The Rogue's Wager (Sinful Brides #1)(42)

Yet . . . She chewed at her lip. As a future duke, she expected a man of his lofty status would have bristled at the charges and requests she’d put to him. He had blood bluer than a sapphire running through his veins, and as such hardly needed to answer to or accommodate a bastard woman. Even if she was a duke’s illegitimate offspring, her life and entrance into Society would never merit respect from the peerage.

After she’d returned from Lord and Lady Sinclair’s ball, she’d lain abed, tossing and turning on her unfamiliar mattress. Life on the streets had also taught her to be wary of anything that was too easy. And though the tight lines at the corners of full, perfect lips and snapping eyes hinted at the marquess’s fury, he’d still listened . . . and agreed to help her.

“Why would he do that?” she whispered to herself. Plucking her spectacles from the top of her book, she popped them open and placed them on her nose. She continued to trouble her lower lip. Or mayhap, he’d been so eager to be rid of her that he would have agreed to overthrow the king if it would have seen her gone. All the while, he’d no intention of helping her.

Helena grabbed the small tome and fanned the pages. Having witnessed her mother’s broken heart after the duke’s abandonment, and then Diggory’s manipulation of her only real parent, Helena had the benefit of a daily lesson on all the ways in which to be wary of men . . . of all stations. Then having spent the better part of her life inside a gaming hell, well, her appreciation for treachery and deceit had only been further cemented. What grounds did the marquess have to aid her? She mattered to Ryker and her other de facto brothers, and they’d snipped her from their lives. She was even less to Lord Westfield. He was . . .

Here.

Helena furrowed her brow. Now? He’d come? Book in hands, she pressed her forehead against the window in a display of boldness that would have earned a stern lecture from the Duchess of Wilkinson. From the crystal windowpane overlooking the streets, she studied the marquess as he dismounted from a magnificent black horse. A street urchin rushed forward to collect the reins of his mount and a sad smile pulled at her lips. Then, men such as he had people rushing forward to his aid and assistance, when women such as she remained largely invisible. The marquess handed the boy several coins and said something that earned an emphatic nod.

She used the moment to study him. In her chambers, garments rumpled and a day’s worth of growth on his face, he’d still possessed a masculine beauty that gave a woman pause. The shadows of the earl’s parlor had only lent an air of mystery to the marquess. In the light of day, with his face clean-shaven, and his aquiline cheeks and strong, square jaw on display, she appreciated his as the kind of beauty that made fools of other women.

Not that she was one of those foolish sorts. She wasn’t. She was coolly practical. And logical and would never make a cake of herself for any fancy toff. He started for the front of the duke’s house. As he reached the top step, he removed his hat. The morning sun cast an ethereal glow off his golden tresses.

Breath quickening, she briefly closed her eyes as memories came rushing forward. Of his kiss. Of his gentle caress. The forbidden thrill of his lips on her person. She steeled her jaw. For as masterful as his touch had been, it was nothing for which a woman would ever throw away her future, freedom, and security. Which is invariably what she’d done—through a mistake that was largely his, and partly hers. After all, she’d not bothered to lock that blasted door.

A few moments later, footsteps sounded outside the room, and she swung her legs over the side, climbing to her feet, just as the duke’s butler, Scott, stepped into the threshold. “Miss Banbury,” he said in ancient tones, a familiar smile on his weathered cheeks that contradicted everything one would expect of a duke’s butler. “His Lordship, the Marquess of Westfield, to see you.”

With murmured thanks, she returned the old servant’s smile. Other than the duke and his young daughter, old Scott with his kind eyes often seemed as though he were genuinely pleased with her presence here. He tipped his chin.

Helena gave a vague shake of her head. What is he trying to tell me?

Scott coughed and stared from the corner of his eye at the marquess.

There was something she was missing. Her mind raced. Every aspect from their balls and soirees to something as simple as a morning visit was beyond her realm of comfort and familiarity.

The servant took mercy . . . or mayhap he just despaired of her gathering the proper protocol for receiving a marquess. “I will bring refreshments, Miss Banbury.”

“Uh . . . yes . . . thank you,” she murmured as Scott flashed her another smile and a look of support, and then took his leave.

At last alone, the marquess sketched a bow. “Miss Banbury,” he greeted in that slow, mellifluous baritone that caused a round of delicious shivers.

“My lord,” she motioned him in.

He stalked forward with slow, predatory steps a panther would have envied. Helena held her ground. She’d faced and defeated far greater dangers than this man. Although, at this man’s hands, she was only coming to find there was sometimes greater peril than the violence she’d endured.

As fate’s mocking proof, Lord Westfield flashed a devastating half grin. “May I?” No gentleman had a right to be so gloriously perfect. Particularly when a woman herself was so horribly scarred.

Helena ran the tip of her tongue along her lips. “May you what?” She followed his pointed gaze to a nearby seat. “Oh . . . uh . . . yes,” she said, so wholly out of her element, and plopped into the closest chair.