Regency Mistresses: A Practical Mistress\The Wanton Bride (16 page)

Helen was stunned by his careless attitude and her glistening eyes lingered on his face.

He gave her an impenitent smile. ‘My apologies for being blunt … but, as I recall, we speak plainly, don’t we?’ he remarked with just a hint of sneering. ‘I know his terms won’t be more generous than
mine. So, tell me, were you preparing to end things between us to claim Westlea House as your own?’

Helen shrivelled inside beneath his ruthless gaze, but managed a controlled response. ‘As you have cast me in the role of shameless hussy, I imagine you have already made a decision on it.’ She lifted tear-dewed eyes to his face, then blinked furiously. ‘I am not about to weep and strive to defend myself,’ she whispered with shaky pride. ‘I didn’t want to take a walk with him. I certainly didn’t want him to kiss me, but you may believe what you will about what you saw.’ She pulled her shawl tighter about her shoulders and made to sweep past before the mist in her vision became water on her cheeks.

A hand shot out as she came level with him, jerking her close. ‘And what I saw was you willingly taking Bridgeman’s arm and disappearing with him. You might be naïve, my dear, but even you know men don’t invite women to walk these dark pathways so they might talk to them.’

‘Talking was exactly
my
intention,’ Helen retorted in a shaky tone whilst trying to wrestle her wrist from his grip. ‘And if I am naïve, then you must take some of the blame! Having kept company for some weeks with a notorious rake, I imagine that by now I ought be quite jaded!’ With a final wrench she freed her wrist and made to bolt past.

‘Don’t run off, sweet,’ Jason said with specious charm as he blocked her path. ‘Bridgeman might have abandoned you, but the night’s not over yet. If it’s corruption you want, I’ll give it to you.’

Helen shook her head at him in mute appeal as unbridled lust made dark coals of his eyes. He merely crooked his five fingers at the back of her head, bringing her close. The pretty string of pearls entwined there scattered to bounce like hailstones on parched earth. Momentarily she fought him, then his mouth took possession of hers with the sensual savagery she remembered from that first night in his coach. This time Helen intended tolerating none of it. But traitorous desire, swift and potent as liquid fire, had started to streak through her veins. She sensed the tightness in her abdomen and the drugging pliancy that stole bone from her limbs. Her body was ready to succumb to the expectation of the pleasure he gave her. Her jaw was softening, widening to receive his tongue. Familiar fingers began loosening her bodice and his hands moulded over the soft mounds of her breasts. In instinctive response her back arched in unmistakable invitation.

His palms were circling over the hard nubs of her nipples and despite her weak protestations, her breath was coming in little gasps. She pleaded for his decency with one tortured word. ‘Jason …’

He laughed against her mouth. ‘That’s right … it’s Jason,’ he breathed harshly. ‘Not Marlowe, not Bridgeman. At least you remembered my name.’

A taunting humour in his voice gave Helen strength to push him away. When he reached for her again with insolent confidence, a small hand traced an arc to crack hard against a lean cheek.

He certainly had not been expecting that and Helen took immediate advantage of his surprise to dart past. She flew back along the path in the direction of the sound of serenading violins.

As the dark and quiet were diluted by light and laughter she slowed her pace. Her vibrating fingers forced the buttons on her bodice back into their hooks as she continued to walk out into the milling crowd.

Of the people who had noticed Helen’s disappearance, only one now saw her return.

With a twinge of sadness Emily Beaumont watched Helen emerge from the path, quite alone. Her friend’s distress was not immediately obvious, but Emily sensed it nonetheless, even before she saw Helen swiftly cuff at her face, then slip into the midst of the throng to lose herself within it. With a murmured excuse for her brother, Tarquin, Emily picked a path towards her.

Emily linked arms with her friend and spontaneously
angled her head comfortingly close to Helen’s as her fears were confirmed. Helen’s lashes were still wet with tears.

Helen gave Emily a faint smile and asked huskily, ‘Have you any idea where my brother might be, Emily?’

Emily nodded. ‘I have. I’ll lead you to him.’ She gave Helen’s hand a sympathetic pat. ‘And you need not fret over Bridgeman’s whereabouts. I saw him leave the Gardens looking quite subdued.’

Helen shot Emily a searching look. ‘Who told … how did you …?’ she stiltedly began.

‘Charlotte told me about … the problems,’ Emily admitted quietly and gently urged Helen to keep walking. ‘You must not blame your sister. She was quite distressed on seeing you go into the walkway with Bridgeman, and blurted it all out to me.’ She paused. ‘Charlotte was keen to get George to rescue you. She was sure Bridgeman was abducting you. I persuaded her you would be safe, for I had noticed Sir Jason had immediately set off to act knight errant.’ Emily slanted a glance at Helen’s averted face. ‘Sir Jason
did
send Bridgeman packing, didn’t he?’

Helen simply nodded and frowned into the distance.

‘But … perhaps didn’t act very knightly?’ Emily suggested, angling her head to see Helen’s expression.

‘How could he think I was enjoying that horrible man’s attention?’ Helen bit at her trembling lower lip. ‘Is Charlotte somewhere hereabouts with Philip?’

‘She and Philip have taken a walk towards the grottoes.’

Helen gave an unconscious little sigh of relief.

‘You may tell me to mind my own business if you want to,’ Emily said gently. ‘But … I know what it is to be the butt of gossip. I also know what it is to be burdened with a brother’s selfishness. People might think that I happily tolerate Tarquin’s faults. It’s not the truth. But he is my brother and I do love him despite all the heartache he causes us.’

Helen turned to give her a wavering smile. ‘Where would we be without our families?’ she ruefully murmured.

‘I think I would be … contentedly raising a brood of children.’ Emily divulged that in an ironic tone but Helen sensed it veiled a poignant truth.

Emily answered her unspoken question with a single nod. ‘Yes … I would have married a gentleman but for Tarquin spoiling things … Oh, it doesn’t matter!’ she said briskly. ‘It was some years ago now.’

They walked in silence for a moment, then Emily nodded her blonde head. ‘There is George and his devoted wife,’ she commented acidly. She tugged
gently on Helen’s arm to slow their pace. ‘Before you go, Helen—and I know you will make George take you home—I want you to understand that there is very little that you could tell me that would shock or offend me.’

Helen gave her a long and searching look before saying quietly, ‘You are kind, Emily, but, if you knew more about me, I think you would be shocked.’

‘And if you knew more about me, I think you would be shocked,’ Emily returned. She unlinked their arms and gave Helen a smile. ‘So, if you want to talk to someone about any burdensome topic such as … sisters, brothers, lovers …’ She caught Helen’s eyes in a meaningful gaze. ‘You know who to choose.’ Quickly she gave Helen’s arm a squeeze. ‘George has seen us and is coming over.’ Helen’s brother received a little wave before Emily turned and set off back the way she had come.

‘I
f you’re looking for Mrs Marlowe, you’re wasting your time. She’s gone.’

Jason pivoted about to see his brother standing behind him with his hands plunged deep into his pockets. ‘What do you mean …
gone
?’ he demanded in frustration. His eyes narrowed dangerously. ‘Did she leave with Bridgeman?’

‘Helen went with her brother,’ Mark informed soothingly as he strolled closer. ‘She looked a little … strained, so I assume he has taken her home.’ Mark kept a tactful rein on his curiosity despite being keen to know what had caused Jason’s mistress to depart so abruptly. From the dark scowl and unguarded comment thrown at him, he guessed it was due to his heartthrob brother imagining he had a rival.

Mark suppressed a wry smile twitching at his lips. The idea of Sir Jason Hunter—rich as Croesus and devilishly handsome to boot—being jealous of the likes of Colin Bridgeman, who allowedly could boast he had plenty of money if little else, was ludicrous and unprecedented. But when a man was enamoured he acted very oddly. Mark had marvelled before when strong, confident gentlemen of his acquaintance had become enfeebled wretches whilst courting the women they loved.

He had no wish to see his distinguished brother reduced to that pitiful condition, so was ready to act as arbitrator if he could. Despite their fights and arguments, Jason and he were fond of one another.

Mark had never experienced such emotional delirium over a woman, and thanked his lucky stars for it! But then he knew there wasn’t a woman alive capable of bringing
him
down.

Oddly, had his attention for the best part of the evening
not
been concentrated on the infuriatingly alluring chit who happened to be Tarquin Beaumont’s sister, he might have noticed his brother pursue Helen and Bridgeman into the walkway.

It was through being captivated by Emily Beaumont that he had first sensed something was amiss between his brother and Helen. He had observed Emily flit gracefully through the crowds to gain
Helen’s side as she emerged, alone, from the dark pathway. Within a moment of them coming together Emily had been discreetly comforting Helen, in the unmistakably tactile way women had. Shortly afterwards Mark had his suspicions confirmed that Helen was upset when a sheepish-looking George Kingston had accompanied his widowed sister to his carriage. Mark had seen Charlotte leaving a few minutes later with Philip and Anne Goode. That party had looked to be in good spirits, indicating they had been in ignorance of Helen’s distress.

Mark surfaced from his reflection and noticed Jason was still glaring at the road as though he might conjure up the carriage that had spirited Helen away.

That his brother was in love was indisputable, yet Mark sensed Jason was under the impression he was adequately concealing the strength of his feelings. Even a subtle interrogation was unlikely to extract anything from Jason whilst he was in this mood other than a few choice epithets.

‘I take it you’ll be leaving now.’ Mark was speaking to Jason, but had difficulty removing his gaze from Emily’s pensive profile. He heard a grunted affirmative, but it was a moment later that he realised his brother was already striding away towards the exit.

Mark sent a shrewd look at his old friend Tarquin.
He hadn’t spoken to him yet this evening; it was high time he remedied that.

Tarquin greeted Mark with a thump on the shoulder and immediately drew him into the circle of young bucks. Some of them seemed to be attempting to impress his sister with tales of their prowess in tooling the ribbons. Despite an absent smile here and an abstracted murmur there, Emily still seemed to be locked within her own consciousness … until her brother mentioned the name Hunter.

Emily snapped from her reverie and ran her eyes coldly over the man who had joined them. Within a second her disgust was directed elsewhere, for a couple of young ladies close by had suddenly remembered to say hello to her.

Moira and Felicity Watson had virtually ignored her since they arrived despite their family group being just a few yards away. Tarquin’s incarceration had rendered her
persona non grata
to hypocrites she previously had classed as friends. Now, because Mark Hunter had graced her circle with his presence, the cousins remembered the Beaumonts existed and fluttered close with breathy enquiries of how they all did.

After a terse response Emily showed them an elevated shoulder. It was a manoeuvre that brought her about to again face Mark. She tipped up her proud,
heart-shaped face to challenge his stare. Her head bobbed a curt acknowledgement, but her blue eyes were icy with dislike.

Mark absorbed her antipathy and forged a stoic smile. He was sure he didn’t give a damn if she liked him or not. He had come over to discover what the hell was going on between Jason and Helen. His brother had left Grosvenor Square earlier that evening in a good mood. The fact that Jason had been more than usually generous with his money and his property since he’d fallen in love was no inconsiderable incentive for Mark to try and smooth things over between the lovers. He had been about to ask to borrow Jason’s racing curricle to take him swiftly to Newhaven. A boxing bout with a new French fighter had been arranged and he had promised his cronies, who had arranged to bring over the foreign pugilist on a yacht, that he would put in an appearance on the coast and run the book.

He saw Emily was about to put distance between them, so said in a solemn murmur, ‘Forgive me for mentioning a rather delicate matter, but I noticed that you were talking privately to Mrs Marlowe. I have just been similarly occupied with my brother.’ A meaningful throb quietened his voice to little more than a murmur. He sighed and shook his head sadly. ‘It’s a pity when misunderstandings lead to rifts between
people who care about one another.’ His frank gaze lingered on her face. He could tell she was torn between her loyalty to Helen and a desire to do what she could to restore her friend’s happiness.

‘Indeed, it is a shame, sir,’ Emily breathed tartly. ‘But not surprising that such misunderstandings originate in male egotism.’

Mark relaxed a little. If he was careful, he might yet learn what the problem was. ‘My brother is proud, I’ll admit; but then no man likes being taken for a fool …’

‘And no woman likes being taken for a cheat, especially when she had done nothing but try to selflessly protect a sister,’ Emily hissed angrily. Suddenly aware that she had said too much she blinked rapidly at her dainty shoes. ‘I beg you will please forget that I told you that. I know you are aware, from your brother, what went on. But I would hate either Helen or Charlotte to think I had betrayed them with talking loosely to—’

‘To …?’ Mark prompted. ‘Who am I exactly, Miss Beaumont?’ he asked softly. ‘Lucifer? Sir Jason’s brother? A scoundrel to avoid?’

Emily swallowed. ‘You are the man who had my brother thrown in gaol,’ she retorted. ‘And I do not like you, nor ever will!’

Mark tactically shifted position so that he and
Emily were slightly cut off from the rest of the group. ‘That is for another time,’ he said gently. ‘Helen Marlowe is your friend and Jason is my brother. We are simply trying to help reconcile two people. I guess from what you have said that Kingston is hoping to use one of his sisters to keep Bridgeman at bay. Is that it?’

Emily swiftly looked up.
‘Is that it?
You did not know?’ Her small mouth slackened in shock. ‘Oh, you beast! You have tricked me into telling you what you did not know.’ She backed away from him a pace, her features contorted in anger, her complexion white as chalk. ‘I don’t know why I’m surprised,’ she choked in a whisper, for her brother had turned about to look at her. ‘I always knew you for a blackguard. It was stupid of me to forget, even for a moment.’ With that she whipped past him and began to give the nearest of Tarquin’s friends her undivided attention.

It was whilst Jason was pacing to and fro on the pavement by his carriage, undecided whether to follow Helen to Westlea House and grovel an apology, or find Bridgeman and let him explain himself … before he knocked his teeth down his throat … that Diana Tucker emerged from the shadows. It was the distinctive perfume she used that first alerted him to
her presence. Turning his head, he saw sinuous curls, pale as moonbeams, as she lifted the hood of her cloak.

Diana moved towards him, her hips undulating beneath the light silk of her clothing. She, more than any other, was convinced that Jason and Helen Marlowe were sleeping together. After all, it could be no coincidence that she had received a parting settlement from her wealthy lover just a few days before he was seen squiring Mrs Marlowe to the opera. The pique she had felt at being so efficiently discarded in favour of a woman older and, in her opinion, far less comely, was still uncontrollable.

But tonight she had realised, with great elation, that all was not well between the lovers. Her eyes had followed Jason most of the evening so she had seen him enter the dark walkway. Constantly watching for his return, she had thus observed Helen hasten out looking tearful. When Jason had stridden out a few minutes later, Diana had been relieved to see his face so grimly set. It had been the fateful incident she needed to approach him and renew their relationship. So, for some minutes, she had been stalking Jason here and there about the Gardens with the sole intention of getting him alone so she might seduce him into taking her back.

He had handsomely pensioned her off with a
house and a generous sum of money, but she missed the prestige, and the envy of other women, that came with being mistress to one of the
ton’s
most desirable gentlemen.

‘Will you take me home, please, Jason?’ Diana huskily entreated. ‘I’ve got separated from my friends and they’ve left without me. You won’t make me hail a hackney, will you?’ She slanted up at him a coy smile. She was close to him now, her rounded hip pressing into the hard muscle of his thigh.

Jason leaned back against his carriage door. He nodded along the street to a smart coach fronted by two pairs of splendid thoroughbreds. ‘Frobisher’s vehicle,’ he said succinctly. ‘He might have found his senses and decided not to marry your friend, but I’m sure he still likes Mrs Bertram well enough to give her a ride home. If you ask nicely, I expect he’ll take you, too.’ Jason gave her a cynical smile. He hadn’t paid much attention to Diana this evening, but he was well aware that she had arrived with Lord Frobisher’s party and had her gallants with her.

Diana pouted up at him. ‘I’d rather ask
you
nicely to take me home, Jason. You haven’t so soon forgot how very
nice
I can be to you … have you?’ She suddenly went on to tiptoe and placed a moist kiss on his lips. His lack of enthusiasm was emphasised by a curse beneath his breath. Wounded by the careless
rebuff, Diana nevertheless persisted with her seduction. Her tongue tip darted to tease the lobe of an ear before he forcibly held her away.

‘Good evening,
Sir Jason.
’

Jason recognised the voice that had called the sly greeting and he immediately choked a stronger oath. With a brief farewell to his former paramour, he strolled to give instructions to his driver to take him to Grosvenor Square. It was only then he turned to acknowledge Iris Kingston. She was arm in arm with a young fop who looked to be still wet behind the ears. They were given a nod and a curt, ‘Good evening,’ before he was swiftly in his coach and on his way home.

Iris sent Diana a scoffing smirk, then watched her flounce back towards the Pleasure Gardens. Iris guessed that the common baggage had looked indignant because she had been unsuccessful in luring Jason back to her. But the realisation that he might have spurned Diana because Helen still had her claws in him was irritating. Colin was also in Helen’s thrall. In fact, both the affluent gentlemen that Iris wanted at her beck and call were infatuated with her skinny black-haired sister-in-law and it greatly irked.

Iris allowed her youthful escort to nudge her into a gap in the hedge and fumble with her clothes, but even as she murmured encouragement to him, her
mind was investigating how she might bring Helen Marlowe down a peg or two.

George Kingston was slumped, semi-conscious, in an armchair, but he raised his bleary eyes as his wife came into the sitting room. A brandy glass was waved at her as he slurred, ‘Ah, there you are, m’schweet. Home a’ lasht. Join m’in a drink?’

Iris gave him an apathetic glance but did help herself to the decanter. Suddenly she shot a canny look at her husband. He divulged to her very little lately. But he was quite obviously drunk and might just let slip what had occurred to make Helen demand George take her immediately home.

She strolled to the fire and held out her palms to the embers dying in the grate. ‘I saw Sir Jason just as we left the Gardens. He was in the Tucker woman’s embrace.’

George snuffled a laugh. ‘I doan’ think so.’

‘He was, I tell you,’ Iris sweetly remonstrated and playfully tickled George’s cheek with a fingertip.

Even intoxicated, George understood his wife well enough to send her a smile that was deeply cynical. He took a swig of brandy.

‘I watched that harlot kissing him in the street. Bold as you please!’

George swished the amber liquid in his glass and
shook his head at it. ‘Bridgeman’s the problem, not her, but Jay hates me still for Beatrice … so p’raps he used Helen …’

Iris’s eyes narrowed in interest as she tried to decipher her husband’s drunken ramblings. ‘Beatrice?’ she repeated softly. ‘She is Jason’s sister, surely.’

George nodded, a shock of dark hair falling lankly towards his nose. ‘Schweet Beatrice,’ he mumbled into his drink. ‘He’s never ever forgiven me for that.’

‘You seduced her? You seduced Beatrice Hunter?’ Iris whispered in astonishment.

George looked up glassily. ‘No! An’ I din’t abduct her either. She came willingly.’ He swayed his head and nuzzled the rim of his tumbler. ‘Should have let us be. Would have married her … said I would. Made us turn back. Not even half-way to Gretna … Shame …’

Iris stood for some minutes, digesting the information. When next she looked at her husband, she saw George’s chin was propped on his chest. She removed the glass from his limp fingers and deposited it on a table. With a slyly satisfied smile on her lips, she took herself off to bed.