Regency Mistresses: A Practical Mistress / The Wanton Bride. Mary Brendan
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persuade him at that point she might have made much of the fact that the prospective bridegroom was one of his own kin. Such a squandered effort that would have been! She doubted such a man would care a fig for the nuptials of an impoverished distant cousin. It would have been better to set out this morning to again do battle with George, for this ridiculous situation could no longer continue.
Her brother might plead poverty and pretend to be an injured party but he lived well, far better than did Charlotte and she. He might not have ready cash, but he had assets to sell. The new landau in which his wife sashayed around town was just one such valuable item.
The cab drew up outside Westlea House and Helen handed over some coins to the jarvey. She gave his impassive wrinkled countenance a sharp look, wondering whether she ought to bring to his attention the fact that he had almost knocked down one of the ton’s most notable personages. She decided against it and, unusually, added a small tip to the fare.
Helen removed her grey velvet gown and carefully hung it on a hook. She had dressed with such care that morning in the few garments she possessed that were elegant, if dated in style. She had not wanted Sir Jason to see her looking like a waif and stray come abegging. A small smile twisted her lips; she might just as well have called on him dressed in her washed-out twill; all her painstaking toilette had been in vain.
Feeling chilled, she quickly donned her old day dress, then knotted a woollen shawl over it for warmth. She studied her reflection, lips tilting wryly at the incongruous sight of her faded blue gown hanging loosely from her slender hips whilst her hair was still primped to perfection. Briskly she removed the pins from her sleek coiffure and brushed through the silky coils. As she was about to loop it into a neat chignon, a loud noise startled her. She heard the doorknocker again being forcefully employed.
There was only one person she knew of who felt entitled to so imperiously announce himself: Mr Drover, of Drover’s Wares and Provisions in Monmouth Street. Helen had been expecting him to call for a week or more. She felt sure she knew what the grocer wanted, and was tempted to pretend nobody was home. But that would simply delay the inevitable and deny them further supplies. With a sigh she quickly went below, her mind foraging for plausible excuses for delaying payment of what they owed whilst inveigling for another delivery soon.
‘May I come in?’
Helen sensed her heart stop beating, then start to hammer in a rapid irregular rhythm. Obliquely she realised she had been terribly rude in instinctively pushing the door almost shut. She strove for self-control as she made wider the aperture by a few inches to blurt, ‘What do you want, sir?’
Jason tilted his head to try and see more of the petite woman stationed behind peeling green paint. Merely a tantalising sliver of her figure was now visible and her features were concealed behind a curtain of loose dark hair. ‘What do I want? I want to know what you want, Mrs Marlowe … apart from trying to assassinate me with a hackney cab….’
Helen jerked the door towards her and gazed at him with large astonished eyes. ‘I did not intend you harm! It was an accident! And had you been civil when I called on you earlier, you would by now know what I want.’
Jason found himself confronted by a fragile woman garbed in a dress that looked as though it had seen far better days … probably when it had fitted her. Now it was too large and as shabby as the shawl she was gripping tightly about her slender arms. His gaze returned to her face and lingered. She’d been bonny as a child. Now a hungry look had pared flesh from a heart-shaped face framed by hair as lustrous as black silk. But it was her eyes that mesmerised him and he realised that old Cedric’s sight must be failing too if he thought them yellow. They were the colour of fine cognac.
Helen felt herself flush beneath his silent, searing appraisal, certain that she knew what prompted it. He’s wondering whether I had the cheek to arrive at his grand house dressed like this. The thought brought slashes of colour to highlight her sharp cheekbones and for a long moment she simply met his slate-eyed gaze with haughty belligerence. Had he taken the trouble to see her, he would not need to speculate on how she’d been attired.
‘May I come in?’ Jason repeated. ‘It might be as well to have this conversation out of sight of prying eyes.’
Immediately Helen’s gaze darted past him; it certainly would give the neighbours something to gossip over should she be seen trading accusations on her doorstep with a distinguished gentleman of the ton. For barely a moment longer she dithered, undecided whether to send him away. But in truth she knew she ought make some sort of explanation for her unsolicited call on him. She also had been presented with a prime opportunity to do what she had really set out to do: to tell him that she and Charlotte were not willingly quitting their home, no matter what business he had hatched with her brother. Besides, now he was here, she had no intention of letting him go without taking a flea in his ear for treating her so vilely!
Helen crisply stepped back allowing him to enter the cold and gloomy interior of Westlea House.
In the parlour Helen indicated a chair by the unlit fire and then took the seat that faced it. She watched as Sir Jason Hunter perched his large frame, with effortless elegance, on the edge of the cracked hide.
After a tense moment in which Helen could think of nothing sensible to say because his eyes were so unnervingly fixed on her, she announced, ‘I would offer you some refreshment, sir, but my serving maid is out at present.’ It was true Betty was out; it was also true that only limp grouts, twice used already, were what she had to offer any visitor.
Jason moved a hand, dismissing the apology as unnecessary, then leaned back in his chair. From beneath subtle lids he considered Helen Marlowe and her intriguingly fragile beauty.
He had not spoken to her for ten years or so when he and her brother were still on good terms. He had heard she had married, and been widowed, but they no longer had any mutual friends who might bring them into proper contact. He racked his brain to try and recall the last occasion he had seen her at a distance and where that had been. He thought it had probably been in Hyde Park over two years ago. He wondered if she had then been as waif-like as she looked now.
Helen clasped her quivering fingers in her lap. She was sure she knew what he was thinking, for she was acutely aware of it, too: their status and social circles were now vastly different. Once he had been welcomed in to their home and she had been invited to Thorne Park to play with his sister, Beatrice.
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