The Rogue's Wager (Sinful Brides #1)(41)

His father believed the only way Robert could help set the family’s finances to right was by marrying a lady plump in the pockets. As such, he was expecting Robert to make an advantageous union. If he courted Miss Helena Banbury, he’d be spared from most matchmaking mamas’ efforts and free to work on restoring their once-prosperous estates.

Yet his willingness moved beyond his own personal gain. After having his life manipulated by others, he’d be affording this woman some control that had been, until now, wrested from her. “Very well,” he said at last. “I will help . . .” She narrowed her eyes. “Do it,” he amended. The woman possessed more pride than any of the gentlemen he’d known thrown together.

At his capitulation, most women would have shown gratitude, or surprise.

Miss Helena Banbury gave a pleased nod. With that, she started for the door.

That was it?

“And just what do you expect this courtship should entail, Miss Banbury?” he called out, staying her with his words.

She paused at the doorway, and shot a look over her shoulder. “Lord Westfield, I’m as much a member of the peerage as you are a thief from the Dials,” she drawled. “I expect you know a good deal more about the matters of courting.” Her lips twitched. “Even if you are one of those rogues.” With a dismissive snap of her skirts, Helena unlocked the door.

“I daresay I should know where I’m to pay call?”

“The Duke of Wilkinson’s,” she said, not bothering to turn around.

He went still, as shock slammed into him. “The Duke of Wilkinson?” he called after her.

Yes, mayhap his ears were, in fact, failing him . . .

Helena Banbury cast another glance in his direction. “I assure you, there is nothing wrong with your hearing, my lord. If you’d paid closer attention to ton news, you’d have read of the duke’s bastard daughter come to Town.” With that, she sailed from the room.

And Robert, who’d never before paid any attention to gossip columns or whispers, wished he’d paid just a single jot. He dragged a hand over his face.

Of all the blasted women whose chambers he could have entered, who’d then in turn propositioned him, it could not be . . . whom he’d agreed to help. A garbled laugh escaped him. For tart-mouthed Helena Banbury proved to be the daughter of his father’s closest friend, the Duke of Wilkinson. Given his father’s romantic spirit, and peculiar thoughts on class differences, he’d applaud Robert’s sudden devoted interests in the recently appeared, suspiciously long-lost, Helena.

Robert rolled his shoulders, dispelling some of the tension. It was but three months. What harm could come in this pretend courtship with a woman so wholly out of her element in glittering Society?





Chapter 10


Rule 10


Never be seduced by pretty words. Especially from a nobleman.

The following morning, with the house quiet, Helena scribbled furiously on the page before her. Chewing her lip, she skimmed the handful of sentences. Squaring her jaw, Helena shoved back her desk chair, and rushed to ring for her maid.

A moment later the young woman opened the door. “Miss Banbury?”

“Will you see a footman delivers this to the Hell and Sin Club?” she instructed, handing over the note. It matters not. They’ll not respond . . .

With a nod, her maid accepted the missive, curtsied, and rushed off.

Having been awake now for two hours, Helena arched her lower back and then started from her temporary chambers, proceeding to the Blue Parlor. Where was the sense of purpose in this trivial world? A lady sat around and waited . . . for balls and soirees and all things that didn’t matter.

As she found a spot at the window seat, Helena stared out the floor-length windows that overlooked the London streets. Her entire life had been devoted to her work. Given her grasp of numbers and effective accounting, she’d foolishly believed her role in the running of that club had made her invaluable to them. Now, for all the notes she sent round pleading for them to take her back that they’d not even deigned to reply to, they’d proved how little she’d truly mattered.

How easily they’d cut her from the equation. Seated in the window seat, with her legs drawn to her chest, Helena set her copy on Jean-Robert Argand’s life on her knees. Removing the spectacles from her nose, she perched them at a precarious angle atop the open book, and shifted her attention to the fine streets she had no place walking, let alone living near. In the welcome silence of her solitary company, she accepted the feelings of resentment and hurt, taking those emotions in and giving them life.

Where so many women hungered for fripperies and useless baubles, Helena never had. She’d longed to be heard, a woman with worthy thoughts and opinions, opinions that were listened to and, through that, validated. She’d wanted to be seen as a capable woman, wholly trusted with responsibilities beyond her ledgers. Yes, her brothers had trusted her skill with the books, but they’d never let her speak to their distributors or patrons. Instead, those tasks had belonged to the male proprietors. And when she returned, would any of that have changed?

A carriage rattled by, pulling her from her maudlin thoughts, and she turned her efforts on a matter she had proven some surprising control over—the Marquess of Westfield’s pretend courtship.

Their meeting had proven far more agreeable than she could have ever hoped. Or expected.