Blackmailed by the Rich Man. Julia James
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so, you could begin your wifely duties by washing my back.’
‘Oh, God,’ Helen said, appalled, and backed out into the passage, slamming the door behind her to shut off the sound of his laughter.
Daisy was at the sink in the kitchen, dealing with the cups and glasses from the previous night, when Helen arrived, flushed and breathless from her headlong dash downstairs.
‘Why,’ she demanded, ‘is Marc Delaroche still here? And what is he doing in my bathroom?’
‘My guess would be—having a bath.’ Daisy gave her a disapproving look. ‘I dare say he could do with a bit of pampering—after last night.’
‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’
Daisy turned, hands on her hips, her gaze deepening into real severity. ‘The very idea, Miss Helen—making the poor young man sleep on that wretched sofa when there was a perfectly good bedroom all ready for him upstairs. And Sir Henry always was such a hospitable man too. He must be turning in his grave.’
Helen took a deep breath. ‘It’s not a question of hospitality—’ she began, but Daisy was firm.
‘He told me when I saw him this morning that you were expecting him, Miss Helen. Isn’t that so?’
Helen abandoned the struggle. ‘Yes,’ she acknowledged wearily. ‘I suppose it is. I—I just wasn’t sure when it would be.’
‘Ah, well,’ Daisy said comfortably. ‘That’s all right, then.’ She hesitated, giving Helen a shrewd glance. ‘I get the idea we’ll be seeing more of Mr Marc in future.’
Helen murmured something non-committal.
I saw more than I needed just now in the bathroom, she thought, filling the kettle and placing it on the stove.
She was just making coffee when the bell at the front entrance jangled with two imperative bursts.
‘Now, who on earth’s calling at this time on a Sunday?’ Daisy wiped her hands and moved towards the door. ‘Have you invited anyone else, Miss Helen?’
‘Not that I know of.’ Helen attempted lightness. ‘But maybe we’d better make up another room, just to be on the safe side.’
Of course it could be Lottie, curious to know how the previous evening had gone, so she turned, beaker in hand, prepared to be welcoming when Daisy returned. But the housekeeper was alone, her face set and stony. ‘It’s that Mr Newson,’ she said shortly. ‘He insists on having a word with you, so I’ve put him in the library.’
‘Oh.’ Helen abandoned her coffee and went reluctantly to join him, wishing that she looked tidier, more like the lady of the house instead of the hired help.
The room looked neat and cheerful in the sunlight pouring through the window, and her unwanted visitor was standing with his back to the empty fireplace, looking round him with his usual narrow-eyed appraisal.
She said icily, ‘Is there something I can do for you, Mr Newson?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You can tell me that you’ve seen sense at last over this house and are prepared to sell to me. My team are all ready to go. I only need to say the word.’
‘But I’ve already said the word.’ Helen lifted her chin. ‘And it’s no. I thought I’d made that clear.’
‘But that was when you thought you could get your hands on some money.’ The fleshy face gloated at her. ‘It’s all round the village that you’ve been turned down for that grant you pinned your hopes on. You’ve nowhere else to turn, and you know it. So if you’ve got any sense you’ll reconsider my offer, minus a small discount for the inconvenience you’ve put me to, and be quick about it. I’m planning to open next Easter.’
‘Well, I hope you haven’t spent too much on preliminaries,’ Helen returned, with total insincerity. ‘Because Monteagle is still not for sale.’
‘I’m a tolerant man, Miss Frayne. Anyone will tell you that. But you’re beginning to try my patience. Get it into your head, my dear. You’ve fought well, but you’ve lost. I hold all the cards, and I’m about to collect.’
Except, Helen thought, she held a final ace—if she chose to play it. And what real choice did she have—if Monteagle was to be saved?
She heard the creak of a floorboard behind her. Knew without turning who had entered the room—and what he was waiting to hear. Her fight was over at last, and her choice made for her—whatever the consequences.
She took a deep breath, aware that she was shivering, her stomach churning as she faced Trevor Newson.
She said huskily, ‘I’m afraid not. You see, I’m going to be married—very soon—and my future husband plans to restore the house completely—as our family home.’ She paused. ‘Isn’t that right—darling?’
Marc’s hands descended on her shoulders. His skin smelled cool and damp, but the lips that touched the side of her throat in a lingering kiss were warmer than the blaze of the sun.
He said softly into her ear, ‘It will be one of my many pleasures, mon amour.’
He came to stand beside her, his arm circling her body, his hand on her hip in a gesture of possession as casual as it was disturbing. He was barefoot, bare-chested, a pair of shabby jeans his only covering.
‘When I woke you were gone, cherie.’ He clicked his tongue in a kind of amused reproach. ‘And here you are, entertaining another man.’
‘I don’t think Mr Newson is particularly entertained,’ Helen said coolly. ‘Besides, he’s just leaving.’
The older man’s face was unpleasantly flushed. ‘So this is your saviour?’ He nearly spat the word. ‘He doesn’t look to me as if he’s got two pennies to rub together, but I’m sure you’ve had him checked out.’ He glared at Marc. ‘She’s a fast worker. I’ll give her that. Up to yesterday she was supposed to be engaged to someone else, only he’s dumped her. Now here she is with you.’ Trevor Newson gave Helen a smile that made her skin crawl. ‘So, where did you find this one, love?’
‘She did not,’ Marc said curtly. ‘I found her. And you are offending my fiancée, monsieur. Perhaps you would like to go, before I throw you out.’
‘You and whose army?’ Trevor Newson blustered. He was more heavily built than his opponent, but he was flabby and out of condition when compared with Marc’s toned muscularity. ‘But I’m leaving anyway.’ At the door, he turned. ‘This is going to cost you a fortune, my friend. I just hope you find she’s worth the expense. Not many women are.’
As soon as he had gone Helen eased herself from Marc’s arm and walked over to the window.
She said, ‘Do you usually come downstairs half-dressed?’
‘I had just finished shaving. You have some objection?’ He sounded amused again.
She shrugged. ‘It’s—not very dignified.’ She paused. ‘And it made that awful man think…’
‘That we had slept together?’ Marc supplied cordially, as she hesitated again. ‘But you can hardly deny that you spent most of the night in my arms, ma mie.’
‘No,’ Helen said between gritted teeth. ‘I—can’t.’
‘But you wish so much that it were otherwise, hein?’ He walked over to her. Turned her to face him, a hand under her chin, so he could look down into her eyes. ‘So,’ he said softly, ‘you have agreed, after all, to make the ultimate sacrifice to save this house. For a while I thought your aversion to me might prove too strong.’
She bit her lip and stared down at the floor. ‘So did I.’ Her voice was bitter.
‘I think I owe Monsieur Newson some thanks,’ he said reflectively. ‘If he had