Love's Price (Lord Trent Series) (2 page)

She slowed, sneaking up to the open door, and as she neared, she couldn’t help but peek inside. A dozen men were playing cards, drinking, and smoking cigars. Coats and cravats had been removed, sleeves were rolled back.

In the center of the table, she could see a huge pile of money and some jewelry, an indication that they were gambling—and for high stakes—and the spectacle shocked her.

At that very instant, Miss Wilson was in residence. How dare they imperil her reputation with such an inappropriate activity! Did the earl know what was transpiring? Was he complicit?

He had to be.

Miss Wilson had claimed Lord Westwood was too busy to conduct Helen’s interview. Was this why? Was he wagering?

Helen scanned the group, curious as to which fellow he was. The fat one in the corner? The bald one on the sofa? The swaying drunk over by the hearth? What sort of dissolute wretch was he?

Before Helen had traveled to the failed appointment, Mrs. Ford at the employment agency had mentioned vague gossip about Lord Westwood, but she had personally vouched for him, insisting he was an honorable gentleman. She’d asked Helen to ignore any stories, which Helen had been happy to do.

From her time spent in noble households, she’d learned that appearances could be deceiving, that tales could spread on the flimsiest of facts, but she couldn’t refuse to accept what was occurring right in front of her.

She’d just remembered to hurry on, when she noticed that one of the men was watching her.

He was off to the side of the merriment, slouched in a chair and looking very bored. Absently, he shuffled a deck of cards, his slender fingers elegant and mesmerizing.

With his black hair and wide shoulders, his lean face and generous mouth, he was incredibly handsome.

He picked up a glass of liquor and sipped at it, staring at her over the rim, so she could see he had blue, blue eyes. She felt as if she was drowning in them, as if they could swallow her alive. She was spellbound, their visual connection almost tangible.

As if they shared a private joke, a decadent, seductive grin curved his lips then—with the grace of a lazy cat—he rose to his feet. He was fit and tall, well over six feet, with a broad chest, flat waist, and long legs, and before she grasped his intent, he headed directly toward her.

With a whimper of alarm, she stumbled away and fled. Behind her, she heard him say, “Gentlemen, I believe she’s arrived.”

Hoots and jeers wafted out, and one retorted, “Now the party can begin in earnest.”

“Yes, it can.”

There was more laughter, but it faded as she flew down one staircase, then another. Finally, the foyer was in view, and she lurched to a halt, her heart pounding as she searched for a servant to assist her.

She had to retrieve her cloak, but had no idea where it was. Though she was desperate to be away, she didn’t have the coin to purchase a new one, so she couldn’t go without it. Eventually, a footman appeared and brought it to her. As he vanished, she slipped it on and was raising the hood when a pair of strong arms wrapped around her from behind, and she was caught in a viselike grip.

“I wondered where you went,” a rich baritone whispered in her ear. “You minx! I chased you across half the house.”

“Ah!” she shrieked, struggling to escape, but he merely tightened his hold.

“Are you leaving? Why? Didn’t you like the looks of the guests? They’re actually quite harmless.”

“Let me go,” she hissed through clenched teeth.

“There’s no need to be coy,” he insisted. “We’re all adults, and I’ve offered you plenty to entertain us. Or are you planning to demand more?”

“Let me go!”

He leaned in, and she could feel his entire torso pressed to her backside, but though she fought mightily, she couldn’t put any space between them.

For pity’s sake, was she about to be ravaged in the earl’s vestibule? How had she landed in such a predicament?

He nuzzled her nape as he pushed down the hood of her cloak to reveal her golden-blond hair. She had it pulled into a neat chignon, and he rubbed his cheek against it.

“Your hair is the most fascinating color,” he absurdly said. “I can’t wait to see it flowing down your back.”

The remark was too outrageous to be borne, and she stomped on his foot as hard as she could.

“Ow!” he grouched as he released her.

She staggered away and whirled to find him towering over her.

“Are you insane?” she seethed.

“What? I compliment your pretty features. I’m prepared to forfeit a small fortune for your services, yet you attack me as if I’ve offended you. And you call
me
insane?”

“You couldn’t pay me to remain here another second.”

He studied her, his gaze narrowing at her criticism.

“I don’t understand you.”

“Why? Because I don’t choose to be mauled and abused?”

“Abused!”

“Yes. How dare you grope me! And right in the foyer, too. What if Miss Wilson had observed you? How would you explain your behavior?”

“Miss
Wilson
? You mean Miranda? Why on earth would she be any of your concern?”

Helen gasped. In residing with the earl, what antics were Miss Wilson forced to endure? Clearly, Mrs. Ford had been wrong, and the rumors were true: Westwood was a fiend.

“If your conduct is any sign,” Helen huffed, “of what’s allowed in this house, I feel very sorry for the young lady in question.”

She spun and marched to the door as he snapped, “Where are you going?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” She glared over her shoulder. “I’m leaving.”

“You are not.”

“I am, and you can’t stop me.”

He seemed greatly confused. “I told Monique to send me her most experienced girl. She assured me that you’d be amenable to whatever we wanted. Why are you acting this way?”

“Monique? Who is Monique?”

“Don’t you know the name of your own madam?”

“My madam!”

He paused, scowling. “Aren’t you from the brothel?”

Helen was surprised she didn’t faint. “You think I’m a...a...”

“You’re not a prostitute?”

In the past four years, she’d suffered many heinous indignities. She’d been bullied and pressured and intimidated, but she couldn’t remember ever having been quite so insulted.

A rush of unwanted, stupid tears flooded her eyes.

“You’re Lord Westwood, aren’t you?” she inquired, realization dawning.

“Yes.”

Gad! How pathetically eager she’d been to gain a position in his disreputable abode! How lucky she was that Miss Wilson hadn’t liked her! Praise the Lord for small favors!

“Well, milord,” she said, giving him the fleetest curtsy in history, “I can smell alcohol on your breath, so I will tell myself that your rudeness is merely due to overindulgence.”

His devilish grin appeared, making him look wicked and dangerous. “Are you calling me a drunkard?”

“I would never presume to comment on your personal habits.”

“Really? It certainly seems as if you just did.”

“Which is inexcusable of me, and I humbly apologize”—she almost choked on the falsehood—“but no decent female should have to tolerate such disrespect.”

“Decent! What the hell are you talking about?”

“Mrs. Ford only provides the very best candidates. Were I you, I wouldn’t expect her to further aid you in your search. Goodbye.”

“Who is Mrs. Ford?”

She started out, and he asked again, “Mrs. Ford? Is that the woman from the employment agency?”

Helen was on the stoop and hurrying down the wide steps to the bricked drive.

“Hold it right there!” he commanded with such authority that it wasn’t possible to refuse him. She whipped around.

He was up above her, framed in the ornate double doors, marble columns on either side, while she was far below him and staring up. With his coat off, his shirt undone, his black hair mussed, he might have been a magnificent, disheveled god, and she was overwhelmed by the sense that she’d dodged a near-fatal blow.

“What?” she demanded when he didn’t speak.

“By any chance are you a...lady’s companion?”

“Yes.”

Two slashes of chagrin darkened his cheeks. His masculine gaze drifted down her body as he assessed her conservative attire, and he smirked with distaste.

“I should have guessed by the gray dress.”

“Yes, you should have.”

“Come back inside.” He gestured into the foyer.

“No.”

“You would disobey my direct order?”

“Yes.”

At her rebuff, he was extremely perplexed, and he frowned.

“You’re aware of who I am.”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Yet you would defy me anyway?”

“Yes.”

“Are you dimwitted or are you daft?”

“I’m neither. I simply don’t like you, and as I’ve been gravely offended and I never intend to see you again, there’s no reason for me to be civil.”

“Have you any notion of the power I can wield? You sassy little jade, I could do anything to you.”

“You don’t scare me.”

“I don’t?” He actually chuckled. “What is your name?”

“It’s none of your business.”

“But Mrs. Ford sent you?”

“Yes, to my ultimate regret.”

“Dammit,” he muttered.

She turned and ran.

CHAPTER TWO

“Miss Stewart will be perfect for you.”

“I agree.”

James Harcourt, Earl of Westwood, smiled across the desk at Mrs. Ford. She preened under his avid scrutiny.

“I apologize for the misunderstanding,” she said.

“Think nothing of it.”

“Miss Stewart is typically very mild-mannered. I don’t know what came over her.”

“Women are often flustered around me. I seem to have a disturbing effect on them.”

He graced her with another smile, and she giggled like a schoolgirl, but quickly, she regrouped and composed her features.

Footsteps sounded in the hall, and shortly, the elusive Miss Stewart walked in.

“Here she is now,” Mrs. Ford beamed.

James stood and bowed. “Hello, Miss Stewart. We meet again.”

On seeing him, Miss Stewart stumbled to a halt, appearing so disconcerted that he wondered if she might faint.

“Sit, Helen, sit.” Mrs. Ford gestured to a chair.

Miss Stewart glared at James, then the door, then James again, anxious to stomp out, but she didn’t dare.

James had already coaxed Mrs. Ford into revealing that Miss Stewart’s previous post had ended, so she was unemployed and in immediate need of income. The impertinent vixen wouldn’t be able to refuse him.

She slid into the chair Mrs. Ford had indicated, but she perched on the edge as if—with the slightest provocation—she would leap up and race out.

“You remember Lord Westwood, don’t you, Helen?” Mrs. Ford asked.

“Yes, I remember him.” If looks could have killed, he’d have been dead a hundred times over.

“I have the most marvelous news,” Mrs. Ford gushed.

“What is it?” Miss Stewart grumbled.

“After your interview yesterday, Lord Westwood was so delighted that he called on me personally to let me know that he’s giving you the job.”

“I don’t want it!”

At the vehement declaration, Mrs. Ford was taken aback. Scowling, she shifted in her seat and cleared her throat.

“Nonsense, dear. Of course you
want
it.”

Miss Stewart counted his sins on her fingertips. “His ward hates me. He has friends over who gamble for high stakes. He laid his hands on me, because he assumed I was a...a...”—she leaned nearer to Mrs. Ford and whispered—“
prostitute
he’d ordered from a brothel
.”

“A minor mistake, I assure you.” Mrs. Ford made a wiggling motion with her wrist, dispatching James’s horrid gaffe with a wave. “Lord Westwood has explained everything.”

“Has he!”

Miss Stewart glowered at him, her striking emerald eyes narrowed with disgust. It was obvious she didn’t like him, and he was fascinated by her disregard.

Women loved him. They were desperate to please him. They never told him
no
.

From his earliest memories as a tiny boy with his first nanny, he’d always gotten his way, and in the intervening decades, nothing had changed. With his being a thirty-year-old nobleman, the most beautiful females in the kingdom wrangled to be his paramour. The wives of acquaintances pleaded for trysts. Mothers of debutantes tried to lure him into marital traps baited with their innocent daughters.

Only Miss Stewart seemed immune, and he was greatly humored by her obstinacy. If she hadn’t been so violently opposed to working for him, he wouldn’t have given her a second thought, but when she was so adamant, how could he fail to insist?

Besides, he had to hire someone to fuss with Miranda. Why not the intriguing, stunning, and amusing Miss Stewart? His home would never be dull with her in it.

Miranda had come to town uninvited, claiming she’d intended to visit his brother, Tristan, but she was aware that Tristan was gone. He was a ship’s captain, and he’d sailed a few days prior, so James didn’t know what game she was playing. Nor did he care.

He simply wanted her out of his hair, but he couldn’t kick her out on the street. At the same juncture, he couldn’t have her alone and unchaperoned at the house. He was a renowned scoundrel, and every bit of his low reputation was deserved, so she had to have a companion.

Miss Stewart would do nicely, and he would receive the added benefit of proving to her that he could act however he chose. The previous afternoon, as she’d insulted him in his own driveway, she hadn’t comprehended that he could be an absolute beast—and she was powerless to stop him.

“I trust this matter is settled to everyone’s satisfaction?” he said, standing. “May we go?”

“Go!” Miss Stewart hissed. “Go where?”

“Why...to my home. Where would you suppose?”

“I’m not going anywhere with you. I’d rather live in a haystack.”

“Miss Stewart!” Mrs. Ford scolded, and she peered over at James. “I beg your pardon Lord Westwood. As I mentioned, Miss Stewart is usually so good-natured.”

“It’s quite all right,” he amiably stated. “This is all happening a tad fast. She’ll adapt swiftly enough; she’ll be fine.”