The Rogue's Wager (Sinful Brides Book 1)

by Christi Caldwell

  “You nobles do not know the meaning of the word quiet,” she explained. He let his arms fall to his sides. By her tone she intended to deliver a lecture on subterfuge. Hardly surprising given a lady who called the Hell and Sin home and carried a knife on her person.

  Robert hitched his hip on the back of a nearby leather button sofa. “Given your sentiments on marriage to me, I suggest you get on with what’s brought you here, before we’re discovered, and you’re ruined.” Again. That word hung silent, unspoken between them.

  Guilt dug at him.

  Helena nodded. “I am to spend the entire Season here.” She wrinkled her nose. “If I do not make a match, in three months’ time, then I am free to return to the club.”

  “And you prefer that?”

  She must have heard something in his question that she didn’t like for she shot her gaze to his. Robert braced for another stern dressing down from the tart-mouthed woman. “I do,” she said tersely, and proceeded to pace. “I’ve three months and I’ve no desire to make a match.”

  Given her nasty temperament and unconventionality that should not prove difficult. Members of the peerage often proved themselves remarkable dolts, incapable of seeing past the surface of a person. “It’s but three months,” he pointed out, swinging his leg back and forth.

  The lady stopped abruptly and glowered.

  He abruptly ceased that distracted movement. Once again, he’d clearly demonstrated a lack of understanding for the lady’s plight. “Have you . . .” He searched his mind. “Been heavily courted?” Robert concealed all hint of surprise from that inquiry.

  Another inelegant snort escaped Helena. She motioned to herself. “Do I strike you as one who has had to deal with too many suitors?”

  The lady no doubt referred to her marked face and hands. He’d not bother to point out that it was her shrewish temperament more than anything that surely deterred gentlemen. And her status as by-blow. Most lords would not look past that lowly birthright.

  “Or I didn’t have to worry after suitors,” she mumbled, and resumed her pacing. “My father settled a dowry on me.” Helena paused, and looked up at him.

  By her pointed stare, she expected something from him. He lifted an eyebrow.

  “Ten thousand pounds,” she said bluntly.

  Robert widened his eyes. Well, yes, that would certainly land the lady all number of suitors. Most of them with pockets to the let and in need of a fat dowry. All manner of gentlemen a lady would take care to avoid. He tightened his mouth. Men whose company he had the ignoble fortune of now keeping.

  She stopped her distracted movements, and came over to Robert. “I want you to court me,” she said so unexpectedly he cocked his head.

  He didn’t believe he’d misheard her. Though three and thirty he was not an aged lord, hard of hearing. “Beg pardon?”

  “Court me,” she repeated. “You’re a future duke, no?” With the way she peeled her lip back in a sneer, that question was spoken as an indictment more than anything.

  Her disdain for his title was at odds with everything he’d come to know of all women. Feeling like a player thrust on a stage without the benefit of his lines, Robert nodded.

  “I expect you’re accustomed to having what you want, when you want it?” she continued. “Ladies no doubt fawn over you.” This woman represented the exception. “Gentlemen would never do anything to offend you.”

  And when having his life painted with such accurate strokes and so very . . . coldly, there was something rather humbling. “And you wish me to court you? To what end?” he asked, his tone deliberately, coolly unaffected. He’d not allow her the pleasure of knowing her words had needled.

  She sighed, and then in tones better reserved for a slow-to-grasp student in the nursery, she said, “No one would dare step on the toes of a future duke. I’ll just have to suffer through your occasional visits and company, and then I’ll be free to return.”

  “This is your plan?” he asked, incredulity creeping into his tone, earning another frown. “You expect me to court you . . .”

  “For three months,” she interrupted. “Yes. At which point, I will return to the Hell and Sin and you . . .” She waved her hand up and down his person. “Will be free to do whatever it is you do.”

  With her stinging words and sharp commands, he was close to sending her to the Devil and marching onward.

  Yet, something froze him.

  Mayhap it was the realization that in this, in her being thrust into polite Society, he was, in fact, in the wrong.

  Mayhap, it was a sense of guilt for not having given proper thought to what might happen to the woman after he’d left the Hell and Sin.

  Or mayhap it was the recent reminder of his own, until recently, obliviousness of his family’s circumstances.

  “Well?”

  “I am thinking,” he said absently.

  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.

  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.

  Instead of doing the same, the marquess came closer, and Helena’s chest tightened as he slid into the red upholstered King Louis XIV chair closest to hers. As he settled his tall, well-muscled frame into those folds, he easily
shrank the space between them and she swallowed hard.

  Perched on the edge of her chair, Helena clenched her fingers reflexively around her book. In her plan that required this man’s constant presence for the next three months, she’d not thought through the obvious detail that she’d actually have to speak with him.

  The marquess laid his forearms over the sides of his chair and cast his glance about the room, as though seeing it for the first time. He drummed his fingertips on the mahogany arms. “Given the time we intend to spend together, I expect we may as well find common ground with which to speak on.”

  Where most ladies would most assuredly be offended by that directness, and the absolute lack of pretense at a courtship, Helena appreciated it. Welcomed it. In fact, that directness was not what she’d expect from a man dripping with charm, and in possession of a glib tongue, and it momentarily unsettled her. “There is hardly a need for such pretense,” she said, proud of that smooth delivery.

  He chuckled, and removed his gloves. “Isn’t that the point?” he asked, stuffing them into his jacket.

  Yes, well, there was truth there. Though she’d sooner slice off her littlest fingers than admit as much.

  Lord Westfield leaned forward in his seat, shrinking the space between them, and freezing her thoughts. “Nor would it be wise to discuss any talk of pretense, given that we nobles know nothing about the word quiet.”

  At having her words from last evening turned on her, a wave of heat scorched her face. “Very well,” she conceded, despising that he was right. It was far preferable to see him as a sloppy drunkard who wandered into her rooms and upended her existence.

  He lifted an eyebrow. “Do you read?”

  She blinked, and followed his pointed stare to the forgotten book in her hands. “No.” Helena warmed. “Yes.”

  The ghost of a smile hovered on his lips. Odd, not even a month prior, those lips had been on her mouth and person, teaching her in ways no man would ever have the right. Her skin tingled. “Well, which is it?”