Wedded in Scandal

his. Her neck arched and her head angled, and soon she was taking part in a kiss as never before.

Then his hand found her left nipple. He cupped her breast and rubbed a thumb back and forth across her bodice. The shimmer beneath her skin caught fire, and her nipple was like a flashpoint of heat. And still his thumb continued back and forth, back and forth, like kindling added to the fire. Her breast swelled, her breath caught, and it became too much. Too hot, too hungry, too…too much.

She gasped and spun away, her forearms clutched against her breasts. She felt the hard center of her nipples and the ache that they had become. Her breath still came in stuttering gasps and she half stepped, half stumbled backward. He caught her, of course, beneath the elbow with his warm, strong support. He held her up effortlessly while his eyes narrowed and his expression tightened with confusion.

And into that long moment came a whistle. The teakettle, finally ready. Perhaps it had been singing for a while. She did not know. But at least it gave her something to focus on rather than her thudding heart. She straightened, meaning to go to it, but he was faster. As she supported her own weight, he released her arm and crossed to the kettle. Not seeing the rag, he used his own jacket sleeve to pick it up. He’d already set the leaves in the pot, and so he poured. The leaves were steeping in less than a minute, and then he finally turned to stare at her.

She swallowed. Surely an independent woman such as herself would have something to say. But her body was still not her own. The overwhelming feelings were beginning to fade, but they were replaced with a keen yearning to be touched like that again.

“So,” he said slowly. “You were never Lord Metzger’s mistress.”

Chapter 7

Helaine felt a flare of panic choke through her. “N-no. Of course I was Lord Metzger’s—”

“In name, of course,” he interrupted. “But his mistress in fact? You were never that.”

She tried to read his expression, but couldn’t, perhaps because she was still struggling to manage her own tempestuous emotions. All she could tell was that there was no point in further lies.

“How did you know?” she asked.

“Your kiss, though beyond delightful, was not the kiss of a seasoned courtesan.”

She had a flash of illogical jealousy that he should know these things and she should not. How many courtesans had he kissed? How many innocents? Meanwhile, he folded his arms across his chest and gazed at her.

“How did this happen? Did Metzger lie? Were you not able to defend your reputation?” There was anger in his tone.

“No!” she gasped. “No. He was an old family friend and…” How to explain this without revealing too much? “He had cause to feel sorry for me. So one day, he suggested the ruse. He was a powerful man at the time. I went to a few balls on his sleeve and once kissed him beneath the mistletoe when we were sure we were observed.”

“But it never went further.” A statement, not a question.

“He was a good man. I was sorry for his passing.”

She saw him wince and understood too late that her words implied that Lord Redhill was not a good man. After all, he had just pushed for a great deal more than a kiss. She had no answer to that. He had done nothing more than what all men did. They saw a woman they wanted and took steps to own her. At least he had stopped when she pulled away. Many men would have pursued her. They would have pushed her up against the worktable and done as they willed. And damn her traitorous blood for wondering what that would be like with Lord Redhill.

But she could not allow herself to be tempted back into his arms. This man was no aging statesman like her former protector. There would be no lie between them. He would own her as a man owns a mistress. And so she forced herself to move away from him. She unwound Wendy’s scarf and folded it neatly back into the box. She kept her back to him, though her body prickled with awareness. And when she finally forced herself to look at him, he stood in the kitchen with the tea tray in his hands. It was such an odd sight that she stared. Never did she think to see him standing there like a butler holding a tray.

“I thought we would have the tea in the front room,” he said, his voice a low rumble that she felt in her belly.

She nodded, unable to speak. Then it became clear that he was waiting for her to precede him, so she rushed ahead, nearly tripping over her own feet in her haste to move. She collapsed back into the settee, barely holding on to her dignity as he set the tray down. His movements were smooth, his expression blank. One would think he had spent years as a butler, so impassive was his expression. But then he sat down in the chair again and looked at her.

“Should I pour?”

“Oh! No!” Damn her scattered wits. She needed to think. “Cream? Sugar?” she asked, grateful that her voice had regained some strength.

“Just sugar.”

She finished pouring, then offered it to him. He took it without touching her fingertips, and she stupidly mourned the lack of his caress even though she had expressly set her hand such that he would not touch her. Then she poured for herself and was soon able to take a fortifying sip of the plain tea. He had made it strong, which bolstered her even more. There was no subtlety in the flavor, no fruity or floral notes. Simple English tea, and it reminded her more than anything that she was meant for plain things. Expensive teas, sheer scarves, and silk sheets were the distractions men used to get what they wanted. And as intriguing as the idea was, she had no room in her life for such things. The cost was too high.

She was still settling her nerves when he spoke, his words gentle and wholly unexpected.

“What is your Christian name?” he asked. The question was so surprising that she lifted her eyes in surprise.

“Helaine,” she said, forgetting herself enough to give him her real name. When pressed, Mrs. Mortimer told everyone her name was Helen.

“A beautiful name. Mine is Robert.”

She nodded in acknowledgment, though she would never call him that.

“I have handled this incorrectly, Helaine, but the desire remains. I should like you to be my mistress.”

“And I desire to be an honest dressmaker who isn’t constantly accosted.” She did not invest her words with anger. She simply stated it and prayed he would hear her.

He did understand her implication. His wince was proof of that. But that didn’t stop him from pleading his case. “I am a slow lover, Helaine, patient and generally considerate. And though I have never taken a virgin, I would make an exception for you. I would introduce you correctly to this business. And would pay handsomely for the privilege.”

He paused, but when she didn’t speak, he leaned forward. She could tell he meant to touch her hands, but she kept herself firmly away. Despite her aloof position, his words were tempting her, especially as he continued to speak in that low, throaty voice that seemed to settle into her bones.

“We could make whatever arrangements you desire, though I do ask that my sister not find out.”

“Oh, no!” she gasped, horrified by the very idea.

He gave her a wry look. “I see we are in agreement on that. My demands would not be heavy, and I can let rooms nearby for our use. It might take me a bit to get all arranged. The financials can be slow sometimes, but I will pay. Forgive me for being blunt, Helaine, but are you a virgin?”

Her cheeks flamed at that, but she managed to nod.

“Do not be embarrassed. Virginity is an excellent thing. And the usual price for it is rather exorbitant.” He named a figure that would easily cover her expenses for months. One that would pay for enough fabric for a dozen trousseaus. “I would give that to you on our first night. Then you would have a monthly allowance afterward. And when we separate, that money plus any gifts would be yours to keep.”