were sure we were observed.”

“But it never went further.” A statement, not a question.

“He was a good man. I was sorry for his passing.”

She saw him wince and understood too late that her words implied that Lord Redhill was not a good man. After all, he had just pushed for a great deal more than a kiss. She had no answer to that. He had done nothing more than what all men did. They saw a woman they wanted and took steps to own her. At least he had stopped when she pulled away. Many men would have pursued her. They would have pushed her up against the worktable and done as they willed. And damn her traitorous blood for wondering what that would be like with Lord Redhill.

But she could not allow herself to be tempted back into his arms. This man was no aging statesman like her former protector. There would be no lie between them. He would own her as a man owns a mistress. And so she forced herself to move away from him. She unwound Wendy’s scarf and folded it neatly back into the box. She kept her back to him, though her body prickled with awareness. And when she finally forced herself to look at him, he stood in the kitchen with the tea tray in his hands. It was such an odd sight that she stared. Never did she think to see him standing there like a butler holding a tray.

“I thought we would have the tea in the front room,” he said, his voice a low rumble that she felt in her belly.

She nodded, unable to speak. Then it became clear that he was waiting for her to precede him, so she rushed ahead, nearly tripping over her own feet in her haste to move. She collapsed back into the settee, barely holding on to her dignity as he set the tray down. His movements were smooth, his expression blank. One would think he had spent years as a butler, so impassive was his expression. But then he sat down in the chair again and looked at her.

“Should I pour?”

“Oh! No!” Damn her scattered wits. She needed to think. “Cream? Sugar?” she asked, grateful that her voice had regained some strength.

“Just sugar.”

She finished pouring, then offered it to him. He took it without touching her fingertips, and she stupidly mourned the lack of his caress even though she had expressly set her hand such that he would not touch her. Then she poured for herself and was soon able to take a fortifying sip of the plain tea. He had made it strong, which bolstered her even more. There was no subtlety in the flavor, no fruity or floral notes. Simple English tea, and it reminded her more than anything that she was meant for plain things. Expensive teas, sheer scarves, and silk sheets were the distractions men used to get what they wanted. And as intriguing as the idea was, she had no room in her life for such things. The cost was too high.

She was still settling her nerves when he spoke, his words gentle and wholly unexpected.

“What is your Christian name?” he asked. The question was so surprising that she lifted her eyes in surprise.

“Helaine,” she said, forgetting herself enough to give him her real name. When pressed, Mrs. Mortimer told everyone her name was Helen.

“A beautiful name. Mine is Robert.”

She nodded in acknowledgment, though she would never call him that.

“I have handled this incorrectly, Helaine, but the desire remains. I should like you to be my mistress.”

“And I desire to be an honest dressmaker who isn’t constantly accosted.” She did not invest her words with anger. She simply stated it and prayed he would hear her.

He did understand her implication. His wince was proof of that. But that didn’t stop him from pleading his case. “I am a slow lover, Helaine, patient and generally considerate. And though I have never taken a virgin, I would make an exception for you. I would introduce you correctly to this business. And would pay handsomely for the privilege.”

He paused, but when she didn’t speak, he leaned forward. She could tell he meant to touch her hands, but she kept herself firmly away. Despite her aloof position, his words were tempting her, especially as he continued to speak in that low, throaty voice that seemed to settle into her bones.

“We could make whatever arrangements you desire, though I do ask that my sister not find out.”

“Oh, no!” she gasped, horrified by the very idea.

He gave her a wry look. “I see we are in agreement on that. My demands would not be heavy, and I can let rooms nearby for our use. It might take me a bit to get all arranged. The financials can be slow sometimes, but I will pay. Forgive me for being blunt, Helaine, but are you a virgin?”

Her cheeks flamed at that, but she managed to nod.

“Do not be embarrassed. Virginity is an excellent thing. And the usual price for it is rather exorbitant.” He named a figure that would easily cover her expenses for months. One that would pay for enough fabric for a dozen trousseaus. “I would give that to you on our first night. Then you would have a monthly allowance afterward. And when we separate, that money plus any gifts would be yours to keep.”

She knew she was staring at him, the shock apparent in every line of her body. This was the strangest conversation she’d ever had. Did all men simply arrange their sexual affairs in such a businesslike fashion? Apparently so. Probably because plain speaking was best for this sort of thing. But she couldn’t help wishing for some pretty phrases, some wooing before the deed was done.

He must have taken her silence as agreement. He must have believed he had accomplished his task, because he smiled at her then. The expression transformed him from cool aristocrat to a satisfied man, much like her father after a really excellent night of drinking.

“What say you, Helaine? Have we made a bargain?” From his tone, she could tell he expected her to say yes. She didn’t.

She shook her head. “I am a dressmaker, my lord. I am afraid my skills for anything else are sorely lacking.”

His eyes seemed to glitter at that, and she couldn’t tell if it was laughter or anticipation. Either way, it added to the feel of a man very content with his lot. “I assure you, a lack of skill is expected in a virgin. And you may be a dressmaker, but you are also a beautiful woman. One, I might add, who has advertised herself as a man’s mistress for quite some time. You lose nothing by becoming one in truth and have much to gain.”

“What do I gain, my lord? Money? A protector?”

“All of those things.”

“And what if I don’t want them?”

He arched a single eyebrow. “But you do need them. Money most certainly, but also a protector. Otherwise you would not have played the game with Lord Metzger.”

He had her there. “But what if I don’t want it?”

“That also is patently false. Do you deny it?”

She couldn’t deny it, but her pride made her press her lips together. She’d be damned if she admitted it. He was becoming much too sure of himself, too certain of her, and she didn’t like it. So she leaned back on the settee and crossed her arms. She was well aware of what the action did to her breasts, lifting them up such that her cleavage was on display. As expected, his gaze dropped straight to her chest. But of course, she was equally the fool here because at his intense stare, her blood heated, her nipples tightened, and she began to think of saying yes. So she forced the denial out quickly before she could change her mind.

“My life is different now than when I made my bargain with Lord Metzger. I am not alone anymore. I have a shop that I love, people who care for me—”

“And Johnny Bono fondling you between a bolt of muslin and a crate of onions. Do not think I have forgotten about that. Indeed, just say yes and your difficulties with that character will end.”

“I would be simply trading one man for another. One type of abuse for another.”

Her words were a challenge to him, but she never anticipated how much. His mouth tightened and his eyes glittered cold with fury. “Never suggest he and I are of the same cloth, Helaine.”

Honesty forced her to admit the truth, but her pride kept her from making it an apology. “Not of the same cloth certainly, but of the same intent.”

“I will never force you.”

“You merely point out my vulnerabilities, and offer to save me from them one by one.”

He nodded. “That is what men do, is it not? They save their women from danger.”

There it was. The last piece she needed to strengthen her spine and convince her to say no. He had no idea how hard she had fought for her independence. For her room above the shop, for a purpose and profession that brought money to her. Money that was hers and hers alone. She still feared debtors’ prison, but for now, she would not trade her independence away.

“You forget that I have no need of rescuing. Ladies come to my door every day asking for my dresses. And as for Mr. Bono, I have handled his attentions for years now; I shall undoubtedly continue to manage for many years to come. So you may keep your money and your rooms. I am quite content as I am.”

“Really?” he drawled, the word a sensuous caress that throbbed deep in her belly. “And what of pleasure?”

“Do you know,” she said, feigning a cheerfulness she did not feel, “I believe that men derive a great deal more satisfaction from carnal pleasures than women. I assure you,” she lied, “I will rub along quite nicely without it.”

“That, sweet Helaine, would be a crying shame.”

She had no answer to that. She had little understanding of the pleasures of the flesh. Many a night she had slept in her cold bed and wondered about them. What did married women know that she did not? And would she ever learn?

Apparently not, because she pushed to her feet. “Thank you for your offer, my lord, but I am not interested.”

He stood because she’d forced him to. The man was too polite to stay seated before a woman, even a woman who had just refused him. “I have not finished, Helaine. I still need to know what Johnny Bono holds over you.”

She shook her head. “Nothing except that he is the only one who will sell me fabric on credit.”

“That, at least, I can change. Name the best fabric merchant in London. I shall contact him directly and tell him my sister has engaged you to make her trousseau. He should extend you credit immediately.”

She blinked, the magnitude of what he was offering hitting her broadside. “You would do that even though I refused you?”

“Of course,” he said, sounding vaguely insulted. “I cannot have my sister or her dressmaker subjected to a scene like that one again. And as for your refusal, let us say that the matter has been tabled for the moment. I am not a man to be put off so easily.”

Excitement shivered down her spine, and she did her best to suppress it. “Years ago, I would have swooned at the idea. I would have lain awake nights wondering if you would ask me to dance or bring me a posy.” She sighed and let her thoughts turn to the intervening years. The daily struggle against starvation, the nightly fight against despair. The girl she’d once been was long gone. In her place stood a woman who had learned to be cautious. Thrills were never worth the risk. And men, no matter how charming, were liars.

“What are you thinking, Helaine?” he asked. “You look so sad. I assure you, what I offer will not turn out badly.”

She laughed at that, though there was little humor in the sound. “There is always a cost for pleasure, my lord. And it is always the woman who pays.”

He reared back at that, but he did not step away. Indeed, a moment later, he was beside her, his hand reaching for her face. “It is not always so, Helaine—”

“It is.” She grabbed his fingers and forced them back. He didn’t fight her. She could not have done it if he had. Instead, he twined his fingers around hers and stroked his thumb into her palm. “I can see that you will take some convincing.”

“My maidenhead is not for sale.”

“I was not speaking of your virginity, Helaine. Merely of my intentions. I have underestimated you. I see that now. I look forward to the chase.”

Alarm beat equal pace with excitement in her heart. “My lord—,” she began, but he cut her off.

“The name of the best fabric merchant, Mrs. Mortimer. You have not told me what it is.”

She blinked, too startled by his change of topic to think clearly. “Wolferman’s,” she answered.

“You should hear from them by tomorrow morning.” He flashed her a smile. “And from me some day—or night—after that.”

Then he bowed over her hand and showed himself out. He moved slowly enough that she could have stopped him. She had time to say something haughty or dismissive or even polite. But he had confused her. In truth, he had excited her, nearly seduced her, tempted her, and reassured her, all in the space of an hour. She had no words left in her, much less any wit.

And then it came to her. Just before the door closed behind him, she rushed to the opening to call after him. “My lord!”

He stopped and turned back to her. “Helaine?”

“You caught me unprepared today.” She took a step outside into the sunlight. She straightened to her full height and mentally wrapped herself in all the good things she had done since her father had doomed them all. She was a strong woman, and no man could take that from her. “I was surprised and confused. But no longer. You will not find me so malleable ever again.”

He arched his brows. “I hardly think you malleable, Helaine.”

She shrugged. “Nevertheless.”

He bent in the most courtly of bows. “Then let the games begin.”