by Jade Lee
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.”
&n
bsp; 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.”
She knew she was staring at him, the shock apparent in every line of her body. This was the strangest conversation she’d ever had. Did all men simply arrange their sexual affairs in such a businesslike fashion? Apparently so. Probably because plain speaking was best for this sort of thing. But she couldn’t help wishing for some pretty phrases, some wooing before the deed was done.
He must have taken her silence as agreement. He must have believed he had accomplished his task, because he smiled at her then. The expression transformed him from cool aristocrat to a satisfied man, much like her father after a really excellent night of drinking.
“What say you, Helaine? Have we made a bargain?” From his tone, she could tell he expected her to say yes. She didn’t.
She shook her head. “I am a dressmaker, my lord. I am afraid my skills for anything else are sorely lacking.”
His eyes seemed to glitter at that, and she couldn’t tell if it was laughter or anticipation. Either way, it added to the feel of a man very content with his lot. “I assure you, a lack of skill is expected in a virgin. And you may be a dressmaker, but you are also a beautiful woman. One, I might add, who has advertised herself as a man’s mistress for quite some time. You lose nothing by becoming one in truth and have much to gain.”
“What do I gain, my lord? Money? A protector?”
“All of those things.”
“And what if I don’t want them?”
He arched a single eyebrow. “But you do need them. Money most certainly, but also a protector. Otherwise you would not have played the game with Lord Metzger.”
He had her there. “But what if I don’t want it?”
“That also is patently false. Do you deny it?”
She couldn’t deny it, but her pride made her press her lips together. She’d be damned if she admitted it. He was becoming much too sure of himself, too certain of her, and she didn’t like it. So she leaned back on the settee and crossed her arms. She was well aware of what the action did to her breasts, lifting them up such that her cleavage was on display. As expected, his gaze dropped straight to her chest. But of course, she was equally the fool here because at his intense stare, her blood heated, her nipples tightened, and she began to think of saying yes. So she forced the denial out quickly before she could change her mind.
“My life is different now than when I made my bargain with Lord Metzger. I am not alone anymore. I have a shop that I love, people who care for me—”
“And
Johnny Bono fondling you between a bolt of muslin and a crate of onions. Do not think I have forgotten about that. Indeed, just say yes and your difficulties with that character will end.”
“I would be simply trading one man for another. One type of abuse for another.”
Her words were a challenge to him, but she never anticipated how much. His mouth tightened and his eyes glittered cold with fury. “Never suggest he and I are of the same cloth, Helaine.”
Honesty forced her to admit the truth, but her pride kept her from making it an apology. “Not of the same cloth certainly, but of the same intent.”
“I will never force you.”
“You merely point out my vulnerabilities, and offer to save me from them one by one.”
He nodded. “That is what men do, is it not? They save their women from danger.”
There it was. The last piece she needed to strengthen her spine and convince her to say no. He had no idea how hard she had fought for her independence. For her room above the shop, for a purpose and profession that brought money to her. Money that was hers and hers alone. She still feared debtors’ prison, but for now, she would not trade her independence away.
“You forget that I have no need of rescuing. Ladies come to my door every day asking for my dresses. And as for Mr. Bono, I have handled his attentions for years now; I shall undoubtedly continue to manage for many years to come. So you may keep your money and your rooms. I am quite content as I am.”
“Really?” he drawled, the word a sensuous caress that throbbed deep in her belly. “And what of pleasure?”
“Do you know,” she said, feigning a cheerfulness she did not feel, “I believe that men derive a great deal more satisfaction from carnal pleasures than women. I assure you,” she lied, “I will rub along quite nicely without it.”