Blackmailed by the Rich Man: In the Millionaire's Possession / Blackmailed Into Marriage / Bedded by Blackmail. Julia James
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village grapevine, Helen realised, was in full operation already.
‘Oh, no,’ she said with perfect truth, aware at the same time that she was blushing. ‘It was before that—at a meeting in London.’ Just don’t ask how long before, that’s all.
Mrs Stevens nodded with satisfaction. ‘I knew it must be so,’ she said.
And I wish it had been. The thought came to Helen, unbidden and shocking in its implication, as she made the short trip to the Vicarage.
‘Oh, my dear girl.’ Marion Lowell hugged her ebulliently. ‘How amazing—a whirlwind romance. And such a gorgeous man.’ She turned to her husband. ‘Jeff, darling, now we have an excuse to drink that champagne we won in the Christmas tombola. I’m so glad we didn’t give it back.’
‘I hope none of the parishioners call,’ Jeff Lowell said, grinning as he passed round the fizzing glasses. ‘They’ll probably have me defrocked.’
‘Will you be getting married here in the church?’ Mrs Lowell asked, after they’d drunk to her happiness, and Helen shook her head, flushing.
‘I’m afraid not. It will be at the registry office in Aldenford.’
The Vicar looked at her quietly. ‘I’d be delighted to hold a short service of blessing afterwards, if you’d like that. Perhaps you’d mention it to your fiancé.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Helen, hating herself for lying.
She felt sombre as she walked home. They were so kind, so pleased for her, as if she and Marc had really fallen headlong in love.
Thank goodness they had no idea of the soulless—and temporary—bargain she’d struck with him. His words still echoed in her mind. You do not profess undying love… I find that—refreshing.
And that, she thought wearily, seemed to say it all.
As she rounded the bend in the road a lorry carrying scaffolding poles went past her, and carefully negotiated its way between Monteagle’s tall wrought-iron gates.
She watched it bewilderedly, then began to run after it up the drive.
In front of the main entrance chaos confronted her. There seemed to be vans and trucks everywhere, with ladders and building supplies being briskly unloaded.
As she paused, staring round uncertainly, a man came striding towards her. He was of medium height, with brown hair and rimless glasses, and his face was unsmiling.
He said, ‘I’m sorry, but the house is no longer open for visitors.’
‘Where did you get that idea?’ Helen demanded coldly.
‘From Monsieur Marc Delaroche,’ he said. ‘The owner of the property.’
‘Not yet,’ Helen said with a snap. ‘I’m Helen Frayne, and the house still belongs to me.’ She paused. ‘I presume you’re the architect?’
‘Yes,’ he acknowledged slowly. Behind the glasses his eyes had narrowed, as if he was puzzled about something. ‘I’m Alan Graham. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Frayne,’ he added, with no particular conviction.
‘Marc mentioned you’d be coming—but not all this.’ She gestured almost wildly around her. ‘What’s going on?’
He shrugged. ‘He wants work to start as soon as possible.’
She said, ‘I can see that. But how? You can’t have arranged all this in twenty-four hours—it simply isn’t feasible.’ She stopped, dry-mouthed. ‘Unless this was all planned some time ago, of course,’ she added slowly. ‘And you were just waiting for his word to—swing into action. Is that it?’
Alan Graham fidgeted slightly. ‘Is it important? The house needs restoring, and we’re here to do it. And time is of the essence,’ he added with emphasis.
His tone implied that there was no more to be said. ‘Is there a room I could use as an office, Miss Frayne?’ He paused. ‘Marc suggested that your late grandfather’s study might be suitable, but any decision must be yours, naturally.’
Helen bit back the angry words seething inside her. Marc must have made his decision and given his orders almost as soon as they’d met, she realised with incredulity. As if he’d never had any doubt that she would ultimately accede to his demands.
How dare he take her for granted like this? she thought stormily, grinding her foot into the gravel in sheer humiliation. Oh, God, how dare he?
But it was done now, and she could see no way to undo it.
She took a deep breath. ‘My grandfather’s study has been unoccupied and unfurnished for some time,’ she said expressionlessly. ‘But you may use it if you wish.’ She hesitated, still faintly stunned by all the activity around her. ‘May I ask where all these people are going to stay?’
‘That’s not a problem. Accommodation has been arranged for them in Aldenford, and I’ve got a room at the Monteagle Arms.’
‘Oh.’ Helen digested this. She gave the architect a small cold smile. ‘I’m afraid you won’t be very comfortable there.’
‘So Marc has told me.’ For the first time Alan Graham’s face relaxed a little. ‘But it won’t be for long. My wife is joining me today to look for a cottage to rent for the duration.’
‘I see,’ Helen said woodenly. ‘And meals?’ She had a horrified vision of cauldrons of soup and platters of sandwiches to be prepared daily.
‘Packed lunches will be delivered.’ He paused. ‘Perhaps you’d direct me to the study, so that I can unpack my papers and drawings?’
‘Of course,’ Helen said, turning and leading the way to the house.
It seemed that Mr Graham shared Lottie’s disapproval of this lightning marriage, she brooded over a mug of coffee a little later, having left the architect sorting out his workspace with chilling efficiency.
‘Well!’ Daisy exclaimed, bustling into the kitchen. ‘You could have knocked me down with a feather when all those men started arriving. Mr Marc certainly doesn’t waste any time.’
‘No,’ Helen agreed through gritted teeth. ‘None at all.’
‘They’re starting on the State Bedroom,’ Daisy informed her with excitement. ‘The Helen Frayne portrait is being sent to London to be cleaned, and they’re turning the little dressing room and the room next door as well into a lovely bathroom, with a wardrobe area.’ She gave Helen a knowing look. ‘Seems as if Mr Marc intends to use the room when you’re married.’
‘Does he, indeed?’ was all Helen could find to say.
The master bedroom, she thought, her stomach twisting into nervous knots, being lavishly created for the master—and his bought bride.
When Marc telephoned that night, she was ready for him.
‘You had this planned all along,’ she stormed across his polite enquiries about her welfare. ‘Even before you came here and saw the place you knew you were going to take on Monteagle’s restoration. Why?’
‘I found your application for help—intriguing. Then I saw you, ma belle, and my fascination was complete.’ He had the gall to sound amused. ‘But it seemed I had a rival, so I decided to offer you an interest-free loan in the hope that my generosity might ultimately be rewarded.’
‘Then why didn’t you?’ Her voice was ragged.
‘Because I realised that Nigel was betraying you and soon there would be nothing to prevent me claiming you for myself. It seemed unlikely that you would become my mistress, so I offered the money as a wedding gift to you instead. Do you blame me?’
‘Blame you? Damned right I do,’ she flung at him.