The Rogue's Wager (Sinful Brides #1)(36)

“Good, that is good,” he said, his smile widening, as he leaned back in his chair. He hooked his ankle across his knee.

Shifting in her seat, Helena glanced about. She’d never been one of those women full of words. Unlike the duke’s legitimate daughter, who was always ready with a word and story, Helena was often left searching.

“You’ve not had any suitors, yet,” he said gently, as though he were imparting some recent information.

“No,” she said. After all, what really was there to say? She’d not bother telling him that she was quite content free of those self-centered, pompous lords who sought to marry, and then carry on at those same gaming hells Helena called home.

“Humph,” the duke grunted, and settled back in his chair. “There is no accounting for taste.”

She bit the inside of her cheek. How many times had she uttered that about her mother’s dreadful proclivity for attaching herself to the worst possible men?

“But then, all gentlemen require a little help, eh?” A little twinkle lit his kind brown eyes.

She furrowed her brow. “Your Grace?” she asked hesitantly, while distant warning bells went off at the back of her mind.

“All gentlemen expect a bride with a dowry.”

Helena froze. For the course of a month, but for the snide whispers and cruel stares, she’d remained largely invisible to the ton. There had been no friends outside of Lady Diana. There had been even fewer suitors, and she’d relished the absence of those pompous prigs. Oh, God, no. She shook her head, but he continued over her rapid-growing hysteria.

“I am attaching a ten-thousand-pound dowry to you.”

“Ten thousand,” she repeated back dumbly, as a buzzing filled her ears and blotted out the duke’s happy ramblings.

When she’d been a small girl saddled with governesses, Helena had hated all aspects not mathematical of the miserable women’s teachings. One afternoon, laboring through a tedious reading about ancient Greek battles Helena had stumbled upon the legend of the Ten Thousand, that great, feared, and revered mercenary unit who’d attempted to wrest power from the Persian Empire. That tale of ten thousand ruthless warriors had resonated with a girl raised on violent streets.

And now, in a great twist of irony, her father had turned her into one of those creatures who’d sell themselves for someone else’s gains. He’d steal her anonymity and mark her worth in coin, so that was all anyone would ever see. Fortune hunters who’d seek to trap her and confine her to a new cage—a gilded one. Helena covered her face with her hands.

“No need for that, gel,” he said, incorrectly interpreting the reason for her response. He patted her on the knee. “I would have done more for you and your mother . . .” His voice broke, and she dropped her hands to her lap.

Oh, how she wanted to hate this man. Had spent years despising him. Every switch that Diggory had rained down on her back. Every tear her mother had shed. Through all of it, she’d found solace in her hatred. I don’t want to feel pity for him . . . I don’t want to feel anything . . . “You have been so very generous, Your Grace,” she said quietly. “Please, I ask you. Do not do this.” Please.

“Do not give it another thought, gel,” he said, shoving to his feet. “It is done.” He ruffled the top of her head the way he might a child of five and not a woman of almost five and twenty. “Now, I believe you have dance lessons?”

She forced a smile, and thought her cheeks would shatter from the expression of falsity she plastered on her face. “Indeed. Thank you.” Helena dropped another curtsy.

As she took her leave of the duke, her mind turned over the sudden complication of remaining invisible for another three months without the constant barrage of suitors. If she’d been born a male she’d not even now be in this predicament. Her brothers . . . Lord Robert Westfield . . . they, by nature of their birth, could command at will. Where society sought to stifle females, they’d not dare do so to gentlemen. Particularly a marquess, and eventual duke. No, with men such as the Marquess of Westfield came even greater power and control.

Helena slowed her steps, as a niggling of an idea took root.





Chapter 9


Rule 9


Be sure to evade notice.

As Robert Dennington, the Marquess of Westfield, slipped outside the Earl of Sinclair’s ballroom, he came to a realization—someone was staring at him.

Not that it was uncommon for him to be stared at. Matrons and misses, widows and ladies, there were always glances cast for a future duke. As such, it was not ego with which he thought, as much, but rather an understanding those ladies placed on his eventual rank.

It was also deuced inconvenient. Given his arrangement to meet Baroness Danvers in the last room in the Earl of Sinclair’s townhouse, it wouldn’t do to be seen leaving for an assignation.

A confirmed bachelor and rogue three years past his thirtieth, the ton had well come to accept, and expect, he enjoyed the wiles of a widow.

As Robert strode purposefully through his host’s home, a grin pulled at his lips. In this instance, there was a particular widow whose wiles he intended to shortly enjoy.

Except, while he walked, the sense of being watched increased and mayhap it was the midnight quiet or an overactive imagination, but there was something decidedly, well, unfriendly about the heat on his neck.