Читать книгу Regency Pleasures and Sins Part 2 - Elizabeth Rolls - Страница 20

‘You want to proposition Helen?’

‘Yes.’ Another brooding stare sloped from under Bridgeman’s sandy lashes at the group of young women chatting together.

George’s eyes swivelled nervously as he realised someone might have overheard their shocking exchange. He quickly manoeuvred Colin by the elbow to a safe distance. ‘We are men of the world so I am not about to take offence even though the lady in question is my sister,’ he rattled off in an undertone. ‘In fact, I know it for a sensible solution. If she won’t find a husband, what’s to be done?’ His shoulders elevated as far as his ears. ‘An informal arrangement with a gentleman is all that’s left unless she’s content to grow old pinching pennies.’ George’s brow corrugated in vexation. ‘Trouble is, Helen can be damnably headstrong and uncooperative at times.’

‘I know,’ Bridgeman sourly agreed. He recalled the terse notes he’d received years ago when she’d rebuffed him. He had not thereafter pursued her; his pride would not let him. But he had not forgotten her either, and the lust to possess her was as strong. It was a while since he’d seen her and he could detect some physical changes. Her face was more sharply honed, and her body less curvaceous, yet for him she still held an irresistible allure. Her full rosy lips were presently parted in an appealing smile and hands that seemed pale as porcelain, and equally fragile, were expressively gesturing whilst she talked. As though sensing she was under observation, she turned her glossy dark head and her joyful smile withered.

Bridgeman’s fleshy mouth twisted sardonically. She hadn’t warmed towards him. She certainly would not have liked the idea of him as a brother-in-law, of that he was sure. But the piquancy of wedding one sister whilst brooding on bedding the other had certainly given him a reason to consider marrying a chit with no dowry.

Colin came to awareness of George curiously eyeing him, no doubt wondering what kept him so moodily quiet. ‘I take it she has never told you that I offered her my protection a few years ago.’

George’s jaw lengthened almost to his chest.

‘She turned me down. It’s up to you to make sure she doesn’t again do so. There’s only so much injury a fellow can take before being inclined to retaliate.’

George looked startled by the unsubtle threat. ‘If she won’t have you, she won’t—there’s nothing I can do about it!’

‘But you are her brother,’ Colin stressed silkily. ‘And I have every faith in your powers of persuasion.’ He gripped George’s shoulder. ‘I’ll give you a little time to work your magic. In case you need an incentive to be diligent …’ he gave a terse nod at a group of young gentlemen ‘.why do you not go and ask Tarquin Beaumont how he liked the Fleet?’

Helen settled into comfortable squabs and, stripping off her gloves, her warm fingertips pressed dents into the supple hide either side of her. Her eyes darted about the interior of the coach. Before this evening such a luxurious conveyance had been unknown to her. Realising that her hands were lightly quivering, she clasped them together in her lap.

Many hours ago, when Jason had arrived to collect her in this plush carriage, she had noticed curtains twitching in the houses opposite, yet she had continued to feel quite calm.

But now the evening was drawing to a close and she felt less serenely confident. She swayed on the seat as the coach smoothly negotiated a rut whilst conveying her to Chelsea and a new life as a gentleman’s mistress.

They were just a short time from being lovers, but he had not rushed her to leave the theatre and embark on the journey. In fact, she had been the one to suggest they left a few minutes before the final curtain to beat the crush of carriage drivers racing to get the Drury Lane crowds back to the suburbs. She had made the remark like a veteran theatregoer, yet something else had been her prime motivation. She had run the gauntlet of speculative stares when entering the theatre; she had no wish to do so again on leaving it.

But the sly glances and whispers were to be expected, and, in a way, perhaps it was best to encounter them early on. The sooner the gossip started, the sooner it would be finished. In a few weeks another scandalous on dit would be doing the rounds and talk of whether or not Sir Jason Hunter had brought Mrs Marlowe under his protection would be less diverting.

Helen guessed that polite society had not made up its mind if Jason was squiring her because his cousin was marrying her sister or whether his interest in her was more personal. During the intervals those with uncontrollable inquisitiveness had invited themselves in to Jason’s box with the sole intention, it seemed, of finding out. Amongst others, whose names she had forgot, Helen had been introduced to Lord and Lady Silverston and Viscountess Montague. Then Lady Mornington and her spinster sister had swept in and begun a bold interrogation. Helen had marvelled at Jason’s skill in answering a question without revealing a thing. The twins had thus surged out as the curtain rose on the next act, no wiser about Mrs Marlowe’s claim on the eligible baronet’s affections than when they had arrived. On the surface everybody seemed charming; but Helen had long been adept at spotting insincerity.

Yet, on the whole, she had enjoyed her first outing with Jason. She slipped a glance from under her lashes at the lounging figure opposite. Why was she suddenly feeling awkward and anxious? He had acted no differently towards her this evening than at any other time since they had renewed their acquaintance. Whether shielding her from malicious eyes and tongues or fetching her refreshment, he had been unfailingly courteous and attentive. She had no reason not to trust him to treat her kindly in bed, too. It would be different, of course, to the intimacy she had shared with Harry. They had been lovers in the truest sense of the word. Jason desired her, treated her with respect, but she wanted a little affection, too.

‘Is it far?’ Helen glanced through the shadows at the gentleman opposite looking to be perfectly at his ease.

‘We are nearly there,’ he answered and she heard the gentle humour in his tone.

Helen felt warmth flood her cheeks. ‘I … It is just I am quite hungry, that’s all. Are we dining first?’

‘Of course,’ he said softly. ‘Do you think me an uncouth barbarian?’

Helen smiled at his self-mockery and relaxed a little. ‘Not at all. In fact, I was just appreciating how gallant you are. I never doubted that you would do every thing quite properly, sir,’ she lightly teased him.

‘Well, to prove you wrong, I am about to do something quite irregular.’ Slowly he unfolded his crossed arms and held them out. ‘Come and sit with me,’ he huskily invited.

After a fleeting hesitation Helen relinquished her seat and settled close to him. Immediately a muscular arm came about her and she nestled her head quite naturally against his chest. She could sense the hard masculine lines of his body beneath his fine clothes and the verbena cologne he used was pleasantly soothing. Within a few moments her heartbeat had steadied to a more regular rhythm and, feeling cosy and content, she slipped a hand on to the large fingers resting on his knee. He turned his hand, welcoming her tender touch with a brush of a thumb before his lips also saluted her fingers. Slowly he returned their clasped hands to rest on his thigh.

‘People will be whispering about us now, won’t they?’

‘Yes …’

Helen gave a little sigh and nodded in resignation.

‘Have you been worrying about it?’

After a moment Helen said, ‘Not really for I can imagine what they might be saying. But nobody knows for sure how it is between us … only us.’

‘Has your sister quizzed you over it?’

Helen nodded again and choked a little apologetic laugh. ‘As we are speaking plainly, I know you will not mind if I tell you something quite shocking. I am afraid Charlotte is wholly under the impression that your interest in me must be honourable.’ She knuckled a laugh into submission. ‘I have not had the heart to tell her that her hints about double weddings and so on are wildly far of the mark.’

When Jason remained quiet, she twisted her face up to look at him, fearing he might not, after all, have found it an amusing anecdote. His eyes were blocked from view by an angular jaw that looked dusky enough to need a razor. Helen subdued the temptation to sense his skin graze her palm. Instead she angled her head to see his expression and interpret his mood. ‘Are you angry? I would not have mentioned it to you, only I thought … I thought it might make you laugh,’ she weakly explained. She swallowed, feeling rather foolish. ‘I hope you do not think I have said something to make Charlotte think that …’

‘Why would I suspect any such thing? After all, you have made it clear to me that you have no wish to remarry. Have you changed your mind?’

Helen’s gaze was locked to darkly gleaming eyes that seemed able to probe her soul. She had loved and married Harry Marlowe; she would never want anyone else as her husband … would she? ‘No … of course I have not changed my mind,’ she whispered. The denial was out, but with devastating insight she abruptly knew it to be false. There was a man she would marry, if only he would ask her.

Obliterating years fell away and she recalled being in her teens and daydreaming of Jason Hunter. Those girlish fantasies had faded when they no longer saw one another and then had extinguished beneath her love for Harry Marlowe. Now she could quite painfully recall sitting on the grass in Surrey pulling petals whilst chanting … he loves me, he loves me not.

‘No harm is done. And I don’t think it will hurt to postpone dashing Charlotte’s hopes, do you?’ Jason’s voice splintered her poignant reminiscence. ‘Once she is a married woman, she might be inclined to see things differently.’

Helen managed a single nod, but her alarming self-knowledge had left her mind reeling and her body weak. She made to slump into the seat by his side to ponder on the discovery that Harry didn’t, after all, have sole claim on her heart. But he again drew her against him. He tilted up her face and just before their lips touched she sensed she was submerging in eyes like glittering pools of desire.

Helen felt an exquisite ache low in her abdomen start sapping strength from her limbs, for his mouth was moving on hers with wonderfully erotic expertise. Her cloak was loosened and his fingers skimmed her midriff, trailing fire in their wake. Helen felt her anxieties drift away and abandoned herself to the sensual delight he was bestowing. Slowly a small hand crept up to curl about his nape and when next his tongue slid seductively on her lower lip, she flicked hers to it in welcome.

Jason sensed Helen melting beneath his caresses. She was moulding her body against him and igniting in him profound passion. His kiss became slow and deep, his hands swift and confident. Her bodice and chemise were deftly opened and tantalising fingers stroked over silky warm flesh that instantly rose to fill his palms. Jason’s slick lips slid to her throat, to the tender nook at her shoulder, before finally claiming the aching little nub her bowed back begged him to soothe.

His tongue moved with skilful slowness, flicking, touching, circling until Helen felt maddened, delirious with delight, and her little guttural cries seemed to well from deep in her throat.

Jason felt a burst of tenderness moderate his urgent need to immediately possess her, for five small fingers had again intertwined with his to clasp together their hands. Besides which, he had no real wish for their first loving to be quickly consummated on the seat of his coach when they were barely fifteen minutes away from a feather bed and many hours of sensual pleasure. He raised his dark head and eyes like smouldering coals roved over a beautiful face set in rigid lines of desire.

Jason continued to kiss her as he brought together the edges of lace to cover her breasts and marvelled that she could be such an intriguing mix of innocent and wanton.

And that conundrum started unwanted thoughts rotating in his mind. Helen Marlow was a woman who didn’t want a husband, but who needed a lover. A perfect paramour … under normal circumstances. But this wasn’t normal for him. He was different. He was falling hopelessly in love and he didn’t want Helen to be his mistress—he wanted her for his wife.

Her brother’s thievery might have precipitated her into finding a protector, but he sensed she would, in any event, have been ripe for seduction. He was reasonably sure he was to be her first lover since her husband, and Harry Marlowe had been dead more than half a decade. There was a raw hunger in Helen that made her pliant and responsive to his touch. He kissed her again with sweetness and felt her immediate thrill of anticipation as to what he might do next.

But perhaps it was not just his touch she wanted or needed. He was prepared to marry her, but she might have allowed the first philanderer to call by to share her bed so long as he had a few pretty compliments and enough cash to keep Westlea House for her. Even as the disturbing thoughts tormented Jason he knew them absurd. Helen Marlowe was the antithesis of a vain courtesan susceptible to flattery.

And he would have sworn he was not a jealous man. But a savage new emotion was poisoning his mind and defeating his restraint. Deft fingers swept up her skirt to expose lissom milky legs before spreading to explore the sensitive darker skin on the inside of her thigh. His kisses coarsened and deepened, widening her mouth.

Helen’s hands instinctively drove between them and she jerked back her head. A reproachful look held his defiant gaze and then, with a sigh, she wound her arms about his neck and lay her dusky head against his shoulder.

With a low oath Jason sank against the seat, a powerful arm anchoring her to his side. His head fell back and his lids drooped low as he realised he had after all proved himself an uncouth barbarian. He’d startled her, yet the residue of sensual languor in her stayed. Glancing down at her, he could see dark lashes fanned on pale cheeks and a mouth that looked slick and swollen and achingly inviting. He forked a tender hand over her chin, a thumb brushing soothingly against her turgid lips. For some reason it was the closest he could come to apology.

He had wanted to savour their first loving in every respect. He had wanted them to share conversation and dinner, and leisurely mutual pleasure. Instead he had acted like a callow youth with a hair trigger. The guilt in him made him feel unworthy to again touch her. He smiled ruefully at shadows moving on the roof of the coach; but he knew he would, for, guilt or no, wanting her was ungovernable.

Helen slowly relaxed beneath the thumb sweeping an arc softly over her cheek. She knew he regretted losing control, but she was not disgusted to know he could be less perfect and more human at times. Once or twice Harry had loved her swiftly and selfishly, then had sheepishly told her that carnality could tempt a man to savagery.

‘It is as well it is too dark for me to see the sight you look with rouge smeared on you,’ Helen lightly teased. As she sensed rather than saw him lift a testing hand to his face, she giggled, shattering the tension between them.

Jason dropped a kiss on her sleek crown of hair before chuckling, for he had just recalled that earlier that evening he had complimented her on refraining from using it. In a voice of velvety roughness he said, ‘I’m sorry….’

‘I … I am sorry….’

‘It is forgotten,’ Jason glibly lied and eased her head down against his shoulder.

Helen immediately sprang up again and a cascade of ebony hair caped her nude white shoulders. She looked down at the handsome dark face starkly outlined by a pristine pillow. She had ruined everything. And it had been so perfect between them up till a few moments ago.

The townhouse to which he had brought her was cosy and elegant. They had enjoyed a delicious meal served up by footmen who flitted discreetly to and from a candle-lit dining room. The grand table had been decked with the finest crystal and china and gleaming silverware. A warm atmosphere that owed little to the blazing logs in the grate had blossomed between them. Helen had felt her inhibitions and her nervousness melt beneath the pleasure of just being with him. When eventually they had eaten their fill and talked into amicable quiet, Jason had asked if she would like yet to go upstairs. It had seemed the most natural thing in the world to agree, and a young maid had shown her to a magnificent bedchamber in which reposed a vast four-poster.

Helen had gently declined the young woman’s offers of assistance in preparing for bed. She had wanted time alone; not only to make herself ready but, like a child on a fascinating excursion, to explore her surroundings.

She had brushed velvet bed-hangings with reverent fingers, taken puffy pillows from the bed to peer beneath at the silky white sheets. And then she had found the gossamer negligee draped on a chair beside a dressing chest that held a selection of oils and perfumes and silver-backed brushes.

Helen had tested a scent in a pot on a wrist, wondering if it was the perfume that had wafted in Mrs Tucker’s wake on the day she had seen her alight from her stylish carriage. She had accepted, with a twinge of melancholy, that Jason was probably as generous to all his mistresses, but nevertheless she had appreciated being treated well. And now she had ruined everything.

She touched a finger to his face, feeling the stubble on his jaw. She wanted him to open his eyes.

‘Please look at me. I … it is not nothing. I would not have liked it at all if you had … I mean, if you had called me Diana at such a time I would have been insulted.’

Jason gazed up at her. ‘I’m not likely to do that, Helen‘ Her name carried a certain stress that told her his nonchalance was poorly feigned.

As though he read her knowledge and it irked that he had betrayed himself, he swiftly turned, drawing her down and beneath him. Slowly he linked brown fingers with white then carried their clasped hands to where the black silk of her hair tumbled over snowy pillows.

‘I said it doesn’t matter, Helen … Shall I prove it to you?’

Helen felt an odd surge of tears clog her throat, for indeed she wanted him to.

Earlier Jason had made love to her with a skill that had transported her to a level of sensation unknown to her. With a poignant ache she understood how he had acquired such expertise. Diana Tucker, and numerous other women who had come before her, had also gasped and cried out beneath such lavish sensuality. But, when teetering on the brink of explosive tension, had they all remembered to rightfully name the man who had so inflamed them?

Her late husband might not have loved her as slickly as Jason, but such tenderness had existed between her and Harry that they had communicated softly even at the height of passion. And this evening she had called his name again….