Regency Mistresses: A Practical Mistress\The Wanton Bride (18 page)

‘I know I’ve been a fool, Helen,’ Jason quietly admitted. ‘But I was jealous.’

‘Jealous of Bridgeman?’

‘No … not really.’ Jason’s tousled head dropped forward and a hand spanned his brow. ‘It’s not him.’ The words emerged through muffling fingers that massaged at his face

‘Who, then?’ Helen demanded in shock.

‘Harry Marlowe.’

Helen stared searchingly at him. When he continued to rub his weary features, she reached to pull his hand away. ‘Why? Why are you jealous of Harry?’ she asked as her golden eyes scanned his beautifully dissolute face.

‘Because you love him, and you were his wife, and that’s what I want.’ Jason suddenly flung himself back against the seat. ‘Don’t look so petrified, Helen,’ he said with quiet self-mockery. ‘I know I can’t make you love me, or marry me. I’ll marry you on your terms, or continue to protect you. But if you want me out of your life for good, I won’t bother you
again.’ He fell silent, staring through the carriage window. A muscle leaped by his mouth, then he turned to her. ‘I’ll arrange for the transfer of the deeds.’ With that gruff proclamation he abruptly opened the door. ‘Graves will take you home. I’ll walk.’

Helen slid speedily towards him on the seat. Quickly she closed her fingers over his on the handle. Their faces were so close now she could see the glisten of moisture in his eyes. ‘You went to Westlea House this morning to tell me that you love me and want to marry me?’

He said nothing, just continued to look at her. But she could read the truth in his soulful long-lashed eyes.

Helen gave him a shy smile and a hand fluttered to cup his stubbly cheek. ‘I won’t ever love Harry less … but I think, in time, I might love you more.’

Jason’s eyes closed and his face sought the shelter of her cradling palm.

It was when the hot salt stung her skin that she launched herself at him, forcing him back onto the seat. She clung fiercely to his neck and covered his face with tiny kisses. Settling herself on his lap, she murmured, ‘I love you, Jason. I love you so much. You’ve been so kind and generous …’

Helen felt herself unceremoniously tipped on the
seat behind him and Jason loomed over her. ‘I don’t want your gratitude. Just tell me again that you love me,’ he demanded in a voice that was rough with need.

‘I love you … I think I always have … even when I was a girl.’

His mouth plunged on to hers, hard and warm. It was a kiss like no other they had shared … not skilful or calculated. It was, Helen realised, with a sense of serenity, simply raw adoration.

Jason raised his head, his self-conscious smile betraying that he knew he’d been clumsy.

Helen wound her arms about his neck, keeping him reassuringly close.

‘I’ll get a special licence. Do you mind if it’s a quiet affair, and soon?’

Helen shook her head. ‘I’ve nothing planned for tomorrow,’ she said teasingly.

‘Tomorrow might do,’ he said quite seriously. ‘Do you want to go for a walk? Or to Westlea House? We must make arrangements,’ he continued in a husky, urgent voice.

Helen nestled her head against his shoulder, feeling utterly content and blissful. ‘I’d rather you took me to Chelsea, Jason,’ she suggested softly.

‘Y
ou’re very good at this.’

‘You bring out the best in me, sweetheart.’

Helen gave him a speaking look and turned her head on the pillow.

Jason supported his weight on brawny forearms, dipping his head to nudge Helen’s face up to his and take her lips in a wooing kiss. His eyes, dark with desire, meshed with hers and he smiled crookedly. ‘It’s true …’ he softly emphasised. ‘You bring out the best in me … just you … no one else.’ His thumb traced gently where his mouth had plundered hers and plumped the skin to dual scarlet bows. ‘Do you believe me, Helen?’ Jason asked gently. ‘This is unique, I swear.’

She swung back her head, coating his fingers with the black silk of her hair. ‘Yes, I believe you. But …’

‘But …?’

‘I’ve been jealous, too,’ she quietly admitted whilst watching one of her fingers caress the lean flesh of his hand. ‘It was silly of me to say that I would not care if you did not devote yourself exclusively to me.’ She curled the stroking finger back into her palm. ‘In fact, I have been tormented, thinking of you doing this with someone else.’

‘I have not, Helen.’ Jason’s voice was thick with reassurance. ‘I swear to you that since we first went to Hyde Park together I’ve not been with another woman.’

Helen swung her face back and her eyes clung to his. ‘Mrs Tucker still lives in one of your houses.’

‘Who told you that? Was it George making more mischief?’

‘No. Bridgeman taunted me with it. He said Diana was still ensconced in one of your houses.’

‘Bridgeman knows nothing,’ Jason said with a scornful laugh. ‘Had he bothered to check his facts, he would have found out that the property is now Diana’s. I gave it to her as a parting gift.’ Jason’s mouth set grimly. ‘I wish now I had not let Bridgeman off so lightly when I saw him earlier. Just for upsetting you over that he deserved another—’

Helen placed a finger on his lips. ‘Hush, or I will think you a ruffian to get into two scraps in one day.’
She suddenly chuckled. ‘But I’m glad you hit Bridgeman, he deserved it … horrible man. He would have tried to coerce Charlotte into marriage and thought nothing of it. And he tried to intentionally hoodwink George with his contract. I don’t want George to go to gaol.’

‘He won’t. I’ve paid Bridgeman his money.’

Helen hugged him in gratitude then ran loving fingers over the ridges on his chest, luxuriating in the touch of silken skin sheathing rough muscle. ‘So a notorious rake has been faithful to me, has he?’

‘Absolutely.’

Helen undulated unconsciously beneath him in cat-like contentment. Their slick skin was bonded, their sated bodies still in congress, yet she felt the stirring inside her that told her he was ready to love her again. She felt the warm rush of excitement that made her breasts heavy and her hips instinctively tilt. ‘I’m a wanton,’ she sighed huskily and nipped his shoulder with teasing teeth.

‘Obviously I bring out the best in you,’ Jason murmured suggestively.

‘You do … but Harry will always have a place in my heart. Do you mind?’

Jason shook his head. ‘I’m glad you were happy with him. But I’ll make you happier …’

‘I wish George was happy.’ Helen sighed. ‘I know
he is a selfish schemer, but it is hard to hate one’s own kin. And now I know what it is that has made him so sour.’ She met Jason’s smouldering eyes. ‘I never guessed about him and Beatrice, you know. I had heard that you fell out over a woman, but that was all I knew.’ She frowned. ‘I imagined Beatrice stayed away from Charlotte’s betrothal party because she had guessed about us and wanted to avoid me. It was George she didn’t want to see, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes.’ Jason twisted a smile. ‘In fact, as soon as she heard George was in town with his wife, she found an excuse to return home.’

‘Does she hate him?’

‘Actually, I think she still has a scrap of tender feeling for him. Perhaps I was wrong and I should have let them be.’ Jason grimaced indecision. ‘At the time my mother was distraught and imagining all sorts of ruination and disaster. I couldn’t be sure George would act honourably and, had the marriage not taken place, Beatrice’s reputation would have been irreparably sullied. She was only sixteen.’ Jason gave a sigh. ‘He should not have done it … and it is pointless dredging it up—nothing can be changed. But I hope, as brothers-in-law, we might again be friends.’

‘I would like that,’ Helen said, a little wistfully, for something else was troubling her. ‘When Iris
told me of it this morning she said you were bitter over it all and that’s why you took me for your mistress … as an act of revenge.’

‘You don’t believe that, do you?’

Jason’s voice held such arrant scorn that Helen quickly shook her head.

Jason forked long fingers over Helen’s sharp little chin, keeping her facing him. ‘It’s utter rubbish, not least because, if I’m truthful, I never held George wholly responsible for what went on.’

‘Beatrice happily went with him?’

‘Yes … but that is not exactly what I meant.’ He slanted her a crooked smile. ‘George didn’t start the madness of lusting after teenage sisters, I did. I told him during a drunken spree, sometime in our misspent youths, that I found you attractive. He then declared that he felt the same way about Beatrice.’ He gave Helen a wry smile. ‘I wanted you, but I would never have acted on it. George took it further. He and Beatrice started meeting secretly. Then one night they eloped.’ A gentle finger traced a curve on Helen’s cheek. ‘Had I never admitted to that secret yearning for you, perhaps George would have controlled his feelings until Beatrice was older.’

Helen gazed up at him with wide golden eyes. ‘You wanted to marry me when I was fifteen?’

Jason subdued a wolfish smile. ‘No … when I was
twenty-four I never thought about marriage. But I certainly thought about—’

Helen gave his arm a silencing thump to spare her further blushes. ‘I had a crush on you, too.
My
intentions were honourable,’ she said, mock-prim. ‘I dreamed of marrying you.’

‘And now you are.’

‘And now I am,’ Helen echoed softly, wondrously. A wounding memory haunted her mind. ‘Bridgeman called me Hunter’s whore and said other people were saying it, too. He never imagined you would make me your wife.’

Jason dipped his head to tenderly kiss away her sadness. ‘I think I fell in love with you from the moment you opened the door to me at Westlea House. You looked like a little waif.’ He threaded his bruised fingers through the silky black tresses crumpled on the white linen. ‘It didn’t matter that you were shabbily dressed or had your hair loose. I thought I had never seen a woman as beautiful. I delayed making you my mistress because I intended you to be my wife, Helen.’ He kissed her with seductive sweetness. ‘Why worry what’s been said? We know you’ve always been Hunter’s Lady….’

‘M
iss Beaumont.’

Emily turned her head on hearing her name. Her heart started to thud as she saw the identity of the gentleman approaching. Not that her odd excitement sprung from liking him, rather he unsettled her.

‘Mr Hunter,’ she greeted him and sketched a polite bob.

Mark Hunter studied the fair face turned up to his. ‘I haven’t seen you since the wedding. I think we ought take a little credit for bringing about that very happy occasion.’

Emily immediately smiled at the reference to Helen and Jason’s nuptials, and the prior events at Vauxhall Gardens. ‘The whole day was wonderful, was it not? Even the weather was glorious.’

‘They deserved the best.’

Emily nodded vigorously, her blonde hair rippling prettily. ‘Oh, indeed,’ she agreed. A silence developed between them so she made conversation as they walked on towards the water in Hyde Park. ‘I hope Charlotte’s wedding next month is just so blessed with everything good.’

Mark smiled. ‘They have Westlea House as a wedding gift. That’s certainly good.’

‘It will be quite a beautiful home when the work is finished. Charlotte and Philip are lucky indeed to have such a generous brother-in-law.’

‘I think perhaps the pair owe thanks to Helen for their good fortune. I know she wanted the newly-weds to have a home of their own.’

‘It must be hard to start married life with no privacy, surrounded by one’s family.’ Emily had said that quite pensively and her eyes instinctively slanted to her brother, who was grouped close by with his friends. She frowned and began to turn away.

Mark glanced at Tarquin, too, and understood why Emily had suddenly withdrawn from him. Tarquin Beaumont was in the company of a notorious gamester and money was clearly changing hands.

Emily was about to fly to her brother’s side to attempt to keep him from more trouble. Annoyed that he was to lose her enchanting company, Mark said gruffly, ‘Your brother must discipline himself and
learn what company to avoid. It is not something you can do for him.’

Emily whipped her head about to give him a haughty stare. ‘I quite agree he should pick his friends carefully. I recall you were the Judas who had him thrown in the Fleet.’

‘If you will let me explain, there are things you don’t know about that,’ Mark said on a sigh.

‘I know enough,’ Emily countered icily. ‘I certainly know I do not like you, Mr Hunter, and no sweet talk will change my mind.’ Within a moment she had spun on a heel and headed off towards her brother.

Mark Hunter watched her go, an odd expression, part amusement, part exasperation, on his face. ‘And I know, Miss Beaumont, that if I wanted to change your mind, it wouldn’t be through conversation….

The Wanton Bride

‘N
onsense, my dear! There is nothing sinister in it. Boys like to go off gallivanting once in a while. You’re worrying unnecessarily, I tell you!’ Mr Cecil Beaumont gave his beautiful blonde daughter a beaming smile. ‘Don’t look so glum. He’ll turn up when he’s good and ready.’

‘Tarquin is not a boy, Papa,’ Emily Beaumont pointed out quietly. ‘He is a man of twenty-seven and I suspect he has got himself into one scrape too many. Perhaps he has not succeeded in stalling his creditors and is in trouble.’ Her silver-blue eyes took on a faraway look as she pondered on instances when her older brother had brought himself close to ruination through gaming and wild ways. But he had never yet disappeared for more than a few days before
turning up, like the proverbial bad penny, sober and remorseful. ‘Perhaps we ought to check with the authorities in case he is again in the Fleet.’

Mr Beaumont waved a dismissive hand. ‘No need … no need, my dear.’ He picked up his pen, idle on a page of his ledger, and set about using it.

His daughter was not so easily put off. Emily paced to the window of her father’s den, stared out sightlessly, before wandering back into the room, deep in thought. With a sigh she sank into an old armchair.

Tarquin had been due to come to their parents’ home in Callison Crescent and take their brother Robert to the outfitters. But he had failed to arrive at the appointed hour five days ago and had not contacted his family to make his excuses or his apologies. Emily thought it highly irregular behaviour, even for someone as self-centred as her brother.

Mrs Beaumont’s reaction on that afternoon was to mutter about
the inconsiderate knave
before she got her husband’s valet to take Robert to the tailors instead. When Emily had earlier today approached her mother about Tarquin’s lengthy silence, she showed herself no more concerned over her eldest son’s whereabouts than did her husband.

Mr Beaumont raised an indulgent paternal eye to
his daughter. He tossed his quill on to the blotter and clucked his tongue. ‘Come, my dear, no long face, I beg you. If Tarquin had been threatened with prison, he would have by now summoned my help, you may take my word on it.’ Cecil gave a cynical little laugh. ‘I’ll not go looking for him to sort out his troubles—if troubles he has—for they always find me soon enough.’ A nod concluded his philosophy and he resumed his writing. A quiet moment passed. Warily he peeked up to find his daughter still in the room and looking no less melancholy. ‘Emily!’ he expostulated with a hint of impatience. ‘If you’re unable to put your mind at ease over it, I’ll call in to Westbury Avenue and see if his landlady knows where he might be.’

Emily brightened. ‘You promise you will do that, Papa?’ she asked.

Cecil nodded affirmation. ‘I can go that way to Boodle’s later.’

A smile erased the strain from Emily’s lovely features. Her father bowed his head over his ledger once more, gave a couple of short coughs, firmly letting Emily know their conversation was definitely concluded.

Emily rose gracefully from his armchair and went upstairs to her bedchamber.

Feeling lighter in spirits, she gazed out on to the street scene. She watched with an amount of amused interest as their neighbour’s footman strutted back and forth on the pavement, trying to catch the eye of the housemaid scrubbing the front step of the house opposite. The young woman’s complexion was as fiery as her hair and she looked too hot and bothered to presently entertain any thoughts of flirtation. Emily glanced up at a clear azure sky, then at fat green buds beginning to break on the lime trees guarding the crescent of townhouses. She decided she would call on her friend Sarah Harper who lived just a few turnings away. They could go for a stroll if Sarah was amenable to the idea of whiling away the afternoon with a chat and a browse in the shops. The day was clement and after a week of unremitting rain it would be nice to get out of the house and into the fresh air.

Emily was donning her coat by the front door when her mother appeared and frowned at her. ‘You must take Millie with you if you are going abroad,’ she lectured. ‘That crone made a point of telling me that she recently saw you out without even a maid.’

Emily signalled her insouciance with a delicately arched eyebrow. She knew exactly to whom her
mother was referring, for the two women were archenemies of long standing. ‘Well, Mama, you must tell Violet Pearson that I am a woman of four and twenty and perfectly able to take care of myself.’

‘Your age is not the point, and you know it,’ Mrs Beaumont began, but her intention to furnish a lesson on etiquette and how it applied to spinsters came to nought. Her daughter gave her a little wave and skipped down the front steps. For a moment longer Penelope Beaumont stared at the front door. She shrugged—she was long used to her daughter’s headstrong ways. It was just a nuisance when hags, with nothing better to do than cause trouble, sought to bring it to her attention. She turned about and headed towards the parlour and a fortifying nip of sherry.

‘It
is
very odd behaviour,’ Sarah commented and looked thoughtful. ‘Surely your brother would at least pen a note to let you know if he is out of town.’

The two young ladies linked arms and promenaded towards Regent Street. They had decided to peruse the window displays of the new French
modiste
who had recently opened for business.

Sarah’s frown lifted in tentative enlightenment. ‘Perhaps Tarquin has fallen in love and has been lured to the country to do his courting.’

Emily chuckled. ‘I’d like to think such a noble reason exists for his absence. Unfortunately, Tarquin is besotted with Lady Luck. No real woman could compete with such a possessive mistress.’ She flashed Sarah a wry smile. ‘I expect Papa is right and I am worrying needlessly. My thoughtless brother is probably just gone off on a revel with one of his chums. But it is bad of him not to say so and odd that he has let Robert down. He and Robert are friends, despite the age gap between them.’ She frowned. ‘It was not nice to see Robert’s disappointment. He has gone back to school now and missed seeing Tarquin entirely.’

Emily’s arm was given a tug as Sarah drew her towards Madame Joubert’s shop. Behind small mullioned panes were draped a shimmering array of silks, artfully arranged to highlight their quality.

‘The sea-green colour is divine … but the gold is an unusual shade.’ Emily tilted her head to peer through the door. ‘They have more inside …’

Sarah interrupted Emily’s appreciation of the sumptuous cloths with a hissed, ‘Look who is coming!’ Emily’s ribs received a dig. ‘You ought ask
him
if he knows of Tarquin’s whereabouts. They are friends after all.’

Emily glanced along the road and her eyes fixed
immediately on the man to whom Sarah had breathlessly referred. Indeed, it would be hard
not
to notice him. Mark Hunter was tall and broad with darkly attractive features that excited female attention. Emily recognised the elegant lady at his side who had her hand curved possessively over his arm. It was an open secret in polite society that Barbara Emerson was Mark Hunter’s mistress.

‘I see Mr Hunter has his
chère amie
with him,’ Sarah whispered.

‘I think it is more than
that
between them,’ Emily returned on a little huff of laughter. ‘I’ve heard a rumour that Mark Hunter is expected to marry Mrs Emerson. I imagine she considers herself to be his unofficial betrothed.’

Sarah arched an eyebrow. ‘I wonder who started that rumour?’ she said drily. ‘And until
he
makes it official, there is still hope for us all. Goodness, he is handsome!’ she breathed. ‘I think I might swoon.’

Her friend’s theatrical tone made Emily cast at her a small scowl. Sarah was quite aware that Emily did not like the man. ‘Handsome is as handsome does …’ Emily muttered in response to Sarah’s teasing. Her eyes returned to the object of Sarah’s admiration and lingered. Indisputably Mark Hunter
looked
a personable gentleman, but Emily had reason
to believe him mean and callous. Was he not the fellow who had in the past had Tarquin imprisoned in the Fleet because he owed him money? Yet despite that betrayal her brother still liked Mark and classed him as one of his friends. On the few occasions Emily had quizzed him over his odd attachment to a man who had betrayed him, Tarquin had simply said Mark wasn’t a bad fellow.

Emily pondered on Sarah’s comment that this meeting might prove useful. Perhaps Tarquin’s friend might know if he had recently gone off to Brighton or to the Newmarket races or some other such place where fashionable gentlemen chose to congregate. It was an opportunity to find out and she ought take it.

Her eyes flicked up as she realised that the distinguished couple were almost upon them.

‘Miss Beaumont … Miss Harper.’ Mark dipped his dark head and slowed his pace, allowing the young ladies time to respond. Sarah did so immediately. A shy smile accompanied her curtsy.

Emily sketched a bob and muttered his name. He was steadily watching her and boldly she met his eyes. They were an unusual shade of blue, she realised, not unlike the lustrous peacock silk she had moments ago admired in Madame Joubert’s window.

A faint smile touched Mark’s lips as he acknowledged her cool response and she glimpsed humour far back in his vivid eyes. Of course, he was aware that she didn’t like him given that she had once frankly told him so. She hoped he was also aware that she found his good looks and ready charm quite resistible, even if her entranced friend did not. Emily shot a stern look at Sarah.

Aware that her lover seemed more interested in gazing at Emily Beaumont than conversing with her, Mrs Emerson quickly filled the silence. ‘I have not seen you in a while, Miss Harper.’ She turned to Sarah. ‘How is your mother? When last we spoke she was afflicted with the rheumatics.’

‘She is improved, I thank you, ma’am,’ Sarah replied. ‘When the weather is better, her condition is too.’

Barbara Emerson murmured her pleasure at knowing it, then turned to Emily. ‘And you look very well, Miss Beaumont. Are your family in good health?’

Emily gave the elegant woman an affirmative and a fleeting smile. She guessed that Barbara Emerson was probably no more than a year or two older than was she, yet Barbara had an effortless air of sophistication that made her feel girlish in comparison.

Barbara had married a wealthy man at nineteen, been widowed and left his property and fortune at twenty-one and was now the mistress and aspirant future wife of one of society’s most eligible bachelors. Emily charitably allowed that Barbara had earned her quietly superior attitude.

Noting that her attempt to distract her lover’s attention from Miss Beaumont had failed, Barbara subtly urged Mark to move over the shop’s threshold by squeezing the muscle beneath her fingers.

Emily felt Sarah’s elbow nudge her side as wordlessly her friend reminded her to speak of Tarquin before the opportunity was lost.

Mark smoothly extricated his arm from Barbara’s control in a way that was uncompromising yet courteous. With a faint flush livening her olive complexion, Barbara swished about and started to peruse the silks that had drawn Emily and Sarah to a halt by the window. Sarah stepped over to her and gamely indicated the colour she preferred.

‘Is your brother at home, Miss Beaumont?’

‘No, he went back to school this morning,’ Emily immediately answered.

A wry smile tilted Mark’s mouth. ‘I meant your older brother,’ he gently corrected.

‘Oh … I thought you were referring to Robert—I
imagined you would know Tarquin is not with us.’ Emily’s small tongue stroked moisture to her dry lips. She felt faintly embarrassed by her gaffe, but her nervousness stemmed more from being constantly under his penetrating gaze. ‘Actually, I was about to ask if you know where Tarquin might be.’

Mark frowned—he had discerned the quiver of anxiety in Emily’s voice. ‘I have not seen him since last week at White’s when we played cards. I went this morning to his lodgings in Westbury Avenue, but his landlady said she’d not seen him for some days. I assumed he was staying with all of you at Callison Crescent. I’m not pursuing him for a gambling debt, I assure you,’ Mark added mildly, noticing her sharp look. ‘Tarquin expressed an interest in coming to Cambridge with me, that is all.’

Emily recalled then that Mark Hunter had a vast country estate in Cambridgeshire. Tarquin had visited it before and returned quite in awe of its size and splendid appointments. But now her thoughts returned to a place closer to home. She grimaced with disappointment as she recalled her conversation earlier with her father. ‘Papa said he would call in at Westbury Avenue this afternoon. From what you have said, he will be wasting his time.’ An unconscious sigh escaped Emily. ‘It is too bad of Tarquin
to go off like that without a word.’ She raised anxious eyes to his face. ‘Do you have any idea at all where he might be? I know he pursues unusual entertainment. Are there any boxing bouts or cockfights that might have taken him out of town?’

Mark looked down into a heart-shaped face that was tense with concern. She wanted his help and he would have loved to be able to give it. Unfortunately he had no idea where Tarquin was.

Despite knowing that Miss Emily Beaumont didn’t like him, Mark had always harboured a soft spot for Tarquin’s sister. It was not simply her looks that attracted him, although she was exquisitely pretty and had an alluring little figure. Presently her curves were primly hidden beneath her velvet coat, but he’d seen her dressed in less and admired the way her body tautened silk in all the right places. And on such occasions when she’d quickened his pulse, he’d brooded on trying to alter her opinion of him. Inwardly he smiled, for it would be no easy task. And therein lay another reason she held a fascination for him. Emily Beaumont had a robust character and was not too timid to challenge him or to speak her mind. A lamentable amount of young ladies tended to blush and stammer in his presence. Emily was more likely to flash him a glare from silver
eyes than flirtatiously flutter those wonderfully long lashes at him.