Regency Mistresses: A Practical Mistress / The Wanton Bride

His steady, penetrating appraisal flustered Helen and she fought to equal his calm demeanour. She wished he would go, yet, confusingly, was reluctant to lose his company. There was something about him that was daunting, yet very appealing. He seemed in no rush to leave despite having done his duty and advised her of the coal delivery. Perhaps he was allowing her an opportunity to raise objections to his criticism of George and Iris from consanguinity. But her selfish sister-in-law deserved no such championship, and she baulked at the level of hypocrisy required to defend her brother.

Unspoken words seemed to whisper between them in the tense silence. She sensed he was daring her to voice the thoughts haunting her mind. Persistent phrases crept again to teeter on her tongue-tip. Why do you stare? Is it me you want?

Helen compressed her shapely lips into a tight line as though forcibly preventing any such shameful utterances from escaping. Jason Hunter had told her earlier, with faint scorn, that he had no need to coerce widows in straitened circumstances into sleeping with him. But what if they needed no such persuasion?

Helen averted her face, hoping to conceal the blush she again felt staining her complexion. It was not his potent presence that caused her embarrassment, but her own unquiet mind. She had never before considered herself conceited, yet a silly fantasy that this gentleman might desire her would not quit her thoughts.

Helen knew, as did the rest of polite society, that Jason Hunter had selected Mrs Tucker to fill the role her sister-in-law coveted.

Some months ago, when she had been out walking with Charlotte and a friend of theirs, Emily Beaumont, she had observed a beautiful young woman alight gracefully from a shiny carriage drawn by a pair of splendid greys. Servants in smart black livery had been in attendance and the ensemble had drawn admiring glances, not only from Helen’s party, but from other people promenading, too. Emily had whispered that Sir Jason Hunter had provided the lady’s transport. It was at that point that Helen learned from Emily the identity of the favoured lady and why Sir Jason would be so generous.

Diana Tucker had soon made her way, with confident step, into a shop. Helen had pensively studied her stylish outfit, thinking that, with her superior air and elegant bearing, she might have been a nobleman’s daughter rather than a notorious courtesan.

In her mind’s eye Helen could again see blonde curls dancing over blue velvet shoulders and a pretty face shadowed by a plumed hat cocked to a jaunty angle. In her nostrils was a faint redolence of an exotic perfume that had wafted in Mrs Tucker’s wake on that particular afternoon.

An involuntary glance down at her appearance took in her drab skirt and frayed cuffs. Her critical eyes spotted the soot smudges on her hands and she absently rubbed her fingertips together. She recalled that her face was similarly grubby and her hair dishevelled. At that moment she was conscious of how very risible was her idea that she might attract a disturbingly rich and handsome baronet. It prompted her to stutter into the silence, ‘For … forgive me, sir, but it seems we have said all we must. My sister will soon be home, and …’

‘And you would like me to leave,’ he finished for her in a wry tone.

Helen nodded and managed a grateful smile. She was on the point of summoning Betty to show him out when the maid poked her head about the door. The housemaid was holding the handle close to her body with just her face and mobcap visible at an angle.

‘What is it, Betty?’ Helen asked quickly, alarmed by her servant’s odd appearance.

Betty took a nimble sideways step over the threshold and tried to immediately shut the door behind her. It was to no avail. She was suddenly sent flying as the door was shoved fully open and a stout gentleman barged in to the parlour. He was garbed in a brown wool coat and beneath a burly arm was squashed his hat.

‘Is this him?’ Samuel Drover loudly demanded, forgoing introduction or explanation for his outrageous intrusion. His balding pate was snapped down in the direction of Jason. ‘Is it him?’ he again insisted on knowing. His scalp remained low and pointing straight ahead, although his eyes had swivelled to bulge at Helen.

Helen blinked rapidly, momentarily shocked to speechlessness.

‘I told him you was prior engaged with company, ma’am,’ Betty mumbled, miserably aware of her mistress’s petrified consternation. ‘He don’t never listen. He just pushed past … uncouth he is …’

Samuel Drover was unaffected by that slur on his character. ‘Is this the poor fellow?’ he purred sarcastically. He eyed the imposing gentleman stationed by the mantelpiece, a dark hand braced on pale marble and a faintly bemused expression shaping his beautifully stern features. ‘I must say he don’t look to be on his uppers.’ Mr. Drover subjected Jason to a calculating inspection. ‘I reckon this person could find fifty-three pounds two shillings and five halfpenny in his pocket right now.’ With that he whipped a bill from somewhere inside his coat and begun to stride purposefully forward.

Having finally shaken herself from her daze, Helen said in a quaver, ‘Mr Drover, please wait in the hallway and I will—’ She broke off to skip over the oak boards as Samuel Drover continued his menacing advance towards Jason.

Helen deftly interposed her petite figure between the belligerent grocer and the muscular physique of her new landlord. She stood with her chin elevated and her back to Jason as though she would protect him from assault … or having his pockets picked. With her countenance alternating between shocked pallor and pink mortification, she announced, ‘Mr Drover! Listen to me! This gentleman is most definitely not my brother, I cannot impress on you strongly enough that I resent …’ Helen’s impassioned plea was curtailed as firm hands, gentle as a caress, enclosed her upper arms. Suddenly she was lifted a little way off the ground and then deposited carefully at Jason’s side.

Mr Drover tottered back a step as a broad hand suddenly shot towards him.

‘I don’t think we have been properly introduced. I am Sir Jason Hunter.’

Samuel Drover glared suspiciously at the five elegant digits extended towards him.

Having clapped his eyes on a gentleman with dark hair and a handsome visage, at his ease inside Westlea House, Samuel was impressed enough by the likeness between the couple to have decided this must be the tight-fist to whom Mrs Marlowe was related.

‘How can I be sure you’re not this lady’s brother?’ he queried whilst giving a single pump to Jason’s hand.

‘Should you demand proof, my mother, I think, would attest to my legitimacy, having first planted you a facer.’ It was no empty jest. The Dowager Lady Hunter was renowned for a fiery temperament that remained unabated despite her having recently reached the stately decade of a sexagenarian.

Samuel Drover’s eyes squinted upwards in consideration. Defeated, he muttered, ‘Well, whoever you say you are, I want my cash. And don’t try to pull a fast one and take your custom elsewhere. I’ll tell every other merchant hereabouts to avoid your business. Don’t think I won’t.’

Numb with humiliation Helen could only watch glassily as Jason suddenly took Mr Drover’s shoulder in what looked to be an exceedingly firm grip. Five fingers bit further into brown wool as the man tried to shrug him off.

‘I think you have made your point,’ Jason said.

‘If you’re not Kingston, where is he? Do you know?’ The grocer gave Helen a hard stare. ‘Mrs Marlowe thinks to keep that information from me. I’ll find out his direction and set the duns on him.’

‘I understand your predicament, sir,’ Jason said equably, steering Samuel about with one hand in quite a facile fashion. ‘However, as you can see, Mrs Marlowe’s brother is not here, so you appear to be wasting your time and your threats.’

‘I’ll take back the sack of potatoes, or what’s left of it, that my boy brought here last week.’ Mr Drover aimed that over his shoulder at Helen as Jason propelled him towards the door.

‘I’ll bid you good afternoon, Mrs Marlowe,’ Jason said as he paused for a moment on the threshold. His easy stance seemed in no way affected by the restriction he was imposing on the fidgeting merchant.

Helen fleetingly met his gaze and a flicker of gentleness in his eyes put a peculiar sensation in the pit of her stomach. Don’t pity me! It was a silent, heartfelt demand that threatened to burst the sob swelling in her chest. Quickly she lowered her prickling eyes to her tightly laced fingers. Unaware that Jason had nudged the florid-faced grocer forward into the hallway, she managed an imperceptible nod at an empty doorway. ‘Yes … good day to you, sir….’

‘You look as though you’ve lost a sovereign and found a shilling.’

Jason scowled at his brother as he passed him. By the time Mark Hunter had turned on the sweeping staircase, peered at his brother’s flying heels, then hared after him, Jason had strode the length of a thickly carpeted corridor. He slammed into his study, downed two shots of whisky one after the other and was refilling his glass when Mark appeared.

‘Bad time at the tables?’ Mark’s tone was sympathetic as he speculated on a possible, if unlikely, cause of his brother’s dark disposition. He helped himself to Jason’s decanter and, after a couple of gulps from his glass, realised his commiserations remained unappreciated. He tried a blunter approach. ‘Devil take it, Jay, if you’ve not lost at cards, what’s up with you now? It’s too much, I tell you, having to continually look at your long face. You’ve been odd for weeks.’

Jason let his lean frame drop into the chair positioned behind a grand oak desk. Having settled himself with his boots resting on the table edge, he slanted his brother a stare over the rim of his glass. ‘When did my moods become your damned business? And why is it every time I come home, you’re here? I don’t remember inviting you to move in.’ His brother’s pained expression caused him to blow out his cheeks and gesture apology with a flick of a hand.

‘I know the old goat wants shooting for acting so blasted idiotic,’ Mark intoned with some indignation. ‘But, even if the two women are good friends, it don’t just affect your mistress, y’know. Every bachelor in town is cursing over it, so no need to take it out on me if Diana is being tricky.’

Jason grunted a laugh at his brother’s oblique and garbled reference to a rumour that he’d personally found amusing rather than irritating.

He had heard the talk that his paramour was jealous of her friend Mrs Bertram. That woman had, if gossip was to be believed, secured a promise from Lord Frobisher that he would make an honest woman of her before the year was out, thus making her a lady in name, if not in nature.

Jason carefully placed down his empty glass, feeling a little the worse for alcohol. On the way home he had called in at White’s and loitered, drinking, for an hour or more, hoping that George Kingston might turn up, simply so he could knock down the mean bastard.

‘It’s nothing to do with Diana or any foolish aspirations she might have,’ he told his brother.

‘Relieved to hear it,’ Mark replied with a grin. ‘So what has upset—?’

‘Mark … go away,’ Jason advised with guttural gentility.

Mark noticed a flare of threat in his brother’s eyes and shrugged. He knew from past experience when it was wise to retreat and leave Jason alone to brood. He strolled to the door, whistling.

Jason rested his dark head against the hide chair-back and stared sightlessly at the ceiling. His features were tensely set, but a muscle moving close to his mouth animated his mask-like visage.

His brother’s instinct that a woman was stoking his frustration was quite correct, even if he was ignorant of her identity.

Helen Marlow had unexpectedly come back into his life and he couldn’t chase from his mind the exquisite woman who had emerged from the bonny child he’d known. He wished now that he’d sought to renew their acquaintance sooner. He could have done so, for he’d spied her at a distance on odd occasions. It would have been simple enough to approach her and ask how she fared. But the feud with George had driven a wedge between them years ago when she was still a schoolgirl. Later, when she returned to town as a young widow to live with her father, it seemed too much time had passed and they had slipped back to being virtual strangers.

It had been more than ten years since he had come within touching distance of her. From the moment she had opened the door of Westlea House to him and tried to hide her dishevelled appearance behind the wood panels, he had been robbed of his peace of mind. In truth, he resented the loss.

Yet his thoughts continually revolved around finding excuses to go back and see her again. The urge to do so was not primarily altruistic and therein lay the root of his torment. He wanted to improve her lot in life, but he desired her, too, and she knew it.

He gave a lopsided smile at the ceiling as he recalled the way she had instinctively leaped to defend him when the grocer got belligerent. Feelings of tenderness had engulfed Jason as she’d stood before him like an intrepid waif prepared to do battle. He’d also felt a sense of relief, for she had proven—unintentionally, he imagined—that she was not completely set against him. She was indebted to him through no fault of her own and she sensed that made her vulnerable to his lust. In just a short while she had displayed wit and courage and dignity. She had also showed her selfish brother more loyalty than George would merit in his lifetime. But acknowledging Helen had fine qualities had not subdued the throb in his loins.

He had a perfectly adequate mistress. Why would he want the trouble of wooing into bed a well-bred woman who thought him a rake and seemed unwilling to trust him to act ethically? Something else was nettling him. Jason knew he was playing too easily into George Kingston’s hands. He was allowing George to manipulate him, yet seemed unable to put a stop to it. George wanted him to take over the financial burden of his sisters’ keep and he was achieving his aim with such ease that he had begun to dispense with the need to be subtle. Filling the empty grates and larders at Westlea House was not his responsibility. But he had taken on the task, just as George intended he should. George had gambled on a meeting between Helen and him paying spectacular dividends, and he had won. George was now basking in his victory. He was goading him, blatantly challenging him to choose between pride and lust.

Jason knew that soon he would have to make a decision before gossip started. Evicting Helen and her sister from Westlea House was out of the question, but it would not be long before it was common knowledge he owned the property. Risking a stain on Charlotte’s reputation was also out of the question. The obvious solution would be to establish a position in his life for Helen.

Wife or mistress? George Kingston would not care either way. If Mrs Marlowe became a kept woman, polite society would be provided with a tasty morsel of gossip for a week or two, but they would not ostracise her. Helen’s reputation was protected by the status conferred by her late husband.

Thus, it was his choice which role he offered to her after such a limited renewal of their acquaintance. Certainly she fascinated him and he was sure he liked her, but he had felt that way before about young women who now he could barely recall to mind.

Jason got to his feet, only half-aware that he had come to a decision as he stretched out his stiff muscles. A rueful smile tugged at a corner of his mouth as he realised that the only objections he was likely to receive to an offer of carte blanche was from the lady herself.

Chapter Eight

‘What on earth is the matter?’

Helen had been attempting to compose a letter of apology to Jason Hunter while Charlotte was out. The scuffed leather surface on the bureau was littered with crumpled scraps of paper, testament to the difficulty of the task she’d set herself.

But now Charlotte was back and looking very dejected. Pushing away pen and paper, Helen swivelled on her seat. Charlotte was plucking at her hat strings with vibrating fingers. Once free of her thick tresses, the bonnet was forcefully discarded on to the sofa. Charlotte sank down beside it, her red-rimmed eyes concealed by her palms.

‘What is it, dear?’ Helen immediately went to her. She crouched by the side of the chair with an anxious frown crinkling her ivory brow. Charlotte’s hands were gently eased from her face and Helen comforted them with her own. ‘What has happened? Is Philip not with you?’ Helen glanced at the door. Philip invariably came in for a short while when he brought Charlotte home from an outing. ‘Have you argued?’ It was a doubtfully tendered possibility. Charlotte and Philip usually seemed a very harmonious couple.

Charlotte raised her watery brown eyes to Helen’s face. ‘Philip won’t ever come here again. He won’t marry me now. Why would he when I have such a hateful brother?’ she gritted out through small pearly teeth. Charlotte again hid her freshly streaming eyes with her fingers.

Helen sank forward on to her knees as an inkling of what might be ailing her sister put a guilty sigh in her throat. So obsessed had she been with dwelling on her fraught encounter with Jason Hunter and Mr Drover that she had neglected to give any more thought to a worrying incident that had occurred before either of those gentleman had arrived.

Helen cast back her mind a few hours. Charlotte had been from the room, collecting her coat, when George had cruelly curtailed Philip’s attempt to make formal his suit. No doubt Philip had felt injured enough by George’s churlish rejection to tell Charlotte of it.

Helen remembered, too, with heavy heart, that George had not been content to leave it at that. Once their sister had quit the house with the Goodes, George had more doom to deliver on the subject of the courting couple. Or rather, he had anticipated that she would do his dirty work for him. His curt dictate echoed in her mind: I do not want Charlotte seeing him any more. Make that clear to her or I will make it clear to him. And, as you have just noticed, I shall not stand on ceremony when I do so.

‘Was Philip annoyed that George was short with him? He had every right to be …’

‘What did he say to Philip?’ Charlotte interrupted, scrubbing the heel of a hand across her eyes. ‘Tell me, please! I sensed something unpleasant had occurred while I was getting ready to go out. Philip is too agreeable to make a fuss, but I guessed something was wrong, even before George came over and was horrible to us in the park.’

‘You saw George whilst you were out?’

Charlotte nodded. ‘I’m sure George only turned up in Hyde Park because he guessed we had gone there. Why does he hate Philip? He has never taken the trouble to get to know him.’

Helen tightened her grip on Charlotte’s shivery hands. ‘I’m sure he does not hate him,’ she soothed. ‘It is just that our brother is …’ She struggled to find words that might mitigate George’s boorishness. ‘I know our brother has an unfortunate manner at times,’ she lamely concluded.

‘Unfortunate manner?’ Charlotte shrieked and stamped a foot to emphasise her outrage. ‘He is a swine! He deliberately humiliated Philip in front of his sister and me! The park was quite crowded too and a lot of people witnessed what went on. A horrible fellow started laughing at us.’ Charlotte’s voice wobbled as she recounted, ‘Poor Anne was so upset she started to cry, although she pretended she just had a speck in her eye.’

Helen’s wide eyes revealed her astonishment at what she’d heard. Usually George sought to keep his shameful behaviour out of public display. ‘What exactly did he do?’ she demanded to know.

‘We had stopped by the lake to watch the swans and George just appeared with one of his cronies. George got out of his carriage and stormed over to us. With no more ado he ordered me home. Philip was startled by his rudeness, but took it in good part, I thought. I’m sure he knew George was slighting him because he doesn’t deem him good enough for me.’ She paused to wipe a hand across her feverishly flushed cheeks. ‘Philip offered to immediately bring me back, but George stared at him as though he was dirt beneath his shoe. He snapped out that he would directly take me safely home himself.’ Charlotte pulled a scrap of linen from a pocket. She furiously applied it to her glistening dark eyes. ‘Philip was … he looked so mortified when George made me get out of the gig. That’s when I heard his friend laughing.’ She gurgled a sob, then wiped her dewy nose. ‘I tried to reassure Philip that I was disgusted too by George’s behaviour. I said I would be pleased to see him again later in the week. But he avoided my eye and said, in a strange voice, that he didn’t think that would be possible.’ Charlotte blinked away fresh tears. ‘He doesn’t want to see me again. It is finished between us, I know it is.’

Helen shot to her feet. ‘George brought you home? Where is he?’ she demanded and flew to the window to peer out into the street.

‘He is gone. The whole way home he wouldn’t speak to me, even when I shouted at him that he was overbearing. When we turned into the Square he cast on me one of his black looks.’ Charlotte pursed her lips mutinously. ‘He said he would never give his consent to a man of Goode’s standing and I might as well get used to it. That’s when I told him he was the vilest man alive and I would marry whomever I chose and he might as well get used to it. After that it was as much as he could do to help me down from the carriage. He was so rough with me I feared he might pull my arm from its socket. Before Betty had let me in he’d set off up the street.’

Helen observed Charlotte’s distress and her heart went out to her. It was difficult to comprehend why any decent person would deliberately make a spectacle of a gentleman as inoffensive as Philip Goode. But then George, she reluctantly admitted to herself, had not acted very decently in a long while. Despite knowing it, she still felt lurking within her a sibling’s sadness. A corrosive resentment of the contented, and a grasping wife, were destroying the personable brother who once had taught her how to ride her first pony and fish the streams in the Surrey countryside.

Helen retraced her steps to the sofa and sat down close to Charlotte. ‘From what you have said it seems George has made himself, rather than Philip, appear ridiculous. It is George who needs our pity,’ she added gravely. ‘Perhaps if he had made a successful marriage he might not be so sour at life.’ She enclosed her sister in a hug and planted a kiss on her luxuriant, auburn tangles. ‘We are the lucky ones, Charlotte. You and I both have known what bliss there is in being cherished by someone we love. Poor George! I think at times he knows what he misses and is bitterly jealous.’

Charlotte rested her head on Helen’s slender shoulder. ‘I wish Papa was here. He would have liked Philip. He would have given us his blessing … just as he did to you and Harry.’

‘Yes, he would. Philip is very like Harry. I expect that is why I took to him from the start.’ With a wistful smile she looked down at her young sister. ‘But our papa is not here. Neither is dearest Harry.’ She put Charlotte from her and said briskly, ‘So we must look after ourselves and not let our brother scare the fight out of us.’

‘I do love Philip, you know.’

‘Yes, I do know. And that is why, somehow or other, you must marry him,’ Helen answered softly. She looked off into the distance with a slight frown drawing close her ebony brows. ‘I expect Philip wants very much to see you again, but fears sparking another ugly scene with George. And who could blame him for that?’ She gave Charlotte an encouraging smile. ‘The best thing will be for me to go alone and pay the Goodes a visit. I shall let them know that they are most welcome to call on us at any time. If George gets temperamental over it … well, he shall have me to contend with.’