by Jade Lee
She snorted. “You are a terrible liar, you know. You should have made demands regarding a bill or the like. That she might have believed. But to discuss fabric? A viscount on behalf of his sister? Never.”
He pursed his lips. She had a point. He would never have come here on a task from his sister. “Why does she already think the worst of you?”
“That was Francine’s mother.” When he didn’t readily place the name, she gestured with her hands, indicating a large woman. “You remember, the girl with the lush figure.”
Robert finally placed the girl in his memory, but then he compared her to the stick-thin, prune-shaped woman he’d just met. “That can’t be her mother!”
She laughed. “Francine takes after her father in her body’s size.”
“He must be—”
“Have a care, my lord,” she warned before he could finish his thought. “Francine is my friend and I dislike certain words, especially when applied to my friends.”
He immediately moderated his tone. “Of course. I merely meant that Francine’s father is likely a man of some stature.”
She snorted. “He is at that. Tall and broad and fair-minded. It is her mother who is less charitable in all aspects.”
“She doesn’t like how you have dressed Francine.” He couldn’t blame the woman. Her daughter had been gowned in an entirely inappropriate fashion, in his opinion. Too lush by half.
“She will come around,” Mrs. Mortimer returned calmly. “She loves her daughter and wants her to be happy. The right clothes can only help with that.”
He didn’t argue with her because what she said was correct in principle. And as she already knew his opinion of the gown—he’d made that quite clear before—he saw no reason to be contentious. So, feeling very virtuous, he simply nodded and gestured to the inside of her shop.
“May I come in? I’d like a moment of your time, please.”
She didn’t budge from her position in the doorway. “My lord, it has been a long and tiring day.”
“Tea will be the perfect restorative.”
“My lord…”
“Please. I owe you an apology, and I would prefer not to deliver it on the street.” She had no choice but to let him inside now. Good manners demanded as much, and so she gave in. She dipped her chin and stepped aside. He followed as close as he could manage, lifting her arm and escorting her to a chair. He gave her no time and no space to thwart him, and in a moment, she was exactly where he wanted her to be.
Helaine was beginning to resent Lord Redhill’s very high-handed ways. He all but forced her into her own shop, shut the door, and half guided, half pushed her onto the settee. Then he sat across from her and dropped his hands on his knees before frowning at the table between them.
“First, allow me to apologize. I did not understand the situation at the warehouse, and I fear I have made things worse for you.”
She didn’t answer. She had no desire to think about the disaster that awaited her if she ever returned to Johnny Bono’s warehouse. And she had no idea where else she could buy fabrics. Irene was a miracle worker—or had been as a girl—but she had never tried to purchase things on the scale of what a dressmaker’s shop would need. And she had already sent around a note saying the task was harder than she expected and would take more time. Perhaps after Lady Gwen bought clothing at other establishments, things would be easier. Merchants would advance her some small amount of credit. Or perhaps Francine’s payment would help, assuming her mother could be convinced to approve the dresses…Her mind spun on with possibilities and dangers, and all of it stopped cold at his lordship’s question.
“Tell me what I can do to make up for the problem I have caused.”
She didn’t have to think long about that. The words came quickly. “Never, ever interfere in the running of my shop again. And that includes your sister’s choices.”
“Done.”
She shook her head, almost laughing at the ease with which he said it. She already knew that he was much too high-handed to do as he promised. It wasn’t that he was malicious, just unthinking. He would interfere without remembering his past promises or any future consequences.
“Swear it, my lord. Upon your honor, upon your family’s honor.”
He reared back, startled by her demand. But she was the daughter of a drunken earl. She knew that the only thing an aristocrat valued above his brandy was his family’s good name. In the end, her father had valued his drink more than his name, but she didn’t think Lord Redhill was the same sort. So this oath would bind him as securely as anything.
“Your oath, my lord. Or you may leave my shop now.”
His eyes narrowed in anger, but he complied. “You have my oath as Viscount Redhill, as the future Earl of Willington, and as a man of honor that I will not interfere in your business again. Not unless you ask.”
“I shall never ask.”
He arched a brow. “That remains to be seen. Now, am I forgiven? Will you accept my apology?”
She exhaled, relieved that one of her difficulties had been solved. “Yes, you are forgiven. Now if you please, it has been a long day.” She started to stand, but he forestalled the movement by touching her arm.
“We spoke of tea. Would you still like some?”
She felt her shoulders slump with weariness. Really, would she never be rid of the man? Did he not understand that his very presence added more work to her life? “Tea has to be made and served, my lord. Will you do that for me? Or will you snap your fingers and demand that my partner leave off her work to wait upon us?”
His frown deepened. “I had thought I would get it myself. I was still in shortcoats when I learned how to make tea and slice a loaf of bread.”
She bit her lip. She was being churlish, and he was acting rather kind. More kind, in fact, than her own father had ever been. She wished she could tell him to go to the devil. But he was Lady Gwen’s brother and she needed the man’s goodwill. And even worse, she rather liked that he had offered her tea. Though she very much doubted he would actually rise and make it himself. And right there was the solution to her problems. All she need do was keep demanding things from him. First tea, then something more improbable. Then more. Eventually he would tire of the game and leave her alone. And in the meantime, she could amuse herself by watching the man try to serve her tea in her own establishment.
She leaned back against the settee and released a long breath. “Tea would be lovely, Lord Redhill. The tray is over there. Pray do make us a pot.” She waved languidly in the direction of the kitchen.
He smiled at her, as if he knew exactly what she was doing, then immediately grabbed the tray. A moment later he disappeared into the kitchen, which was really part of the back workroom. Helaine waited, listening to the bang of pots and the like. What was he doing back there? And where was Wendy? Wouldn’t they be talking or something? Unless his lordship refused to speak to someone so low in status as a seamstress. But that couldn’t be true, could it? And really, it was rather bad of her to send the man back there and not warn Wendy. What if he upset Wendy somehow?
So it was that within a minute of resolving to have him serve her, Helaine pushed to her feet to see exactly what disaster he was creating in her ordered kitchen. She moved quickly but silently, the instinct to keep invisible well ingrained from her childhood. Which meant she was able to observe him as he scooped filtered water from the bucket and into the pot. His movements were efficient, his bearing easy, as if he had indeed made tea for himself many a time. But how could that be? He was the son of an earl!
He set the kettle to boil then went about searching for the tea tin. He found the fancy tea, the one purchased for clients, and was already pulling it down when she stepped forward. “Not that one. Behind it. That is what I drink.”
He frowned then peered into the cupboard, finally bringing out the cheap tin. As she expected, he opened the lid and wrinkled his nose at what was inside. “Surely you don’t prefer this.”
She arched
a brow. “It is what I drink. You may of course take from whatever tin you choose.” But that would require two different pots of tea. She waited for him to refuse or simply make the expensive tea and convince her to share it with him. But he didn’t. He put away the expensive stuff and waited with her for the kettle to boil.
Meanwhile, Helaine glanced at the rest of the workroom. Wendy was nowhere in sight. Her work was laid out, but the room was empty. It wasn’t like her to waste daylight when she could be sewing. “I wonder what happened,” she said to herself as she moved through the back room.
He followed her as she meandered among the tables. Then she saw it: a box opened on the chair Wendy usually used. Out from the box spilled the most gorgeous scarf she had ever seen. Blue, black, and gold danced about on fabric almost too delicate to touch. The design was paisley, but that in no way described the elaborate, shimmery display.
Behind her, Lord Redhill whistled in appreciation. “Your seamstress is most fortunate in her lover.”
Helaine turned around. Trust a man to leap to the most scandalous conclusion. “A lover! No, no, this is from Wendy’s brother. He’s a seaman and sends her the most beautiful things from wherever he visits. This must be from China.”
“India, I believe. And I assure you, this is not a gift a brother sends.” He lifted the piece up from the box. The scarf was larger than she’d thought; indeed, the sheer fabric went beyond the length of his arms and down almost to her knees.
“Do you know what a man thinks when he sees something like this?” He did not wait for her to answer, but stepped up to her and slowly draped it across her body.
“We shouldn’t touch that. It’s Wendy’s,” she said even as she was marveling at the smooth caress of the fabric against her cheek.
He didn’t listen but slipped the scarf around her shoulders. “He imagines her naked and wearing just this. He sees the pink blush of her skin as it mixes with the gold threads, and he wonders what part of the pattern will touch the dark rose of her nipples. He thinks of slowly unwrapping her like a present on his birthday, one that is revealed in the sweet privacy of his bedroom. And he dreams of laying her down on top of this as he gently settles between her thighs.”
“Lord Redhill!” Helaine squeaked, her face burning in embarrassment. “That is a most inappropriate conversation—”
“If you would consent to be my lover, I would buy you the most amazing fabrics from India, China, and even the Americas. We will dress you up in them and I will stroke the fabrics across your flesh so that you can feel every exquisite caress. And as the colors skate across your skin, I will kiss every inch. Silk, velvet, even soft wool shall float across you until you are delirious from the sensations. And then, when you can take no more, I will lay you down and show you even more.”
Helaine stared at him, her thoughts whirling with the images he described. They were not even all that graphic. He spoke of skin and kisses, and every inch of her body responded. Her insides went liquid from the intensity of his gaze, and when he stroked his thumb beneath her jaw she gasped as a tremble seized her. It was a quiet sensation, like a shimmer just under her skin, and it frightened her almost as much as it intrigued her.
Never before had a man’s words stirred her so effectively. And never before had a man looked at her with such sensual promise in his eyes. Other men had wanted her, but it had been for their pleasure, their amusement. Lord Redhill talked of what she would enjoy: pleasure such as she had only imagined.
Then he leaned forward to take her lips. She wanted to deny him. She knew she ought to turn away, but she could not. She wanted to feel what he promised, to know what women with good lovers experienced in their beds.
She let him kiss her. She lifted her mouth to his and let him tease the edge of her lips with his tongue. Her flesh swelled beneath his stroke, and she closed her eyes to better experience it. She felt his teeth, nibbling along the edges until his tongue thrust inside. He was not bold in his possession, but careful and so very thorough. She did not know what to do. And yet, apparently she did. Without conscious understanding, her tongue dueled with 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 fin
ally 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.”