eyes to her tightly laced fingers. Unaware that Jason had nudged the florid-faced grocer forward into the hallway, she managed an imperceptible nod at an empty doorway. ‘Yes … good day to you, sir….’
‘You look as though you’ve lost a sovereign and found a shilling.’
Jason scowled at his brother as he passed him. By the time Mark Hunter had turned on the sweeping staircase, peered at his brother’s flying heels, then hared after him, Jason had strode the length of a thickly carpeted corridor. He slammed into his study, downed two shots of whisky one after the other and was refilling his glass when Mark appeared.
‘Bad time at the tables?’ Mark’s tone was sympathetic as he speculated on a possible, if unlikely, cause of his brother’s dark disposition. He helped himself to Jason’s decanter and, after a couple of gulps from his glass, realised his commiserations remained unappreciated. He tried a blunter approach. ‘Devil take it, Jay, if you’ve not lost at cards, what’s up with you now? It’s too much, I tell you, having to continually look at your long face. You’ve been odd for weeks.’
Jason let his lean frame drop into the chair positioned behind a grand oak desk. Having settled himself with his boots resting on the table edge, he slanted his brother a stare over the rim of his glass. ‘When did my moods become your damned business? And why is it every time I come home, you’re here? I don’t remember inviting you to move in.’ His brother’s pained expression caused him to blow out his cheeks and gesture apology with a flick of a hand.
‘I know the old goat wants shooting for acting so blasted idiotic,’ Mark intoned with some indignation. ‘But, even if the two women are good friends, it don’t just affect your mistress, y’know. Every bachelor in town is cursing over it, so no need to take it out on me if Diana is being tricky.’
Jason grunted a laugh at his brother’s oblique and garbled reference to a rumour that he’d personally found amusing rather than irritating.
He had heard the talk that his paramour was jealous of her friend Mrs Bertram. That woman had, if gossip was to be believed, secured a promise from Lord Frobisher that he would make an honest woman of her before the year was out, thus making her a lady in name, if not in nature.
Jason carefully placed down his empty glass, feeling a little the worse for alcohol. On the way home he had called in at White’s and loitered, drinking, for an hour or more, hoping that George Kingston might turn up, simply so he could knock down the mean bastard.
‘It’s nothing to do with Diana or any foolish aspirations she might have,’ he told his brother.
‘Relieved to hear it,’ Mark replied with a grin. ‘So what has upset—?’
‘Mark … go away,’ Jason advised with guttural gentility.
Mark noticed a flare of threat in his brother’s eyes and shrugged. He knew from past experience when it was wise to retreat and leave Jason alone to brood. He strolled to the door, whistling.
Jason rested his dark head against the hide chair-back and stared sightlessly at the ceiling. His features were tensely set, but a muscle moving close to his mouth animated his mask-like visage.
His brother’s instinct that a woman was stoking his frustration was quite correct, even if he was ignorant of her identity.
Helen Marlow had unexpectedly come back into his life and he couldn’t chase from his mind the exquisite woman who had emerged from the bonny child he’d known. He wished now that he’d sought to renew their acquaintance sooner. He could have done so, for he’d spied her at a distance on odd occasions. It would have been simple enough to approach her and ask how she fared. But the feud with George had driven a wedge between them years ago when she was still a schoolgirl. Later, when she returned to town as a young widow to live with her father, it seemed too much time had passed and they had slipped back to being virtual strangers.
It had been more than ten years since he had come within touching distance of her. From the moment she had opened the door of Westlea House to him and tried to hide her dishevelled appearance behind the wood panels, he had been robbed of his peace of mind. In truth, he resented the loss.
Yet his thoughts continually revolved around finding excuses to go back and see her again. The urge to do so was not primarily altruistic and therein lay the root of his torment. He wanted to improve her lot in life, but he desired her, too, and she knew it.
He gave a lopsided smile at the ceiling as he recalled the way she had instinctively leaped to defend him when the grocer got belligerent. Feelings of tenderness had engulfed Jason as she’d stood before him like an intrepid waif prepared to do battle. He’d also felt a sense of relief, for she had proven—unintentionally, he imagined—that she was not completely set against him. She was indebted to him through no fault of her own and she sensed that made her vulnerable to his lust. In just a short while she had displayed wit and courage and dignity. She had also showed her selfish brother more loyalty than George would merit in his lifetime. But acknowledging Helen had fine qualities had not subdued the throb in his loins.
He had a perfectly adequate mistress. Why would he want the trouble of wooing into bed a well-bred woman who thought him a rake and seemed unwilling to trust him to act ethically? Something else was nettling him. Jason knew he was playing too easily into George Kingston’s hands. He was allowing George to manipulate him, yet seemed unable to put a stop to it. George wanted him to take over the financial burden of his sisters’ keep and he was achieving his aim with such ease that he had begun to dispense with the need to be subtle. Filling the empty grates and larders at Westlea House was not his responsibility. But he had taken on the task, just as George intended he should. George had gambled on a meeting between Helen and him paying spectacular dividends, and he had won. George was now basking in his victory. He was goading him, blatantly challenging him to choose between pride and lust.
Jason knew that soon he would have to make a decision before gossip started. Evicting Helen and her sister from Westlea House was out of the question, but it would not be long before it was common knowledge he owned the property. Risking a stain on Charlotte’s reputation was also out of the question. The obvious solution would be to establish a position in his life for Helen.
Wife or mistress? George Kingston would not care either way. If Mrs Marlowe became a kept woman, polite society would be provided with a tasty morsel of gossip for a week or two, but they would not ostracise her. Helen’s reputation was protected by the status conferred by her late husband.
Thus, it was his choice which role he offered to her after such a limited renewal of their acquaintance. Certainly she fascinated him and he was sure he liked her, but he had felt that way before about young women who now he could barely recall to mind.
Jason got to his feet, only half-aware that he had come to a decision as he stretched out his stiff muscles. A rueful smile tugged at a corner of his mouth as he realised that the only objections he was likely to receive to an offer of carte blanche was from the lady herself.
Chapter Eight
‘What on earth is the matter?’
Helen had been attempting to compose a letter of apology to Jason Hunter while Charlotte was out. The scuffed leather surface on the bureau was littered with crumpled scraps of paper, testament to the difficulty of the task she’d set herself.
But now Charlotte was back and looking very dejected. Pushing away pen and paper, Helen swivelled on her seat. Charlotte was plucking at her hat strings with vibrating fingers. Once free of her thick tresses, the bonnet was forcefully discarded on to the sofa. Charlotte sank down beside it, her red-rimmed eyes concealed by her palms.
‘What is it, dear?’ Helen immediately went to her. She crouched by the side of the chair with an anxious frown crinkling her ivory brow. Charlotte’s hands were gently eased from her face and Helen comforted them with her own. ‘What has happened? Is Philip not with you?’ Helen glanced at the door. Philip invariably came in for a short while when he brought Charlotte home from an outing. ‘Have you argued?’ It was a doubtfully