Wedded in Scandal bf-1

by Jade Lee

  “That, sweet Helaine, would be a crying shame.”

  She had no answer to that. She had little understanding of the pleasures of the flesh. Many a night she had slept in her cold bed and wondered about them. What did married women know that she did not? And would she ever learn?

  Apparently not, because she pushed to her feet. “Thank you for your offer, my lord, but I am not interested.”

  He stood because she’d forced him to. The man was too polite to stay seated before a woman, even a woman who had just refused him. “I have not finished, Helaine. I still need to know what Johnny Bono holds over you.”

  She shook her head. “Nothing except that he is the only one who will sell me fabric on credit.”

  “That, at least, I can change. Name the best fabric merchant in London. I shall contact him directly and tell him my sister has engaged you to make her trousseau. He should extend you credit immediately.”

  She blinked, the magnitude of what he was offering hitting her broadside. “You would do that even though I refused you?”

  “Of course,” he said, sounding vaguely insulted. “I cannot have my sister or her dressmaker subjected to a scene like that one again. And as for your refusal, let us say that the matter has been tabled for the moment. I am not a man to be put off so easily.”

  Excitement shivered down her spine, and she did her best to suppress it. “Years ago, I would have swooned at the idea. I would have lain awake nights wondering if you would ask me to dance or bring me a posy.” She sighed and let her thoughts turn to the intervening years. The daily struggle against starvation, the nightly fight against despair. The girl she’d once been was long gone. In her place stood a woman who had learned to be cautious. Thrills were never worth the risk. And men, no matter how charming, were liars.

  “What are you thinking, Helaine?” he asked. “You look so sad. I assure you, what I offer will not turn out badly.”

  She laughed at that, though there was little humor in the sound. “There is always a cost for pleasure, my lord. And it is always the woman who pays.”

  He reared back at that, but he did not step away. Indeed, a moment later, he was beside her, his hand reaching for her face. “It is not always so, Helaine—”

  “It is.” She grabbed his fingers and forced them back. He didn’t fight her. She could not have done it if he had. Instead, he twined his fingers around hers and stroked his thumb into her palm. “I can see that you will take some convincing.”

  “My maidenhead is not for sale.”

  “I was not speaking of your virginity, Helaine. Merely of my intentions. I have underestimated you. I see that now. I look forward to the chase.”

  Alarm beat equal pace with excitement in her heart. “My lord—,” she began, but he cut her off.

  “The name of the best fabric merchant, Mrs. Mortimer. You have not told me what it is.”

  She blinked, too startled by his change of topic to think clearly. “Wolferman’s,” she answered.

  “You should hear from them by tomorrow morning.” He flashed her a smile. “And from me some day—or night—after that.”

  Then he bowed over her hand and showed himself out. He moved slowly enough that she could have stopped him. She had time to say something haughty or dismissive or even polite. But he had confused her. In truth, he had excited her, nearly seduced her, tempted her, and reassured her, all in the space of an hour. She had no words left in her, much less any wit.

  And then it came to her. Just before the door closed behind him, she rushed to the opening to call after him. “My lord!”

  He stopped and turned back to her. “Helaine?”

  “You caught me unprepared today.” She took a step outside into the sunlight. She straightened to her full height and mentally wrapped herself in all the good things she had done since her father had doomed them all. She was a strong woman, and no man could take that from her. “I was surprised and confused. But no longer. You will not find me so malleable ever again.”

  He arched his brows. “I hardly think you malleable, Helaine.”

  She shrugged. “Nevertheless.”

  He bent in the most courtly of bows. “Then let the games begin.”

  Chapter 8

  “Tea, Wendy. He sent me tea!”

  Wendy didn’t look away from where she was expertly threading a needle even in the evening’s poor light. “Well, what of it?”

  “He sent me cheap tea!”

  Now Wendy did look up from her stitching. “Really? But he’s a viscount. Would he even know where to find cheap tea?”

  “Yes!” She set the tea tin down on the worktable and glared at it. “It’s the exact tea from the exact shop where I usually buy it. He must have read the tin.”

  “Blimey, but how could he even find it? It can’t possibly be on any of his usual routes.” Wendy did the unheard-of act of setting down her sewing to cross to the far side of the worktable where the tin rested. “There’s a note here.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  Wendy peered down at it, turning it this way and that. “What does it say? I can’t make out all the words.” In her spare time, Wendy was paying Helaine’s mother to teach her to read. She was absolutely determined to better herself and that included being literate. Plus, it had the added benefit of giving Helaine’s mother something to do.

  Helaine picked it up and pointed to the words one by one, though she’d already memorized the entire note. “To Mrs. Mortimer. I greatly enjoyed our tea, but I fear we finished your tin. Please accept this replacement as a token of my esteem. I have duplicated exactly the blend you prefer, but should you wish for something different, something that gives more pleasure, simply tell the proprietor of this establishment. He has already been directed to provide you with whatever blend of sweet or spicy that most satisfies your heart. In fact, if I might be so bold, there is an oriental blend that I particularly enjoy as it seems to surprise me every time I drink it. I think it might suit you perfectly.”

  “But what’s this letter ‘R’ here for?”

  “That’s his signature. It stands for Robert, his Christian name.”

  “Coo,” said Wendy, her eyes huge. “Using a lord’s Christian name, are you now? Even if he is an odd one.”

  “He’s odd like a fox,” she said as she plopped down morosely onto her desk chair. The note was a ploy to intrigue her, to tempt her, to get her to think about him and about each and every bizarre word in the letter. And it was working! She hadn’t stopped thinking about him since the damn gift arrived. What should she do? Should she accept the terrible cheap tea or go back and select the most special, most expensive blend she could imagine? Would he learn of what she did? Of course he would. But how would he interpret it?

  And if that weren’t enough, she had a dozen or more questions about the wording of the letter itself. She’d examined everything from his unusual signature to the word “pleasure,” which had indeed sent a very unwelcome shiver of delight down her spine. And what about the part about an oriental blend that surprised him? Why did he think it would suit her? Was he suggesting that she surprised him? Or that she liked being surprised, which she didn’t. She absolutely did not!

  And most important of all, how did she respond to a letter like this? It was most improper, that was to be sure. Or it would be, if she were still Lady Helaine. But she wasn’t that girl anymore; she was Mrs. Mortimer, a supposed courtesan. But she was also a woman who had just received her first gift from an admirer in nearly five years. That alone made her cherish it, if it weren’t so blasted aggravating!

  “Tea!” she huffed. “What am I to say to tea?”

  Wendy had returned to her stitching. “What is there to respond? Go buy that oriental stuff and say thank you, all sweet like, so that he’ll give you some more.”

  Helaine sighed. If only it were that simple. “He will think I accept everything else about him then. Everything else he wants.”

  Wendy didn’t even spare her a glance. “H
e wants what he wants. All men do. More fool him if he thinks accepting some tea is the same as saying yes to everything else.”

  “True,” she said, knowing her friend’s logic was sound. Except that she couldn’t shake the feeling that she needed to be more careful in her response. Exactly how would he interpret it if she went ahead and picked out new tea? Or, more dangerous yet, the tea he suggested?

  “Unless…,” said Wendy, her voice taking on a sly tone that made Helaine glance up. “Unless you want the same thing ’e wants. Then I’d be much more careful in what I pick. Then I’d be choosing a tea that was sweet and spicy, jes’ like he said.”

  “But that is exactly the kind of tea I like! The oriental kind that tastes exotic and special. He will never believe that I picked it out because it is just what I want and not because he suggested it. Ugh!”

  Wendy burst out laughing at Helaine’s disgusted sound. “You are thinking too much about it. Buy the tea. Enjoy it! And maybe you’ll enjoy a mite more at the same time.”

  “I cannot,” Helaine said, regret dragging at her every word. “I simply cannot.”

  Wendy shrugged. “Suit yourself. But if it were me, I’d get the oriental blend.”

  “If it were you, you’d pick up your mum’s favorite black tea and not think two snips about it.” That was because Wendy was of a practical mindset. And usually Helaine was, too. But not now. Not when it came to the devilishly handsome and vastly intriguing Lord Redhill.

  She was still thinking about the problem the next morning when the first of three messengers arrived. Not letters, not notes, but actual messengers from the top three fabric merchants in London. All of them sent senior clerks who informed her most solicitously that they would welcome her business on credit. One even told her that his firm had set aside a special blue silk just for her perusal.

  Unlike the tea, this was a gift she could not afford to refuse. She instructed each clerk that her agent would be contacting them shortly, then she dashed off a note to Irene. With this type of leverage, her friend would be able to negotiate incredible deals. Finally, their little shop had hope of success. So she decided to express her gratitude to his lordship. But how? Perhaps at her favorite tea shop.

  She found the proprietor of the tea and medicine shop to be in an excellent mood. Mr. Withers was a generally pinched and tiny man, worn down by the day-to-day difficulties of trying to survive. His shop generally serviced struggling workers, and he was besieged daily by desperate people hoping to get miracle medicines for cheap. To have someone of Lord Redhill’s status visit him was exactly the boon everyone in business prayed for. And she could tell by the width of his smile that he had no intention of letting any link to Lord Redhill disappear. Which meant, of course, that he was intent on maximizing his connection with her.

  “Mrs. Mortimer! How pleased I am that you came to visit today! Do you know I have been mixing a new special blend? Pray try it. I had you in mind when I began it, you know. You have always been such a delight whenever you visit. Why, just the other day…”

  “Please stop,” she said. Once she had expected such immediate attention as her due, but now she found it unsettling. She had been walking into this shop for years now and rarely exchanged more than the most cursory pleasantries. Such overflowing of words from him left her distinctly uncomfortable. “I have merely come for some tea.”

  “Yes, yes, the oriental blend.”

  “No. Please.”

  “Oh, dear,” he moaned, his face positively drooping with dismay. “He told me you might be difficult. He said I should insist, though. Indeed, he told me if you didn’t come here today that I was to send on the blend anyway to your shop. Please don’t make me do that, Mrs. Mortimer. My dear Millie would have to make the delivery, and you know how her feet ail her so.”

  His dear Millie did indeed have aching feet, as did everyone else in this area of London. “Mr. Withers, I wish to purchase some tea to send to his lordship. By way of thanks.”

  “Of course, of course! I was just mixing a special blend, as I said. One especially for lovers,” he added with a wink.

  “What? No!” She should have expected this. She’d forgotten that she was no longer the daughter of an earl, one who could receive a gift from an admirer without people assuming the worst. But not now. Not as Mrs. Mortimer. Her gift of tea meant something else entirely. “His lordship and I are merely acquaintances.”

  “Of course, of course,” he said, nodding his bald pate. “Discretion is always important.”

  Obviously he didn’t understand that discretion meant going about business as usual. Not scraping and fawning over her.

  “My purchase, Mr. Withers?”

  “Yes, yes. As I said, my special blend.”

  “Absolutely not! I wish something else. A dark tea, I believe.”

  “An Earl Grey, perhaps? That’s very masculine.”

  She nodded. But it needed something else. Something that was reminiscent of his lordship. “What if you add extra bergamot? To make it especially strong.”

  “Yes, yes, but a bit overpowering, don’t you think?”

  Exactly like his lordship, in her opinion. But Mr. Withers had a better idea.

  “Perhaps we could soften the brew a bit. Add a touch of lightness, perhaps? A fruit or a spice?”

  She didn’t want to admit that Lord Redhill had a lighter side, but she knew he must. He had a sister who adored him, and by all accounts he was the strength behind the title. “Raspberry,” she abruptly said. She had no idea why she thought a small bumpy fruit was appropriate for his lordship, but it just seemed to fit.

  “An excellent choice!” Mr. Withers crowed.

  “How much will a small tin cost?” she asked.

  “Oh, my, I’m sure you don’t want a small tin.”

  “I’m sure I do,” she returned firmly, knowing she would have to bargain quite sternly from now on. Once the local merchants heard that she was sending and receiving presents from Lord Redhill, the price for everything would soar.

  Sure enough, Mr. Withers quoted an exorbitant price. She countered, and the bargaining went on tediously. In the end, she had to threaten to find another shop before he came to a reasonable cost. Eventually it was done, and “poor Millie” was thrilled to deliver the package herself despite her aching feet. All it took was for Helaine to seal the note that was to accompany the gift; then she added another missive for Lady Gwen and a third for Dribbs. She handed over the last of her meager coins. Fortunately, they were expecting payment from Francine’s father at any moment, so they wouldn’t starve for long. Or so she hoped. In the meantime, she needed to maximize the business she already had.

  It was time to start discussing Gwen’s wedding shoes. A dress was just a dress, after all, even if one did get married in it. Most brides wore their dress again every Sunday afterward to church. But what the newly married truly cherished, what lay on the mantel for their daughters to exclaim over, were the wedding shoes. There would have to be ample room on the sole for the minister to write the bride and groom’s name, along with the date. The fabric would have to be delicate enough for a beautiful bride, but sturdy enough to be worn all day if need be. And the color had to exactly match the gown.

  Which is why she headed directly for the Shoemakers’ shop. But when she arrived at their door, she received quite a shock. The store was closed. Helaine was a breath away from leaving when she heard the babe.

  A child was wailing, and from the desperation in the sound, she guessed he had been crying for some time. Helaine could not go in through the store, but she knew the right stairs and climbed to knock on the door to the rooms above. No one answered, but when she tried the latch, it opened easily. Surely the Shoemakers would not have simply gone out and left the babe alone, would they? Surely not.

  She walked through the narrow hallway, wrinkling her nose in the fetid air. No smell of sick, but the babe was surely messy. Where was everyone? Growing more alarmed by the second, Helaine found the chi
ld. He was perhaps eight months, old enough to stand in his crib and wail, but not old enough to climb down and make free about the home.

  Helaine was not skilled with children, but she knew enough to hand him a toy and change his diaper. After that, she was at a loss.

  “Let’s say we find you some bread, shall we?” she murmured as she carried him to the kitchen. She found nothing, not even a bit of cheese or moldy bread. What had happened here? Everything seemed in order, but no one was here. Then she heard a light tread on the stair. A moment later Penny appeared, her face as worn as Helaine had ever seen. What the boy saw, however, was the loaf of black bread in the girl’s hands and he immediately began wiggling to be free.

  “Oh! Oh, my!” Penny cried when she saw Helaine. “Whatever are you—ach, yes, yes, Tommy. Here’s your dinner.” The girl ripped off a hunk of the bread, then quickly peeled the hard crust away. She gave the child the soft center and he immediately stuffed it in his mouth. “I only stepped to the baker’s just down the way,” the girl said. “Just a moment because he was asleep. There was nothing in the house and we needed the food.”

  “But where are your parents, Penny? What has happened?”

  The girl started to respond. She opened her mouth, she tried to speak, but no sound came out. And then the tears began to flow. Without noise. And without an interruption in movement of bread to the child. Tears just leaked from her eyes in a steady stream.

  “Oh, no,” whispered Helaine. It had been awhile since she’d come by their shop. Lady Gwen was Helaine’s first wealthy bride, and so the first customer who required shoes. “Oh, Penny,” she asked, “is it just you and the boy now?”

  The girl nodded miserably, doing her best to wipe away her tears and still feed the boy. Helaine reached out and gave the girl a hug. In truth, it was unfair of her to think of Penny as so young. Though still small, almost pixielike, Penny had to be in her early twenties by now.