Love's Price (Lord Trent Series) (29 page)

“Yes, my
wife
,” Stewart said as if James didn’t understand the definition of the term. “She confessed much of what passed between the two of you, and I wed her anyway.”

The impertinent fop!

James cheeks heated with outrage. “Let her tell me to my face that she doesn’t wish to see me.”

“No.” Stewart stood. “This appointment is concluded. May I show you out?”

James rose too, more incensed than he’d ever been.

“Why?” he spat. “Why would you marry her?”

“Why does any man marry? For money.”

“Helen doesn’t have any.”

“Doesn’t she?”

Stewart’s grin hinted at secret information that James didn’t possess, and he was disturbed by Stewart’s cocky confidence. His entire manner seemed suspicious.

“I demand to speak with her!” James hissed, determined not to depart until he saw her.

“Haven’t you done enough?” Stewart queried. “You forced her to work for you, and she remained—even though your ward was extremely vindictive. She begged and pleaded to quit the post, but your answer was to ruin her.”

Every comment Stewart uttered was true, so James had no defense.

“You may be much older than me,” Stewart continued, “and you may be a rich and influential earl, but I know right from wrong. It was cruel of you to treat her as you did, cruel of you to let your ward toss her out onto the streets without a penny in her pocket. If I hadn’t chanced upon her, she might have suffered any tragedy.”

“What are you saying? Miranda threw her out?”

“As if you didn’t know!”

“I didn’t!” James insisted.

“And why wouldn’t Miss Wilson want to be shed of Helen? When you’re about to wed her, why would she tolerate your mistress living under the same roof? If you suppose either woman would have accepted such a salacious circumstance, you’re completely mad.”

“Whoa! You think I’m marrying Miranda Wilson?
Helen
thinks I’m marrying Miranda?”

“Don’t even try to deny it.”

“Believe me, I won’t.”

“I must ask you to leave.”

“I...I...loved her,” James suddenly admitted, amazed that it took him so long to realize it. “I did. I loved her.”

“Easy for you to claim now when it really doesn’t matter anymore. Please go away and don’t come back. I won’t have you upsetting my bride. She’s in the family way and—”

“What?”

“She’s increasing, and I won’t have her distressed by you.”

Helen was pregnant? Helen was having a child?

His mind whirled with dates, and he was staggered to conclude that he was about to be a father.

He’d been so reckless in his fornications with her that he’d never paused to consider the consequences. He’d simply forged ahead, and now, Helen was having his baby, but this...this...popinjay would raise it? This vain oaf would call it his own?

“That child is mine!” James bellowed.

“As she is my wife, it’s ludicrous for you to make the allegation.”

“I’ll never let you get away with this.”

“Get away with what? I wanted her, and you didn’t. What is there about this situation that you don’t understand? You’re embarrassing yourself. And me. I had to put up with your condescending attitude when I was in
your
home, but I don’t have to put up with it in mine, and I’ve had quite enough of you. Goodbye.”

For such a young man, Stewart looked exceedingly dignified. He marched out of the room, leaving James to loiter alone in the parlor like an imbecile, so he had no choice but to follow.

A butler offered James his coat and hat, then he was practically pushed out into the gray afternoon. The door was slammed and locked behind him.

Helen stepped out of the woods, finished with her walk, and as she spun toward the house, she stumbled to a halt.

James Harcourt was in the front drive, and she furtively observed him as he mounted his horse and urged it into a trot. Though he hadn’t seen her yet, he was coming directly toward her.

What did he want? Could he make her work for him again? Could Nigel stop him?

At the notion, she shuddered with dread.

She’d loved him with her whole heart and soul, and her reward had been treachery and betrayal.

When she thought of that horrid day in his bedchamber, when she thought of how she’d had to listen to Miranda Wilson gleefully boasting about their pending nuptials, she felt ill. She remembered every word of the callous letter he’d penned, could still hear the clink of coins between her fingers as she counted the meager amount he’d bestowed as her severance.

While Nigel and his mother Barbara weren’t the easiest of people with whom to reside, they’d rescued her from a dire fate. If they hadn’t taken her in, she couldn’t guess what might have happened.

Or perhaps she
could
guess. She might have died of disease or starvation on the London streets.

Rage swept over her.

How dare he visit! How dare he presume he’d be welcome!

He didn’t notice her until he was a few feet away, and he yanked on the reins, his horse neighing in protest.

They stared and stared, but Helen remained silent. She refused to show any deference, refused to show any emotion at all.

Eventually, he said, “I’m not marrying Miranda Wilson.”

Helen didn’t believe him, and she declined to react.

He studied her from top to bottom, his anguished attention riveted on her stomach. His expression was pained and so filled with malice that she could barely keep from blanching and racing back into the woods.

“You couldn’t have waited?” he demanded. “You couldn’t have told me and given me a chance?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. You asked me to go, and I did. What more is there to discuss?”

His gaze narrowed, becoming even more virulent. “I’ll never forgive you for this as long as I live.”

He kicked the animal, and it snorted and galloped off.

She stood, watching him until he turned onto the main road, then she lurched to the house. At the heated exchange, she was extremely distraught. Her pulse was pounding, her knees weak.

She reeled into the foyer as Nigel hurried down the hall.

“Helen,” he inquired, “what is it? Is it Westwood? What’s he done now?”

“Nothing. I was surprised to see him, that’s all. Why was he here?”

“The swine! I’m ashamed to tell you.”

“What?” When he hesitated, she pressed, “Just say it.”

“Miss Wilson claims she’s missing some jewelry and that it disappeared the day you left.”

Helen gasped. Was there no end to the girl’s perfidy?

“Westwood is accusing me of taking it?”

“Yes. They suspected you right away. He came to try to resolve it quietly. He said you could give it all back, and they wouldn’t make a fuss.”

“What was your reply?”

“What would you suppose? I threw him out.”

“Thank you, Nigel. Thank you.”

“It was nothing.”

“You’ve done so much for me—so much more than I deserve.”

“I recognize that it’s an awkward time to raise the subject again—when you’ve just had such an upset—but you must reassess my suggestion that we wed.”

“Oh, I’m not sure...”

She rubbed her temples, a terrible headache forming. He’d tendered several proposals, and she kept delaying.

The prior few months had been too exhausting, and she wasn’t prepared to make such a huge leap. Yet a union with Nigel would stabilize the present and the future. She wouldn’t have to work so hard. She could stay at Brookhaven forever. Once they located Harriet, Helen would be able to bring her home.

“Helen, dear, I hate to mention this, but what if Westwood begins legal proceedings? I’m a landed, prosperous gentleman. He’ll think twice about coming after you if you’re my wife.”

It was a danger she hadn’t considered. Would Westwood behave so despicably toward her?

The instant she pondered the question, she realized that of course he would. He’d proven that he would do anything to her—without regard to the consequences.

Every night, she whispered a prayer of relief that she hadn’t wound up with a babe in her belly. If she’d been carrying his bastard child, how would she have survived the disgrace?

She peered at Nigel.

He’d been so kind to her, had done what he could to erase the sins of the past. He’d found her in London, had brought her to Brookhaven, had provided whatever solace and assistance she’d requested. And now, he was offering her a permanent haven, was ready to share his name and life with her.

As his mother had explained, a match between them kept it all in the family, which was always for the best. It was a pragmatic choice. It was the rational thing to do.

She didn’t love Nigel—he was like an annoying brother to her—but no woman was allowed to wed for love. They married for protection, for acceptance in the community, for financial security.

If she was his bride, she’d never be poor or afraid again. If she was his bride, the Earl of Westwood could never hurt her.

“I’ve reflected on it,” she finally stated, her heart heavy, her emotions at their lowest ebb.

“What have you decided?”

“It’s a good idea. We should marry.”

“I’m so glad.”

“And we shouldn’t wait. We should do it immediately.”

Before I change my mind!

“Marvelous,” he agreed. “I’ll ride to the city tomorrow to get a Special License.” He squeezed her hands and grinned. “Let’s tell Mother. She’ll be delighted.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

“We should marry immediately. There’s no reason to put it off.”

“I suppose we should. What a marvelous...idea.”

At Tristan having voiced the suggestion, Miranda sounded hesitant, and he peeked down at her. Her enthusiasm appeared genuine, but on his end, it took enormous effort to look happy.

They were walking in the garden, supper having just concluded, and he’d wanted to get out of the house. It was full of guests, and he was weary of constantly answering questions about his ordeal.

“After my recent disaster,” he advised her, “I feel as if I’ve tempted Fate and barely survived. I shouldn’t delay my important affairs.”

“No, you mustn’t tempt Fate. Next time, you might not be so lucky.”

She laughed, and while previously, he’d been humored by her perky character, since his return, everything about her grated.

Her hair was too dull, her eyes too plain. He found her to be too immature, too inexperienced. She was always trying to please and entertain, but her merriment seemed forced, her gestures predictable. He was beginning to wonder if she didn’t stand in front of the mirror and practice her sprightly expressions.

He’d known her since she was a baby, had watched her grow from a silly, frivolous child, to a charming, refined young lady. From the time he was a boy, he’d understood that he would probably be her husband.

He could have refused the match, but after his father’s death, the union had taken on a new significance.

For James, it meant massive financial assistance. For Tristan, it meant a fleet of ships, of becoming affluent through imports and exports without having to beg James for an allowance.

When James had recommended that the betrothal occur, Tristan had ridden to the country the very same day to propose. He hadn’t given the matter a second thought.

Until now.

The notion of being shackled to her was so distressing that he felt ill. The impending decades loomed like the gates to Hell. What would it be like to face her over the breakfast table every morning? The prospect was enough to make him want to sail away and never come back. He gazed up at the evening sky, the stars so bland compared to how they twinkled out on the water.

Harriet
, he lamented,
where are you? Are you all right? Do you ever think of me?

The months he’d spent with her had been the most satisfying of his life. How could he have let her go?

He didn’t care about societal restrictions, about rank and station. He didn’t care that she was beneath him in every way. James had claimed that her father was Charles Sinclair, and Tristan didn’t even care about that!

He loved her and wished he’d told her so. If he had, would it have made any difference? On that quiet night, when they’d spoken vows to each other, their words had seemed so weighty and binding. How could he have disregarded them?

He grinned, recalling how tough she’d been, how brave and undaunted by adversity. He missed her so much.

“Why are you smiling?” Miranda asked, yanking him out of his reverie.

He had to stop pining over Harriet, had to accept the current circumstance. He was marrying Miranda—very soon—and he had to quit measuring her attributes in relation to Harriet. When Miranda always came up short, it was a road to frustration and discontentment.

“I was remembering the island,” he said. “Although the living conditions were primitive, some of it was very enjoyable.”

“Have you had any contact with Harriet Stewart?”

Her query was much too casual for his liking.

“No.”

“James told me she is sister to a woman who worked for us last summer.”

“He mentioned it to me, as well.”