Love's Price

9781626757271

PROLOGUE

Farnsborough, England, 1810...

What are you saying exactly?

On hearing the question, Miss Peabody stared across her desk at twin students, Helen and Harriet Stewart. The two sisters had attended her school since they were small girls, so she supposed she ought to have felt some sympathy over what she was about to do, but she had a profitable business to run.

The facility wasn’t an aid society for paupers.

She was a tad anxious about the information she had to impart, but she kept her expression carefully blank. It was the aspect of her position she most loathed, dealing with the family dramas that clouded the lives of her pupils.

As headmistress, she had a duty to break bad news from home, and there was no easy way to convey catastrophe. A clean, brisk airing of the facts was always best.

"I’m saying, Miss Peabody replied, that you won’t be able to continue your education here."

Helen frowned, gaping at Miss Peabody as if she’d spoken in a foreign language.

Why?

Because neither your tuition nor your room and board has been paid in over a year. As I’ve often explained, we don’t accept charity cases. You’re aware of the rules.

Grandfather would have paid, Helen loyally declared, if he hadn’t been so sick all those months before he passed away. He probably didn’t realize the money was owed.

Perhaps, Miss Peabody allowed, but he didn’t pay, so the issue is moot.

You know that we’re waiting for Grandfather’s will to be read and probated. The bank draft should arrive any day.

"The will has been read," Miss Peabody tersely announced.

And...?

You have no inheritance.

Harriet gasped. Grandfather didn’t provide for us?

No.

He swore he would. Last time I talked to him, he swore it to me.

Apparently—Miss Peabody shrugged—he forgot to make the necessary changes to the document.

But our Uncle Richard will be happy to—

I have corresponded with your uncle. He declines to cover the fees for the coming term, much less the arrears.

Why would he do that to us?

I’m not a clairvoyant, Miss Stewart. I couldn’t begin to guess.

While she pretended lack of knowledge, Miss Peabody knew the reason. She wasn’t surprised by Richard Stewart’s decision, but it irked her that she had to be dragged to the precipice of a conversation she was determined not to have.

For pity’s sake, Helen and Harriet were sixteen years old. Their mother had died when they were babies, and at the earliest opportunity, they’d been shipped off to Miss Peabody’s school. They’d never been invited home for Christmas or summer holidays, had never received familial visitors but for the annual trek made by their grandfather.

Surely they understood why their relatives had always ignored them, why their kin had forsaken them. Why should it be Miss Peabody’s job to shatter their illusions?

Are we to go to Brookhaven then? Helen asked. Brookhaven was the Stewart estate.

I don’t believe so.

"What are we to do? Harriet queried. What has our uncle instructed?"

He has written you a letter.

Miss Peabody had peeked at it, and she’d been disturbed by its cold tone. Though she could be ruthless herself when the situation called for it, the content was unduly harsh.

She retrieved the letter and handed it to Helen, watching silently as Helen perused it. Soon, Helen scowled, evidence that she hadn’t had a clue as to the truth.

What does he say? Harriet leaned toward her sister, trying to read over Helen’s shoulder.

He says we’re not welcome at Brookhaven.

Not welcome? Harriet was aghast. But why?

He suggests that we travel to London and throw ourselves on the mercy of the...the...Earl of Trent?

Why would we do that?

He claims Lord Trent is our father.

That’s preposterous, Harriet protested. Our father was a gentleman farmer.

Uncle Richard insists not. He maintains that it’s time for Lord Trent to support us—rather than the Stewarts.

So, Miss Peabody mused, they didn’t know. No one had ever told them.

Both girls turned to Miss Peabody, their identical gazes dismayed and perplexed. With their striking emerald eyes and golden blond hair—hair that was the color of ripened wheat—they were very beautiful, and purportedly, the spitting image of their aristocratic sire.

And of course, they possessed the birthmark just above their left wrists that was in the shape of a figure-eight. It was referred to as the Mark of Trent and cited as proof of paternity by his cast-off children.

Lord Trent was England’s most notorious roué, and it was impossible to count how many women he had seduced.

As a young debutante, the twins’ long-deceased mother had succumbed to his charms, and now—all these years later—her sins were coming home to roost. Helen and Harriet would bear the brunt of her folly.

Since we can’t go to Brookhaven, Helen said, may we stay here?

No.

Where are we to go?

You should follow your uncle’s advice, Miss Peabody responded, and contact Lord Trent. What other option do you have?

Are you mad? Harriet rudely snapped. Can you actually expect us to tot off to London and knock on the door of a strange nobleman we’ve never met?

Don’t take that attitude with me, Harriet.

You never liked us, Harriet charged, leaping to her feet and pointing an accusing finger. You’re being deliberately cruel.

Sit down. We will discuss this calmly, or we won’t discuss it at all.

Harriet appeared eager to quarrel, but Helen grabbed her arm and tugged her to her seat. Harriet was hot-headed, volatile, and prone to trouble. Helen was the peacemaker of the two, the pragmatic sister, the sensible sister.

Is my uncle’s revelation true? Helen asked. Is Lord Trent our father?

It has been the rumor, Miss Peabody said.

Why didn’t you tell us?

It was hardly up to me to inform you.

No, I suppose not.

Helen peered at her lap, thinking and pondering, while Harriet fidgeted.

What would you recommend? Helen ultimately inquired. If you were in our shoes, what would you do?

I’d probably go to Lord Trent.

And if we don’t wish to? What then?

You might stop at the rectory and talk to the vicar. He might help you to locate a position.

A...a...position! Harriet sputtered. Doing what?

Helen shushed her and pressed, If we don’t want to do that either?

Then...I haven’t the foggiest idea what will become of you.

May we remain here briefly—to plan and regroup?

I’m afraid not. While we were chatting, your bags were packed. They’re in the front foyer. I’d appreciate it if you’d leave before the other students return from their walk. I won’t have a big fuss made over your departure.

The callous comment set a spark to Harriet’s temper. She jumped up again. You old witch! You’ve never—

That’s enough! Miss Peabody seethed. I’ve been more than patient, but your tenure at my school is ended. I bid you good day.

For a moment, Helen stared and fumed, then she stood and took her sister’s hand.

Come, Harriet, let’s go.

Helen, don’t let her get away with this. There must be something we can do.

Helen glanced over, searching Miss Peabody’s gaze, finding naught but firm resolve.

No, Helen said, there’s nothing we can do. Let’s go!

Without another word, and no murmur of farewell, Helen spun and led her furious sister from the room.

CHAPTER ONE

London, May, four years later...

We won’t be hiring a companion for me after all.

Helen Stewart stared at Miss Miranda Wilson, the woman seated across from her, and she forced a smile.

I see.

We appreciate your coming by for an interview.

It was my pleasure, Helen lied. If you change your mind, please contact my employment service.

We won’t change our mind. Now...if you’ll excuse me?

Miss Wilson stood, signaling that the appointment was concluded, so Helen stood, too.

Are you sure I shouldn’t speak with Lord Westwood? Helen asked. He’s the one who contacted Mrs. Ford and requested she send someone over.

Lord Westwood is busy. He instructed me to deal with this matter for him.

Well then...thank you.

You’re welcome.

Helen studied Miss Wilson. She was a tad younger than Helen’s age of twenty, and she was petite with light brown hair and pretty gray eyes. At first glance, she looked pert and amiable, with a turned-up nose and dimples on her cheeks. But on closer inspection, there was a brittleness about her that had Helen breathing a sigh of relief that the job was being withdrawn.

Miss Wilson was Lord Westwood’s cousin and ward, betrothed to his brother whom she was scheduled to marry at a grand wedding in the fall. In the months leading up to the ceremony, Helen would have attended Miss Wilson’s every fickle whim, and it was obvious that they would have been dreary months indeed.

Miss Wilson was the type who would have constantly nagged and complained, but Lord Westwood was offering a good salary, so Helen had been tempted by the lure of extra money.

Harriet was in trouble again, working as a servant in a house where the owner was rumored to ravish the maids, and Helen was determined to rescue Harriet from the dire situation. Helen would do anything to keep her sister safe, so she could have struggled through with Miss Wilson, but apparently, it wasn’t meant to be.

Miss Wilson didn’t want a companion. Or if she did, she didn’t want it to be Helen, which was fine by Helen.

Experience had proven that Helen was tough, shrewd, and capable, but she was weary of fighting just to get by. From the moment she’d walked out of Miss Peabody’s school, she’d suffered at the hands of numerous despicable bosses, their groping husbands, leering sons, or finicky daughters.

Due to Helen’s stellar education, she had been luckier than most in landing posts as a governess or lady’s companion, but she had to grovel and obey, had to tolerate every consequence—regardless of how unfair. The slightest slip of the tongue could pitch her out into the streets where there was a distinct probability she might starve.

There were simply too many poor, desperate women in London trying to eek out a living, and she didn’t plan to become one of them.

Shall I call the butler to show you out? Miss Wilson inquired.

There’s no need to bother him. I can find my own way.

Miss Wilson flashed a cool, patronizing smile, and Helen left, but it was swiftly evident that she should have had the butler summoned.

She’d met with Miss Wilson in an upstairs parlor, and it had seemed a straight route to the foyer, but she made several wrong turns and wound up in an unfamiliar corridor, which was unnerving.

If she was observed in a deserted wing of the mansion, unescorted and with no reason for her presence, she’d be accused of mischief, of larceny or spying, when she couldn’t be caught in an impropriety. Since she labored for the wealthy and aristocratic, her ability to maintain employment depended on her reputation, and she couldn’t afford the least ethical mishap.

Hoping to locate a staircase, she started down a hallway when she realized she could hear male laughter emanating from one of the rooms. It sounded as if a party was in progress—in the middle of the afternoon—and she bit down a groan.

She absolutely could not be spotted by a crowd of men! It was foolish as well as dangerous, but she couldn’t risk going back the way she’d come. There was no option but to brazen it out, and she tiptoed toward the chamber, anxious to flit by undetected.

As she approached, the noise grew louder. Glasses clinked, and a sharp bark of surprise rang out, followed by curses and grumbles.

She slowed, sneaking up to the open door, and as she neared, she couldn’t help but peek inside. A dozen men were playing cards, drinking, and smoking cigars. Coats and cravats had been removed, sleeves were rolled back.

In the center of the table, she could see a huge pile of money and some jewelry, an indication that they were gambling—and for high stakes—and the spectacle shocked her.

At that very instant, Miss Wilson was in residence. How dare they imperil her reputation with such an inappropriate activity! Did the earl know what was transpiring? Was he complicit?

He had to be.

Miss Wilson had claimed Lord Westwood was too busy to conduct Helen’s interview. Was this why? Was he wagering?

Helen scanned the group, curious as to which fellow he was. The fat one in the corner? The bald one on the sofa? The swaying drunk over by the hearth? What sort of dissolute wretch was he?

Before Helen had traveled to the failed appointment, Mrs. Ford at the employment agency had mentioned vague gossip about Lord Westwood, but she had personally vouched for him, insisting he was an honorable gentleman. She’d asked Helen to ignore any stories, which Helen had been happy to do.

From her time spent in noble households, she’d learned that appearances could be deceiving, that tales could spread on the flimsiest of facts, but she couldn’t refuse to accept what was occurring right in front of her.

She’d just remembered to hurry on, when she noticed that one of the men was watching her.

He was off to the side of the merriment, slouched in a chair and looking very bored. Absently, he shuffled a deck of cards, his slender fingers elegant and mesmerizing.

With his black hair and wide shoulders, his lean face and generous mouth, he was incredibly handsome.

He picked up a glass of liquor and sipped at it, staring at her over the rim, so she could see he had blue, blue eyes. She felt as if she was drowning in them, as if they could swallow her alive. She was spellbound, their visual connection almost tangible.

As if they shared a private joke, a decadent, seductive grin curved his lips then—with the grace of a lazy cat—he rose to his feet. He was fit and tall, well over six feet, with a broad chest, flat waist, and long legs, and before she grasped his intent, he headed directly toward her.

With a whimper of alarm, she stumbled away and fled. Behind her, she heard him say, Gentlemen, I believe she’s arrived.

Hoots and jeers wafted out, and one retorted, Now the party can begin in earnest.

Yes, it can.

There was more laughter, but it faded as she flew down one staircase, then another. Finally, the foyer was in view, and she lurched to a halt, her heart pounding as she searched for a servant to assist her.

She had to retrieve her cloak, but had no idea where it was. Though she was desperate to be away, she didn’t have the coin to purchase a new one, so she couldn’t go without it. Eventually, a footman appeared and brought it to her. As he vanished, she slipped it on and was raising the hood when a pair of strong arms wrapped around her from behind, and she was caught in a viselike grip.

I wondered where you went, a rich baritone whispered in her ear. You minx! I chased you across half the house.

Ah! she shrieked, struggling to escape, but he merely tightened his hold.

Are you leaving? Why? Didn’t you like the looks of the guests? They’re actually quite harmless.

Let me go, she hissed through clenched teeth.

There’s no need to be coy, he insisted. We’re all adults, and I’ve offered you plenty to entertain us. Or are you planning to demand more?

Let me go!

He leaned in, and she could feel his entire torso pressed to her backside, but though she fought mightily, she couldn’t put any space between them.

For pity’s sake, was she about to be ravaged in the earl’s vestibule? How had she landed in such a predicament?

He nuzzled her nape as he pushed down the hood of her cloak to reveal her golden-blond hair. She had it pulled into a neat chignon, and he rubbed his cheek against it.

Your hair is the most fascinating color, he absurdly said. I can’t wait to see it flowing down your back.

The remark was too outrageous to be borne, and she stomped on his foot as hard as she could.

Ow! he grouched as he released her.

She staggered away and whirled to find him towering over her.

Are you insane? she seethed.

"What? I compliment your pretty features. I’m prepared to forfeit a small fortune for your services, yet you attack me as if I’ve offended you. And you call me insane?"

You couldn’t pay me to remain here another second.

He studied her, his gaze narrowing at her criticism.

I don’t understand you.

Why? Because I don’t choose to be mauled and abused?

Abused!

Yes. How dare you grope me! And right in the foyer, too. What if Miss Wilson had observed you? How would you explain your behavior?

"Miss Wilson? You mean Miranda? Why on earth would she be any of your concern?"

Helen gasped. In residing with the earl, what antics were Miss Wilson forced to endure? Clearly, Mrs. Ford had been wrong, and the rumors were true: Westwood was a fiend.

If your conduct is any sign, Helen huffed, of what’s allowed in this house, I feel very sorry for the young lady in question.

She spun and marched to the door as he snapped, Where are you going?

Isn’t it obvious? She glared over her shoulder. I’m leaving.

You are not.

I am, and you can’t stop me.

He seemed greatly confused. I told Monique to send me her most experienced girl. She assured me that you’d be amenable to whatever we wanted. Why are you acting this way?

Monique? Who is Monique?

Don’t you know the name of your own madam?

My madam!

He paused, scowling. Aren’t you from the brothel?

Helen was surprised she didn’t faint. You think I’m a...a...

You’re not a prostitute?

In the past four years, she’d suffered many heinous indignities. She’d been bullied and pressured and intimidated, but she couldn’t remember ever having been quite so insulted.

A rush of unwanted, stupid tears flooded her eyes.

You’re Lord Westwood, aren’t you? she inquired, realization dawning.

Yes.

Gad! How pathetically eager she’d been to gain a position in his disreputable abode! How lucky she was that Miss Wilson hadn’t liked her! Praise the Lord for small favors!

Well, milord, she said, giving him the fleetest curtsy in history, I can smell alcohol on your breath, so I will tell myself that your rudeness is merely due to overindulgence.

His devilish grin appeared, making him look wicked and dangerous. Are you calling me a drunkard?

I would never presume to comment on your personal habits.

Really? It certainly seems as if you just did.

Which is inexcusable of me, and I humbly apologize—she almost choked on the falsehood—but no decent female should have to tolerate such disrespect.

Decent! What the hell are you talking about?

Mrs. Ford only provides the very best candidates. Were I you, I wouldn’t expect her to further aid you in your search. Goodbye.

Who is Mrs. Ford?

She started out, and he asked again, Mrs. Ford? Is that the woman from the employment agency?

Helen was on the stoop and hurrying down the wide steps to the bricked drive.

Hold it right there! he commanded with such authority that it wasn’t possible to refuse him. She whipped around.

He was up above her, framed in the ornate double doors, marble columns on either side, while she was far below him and staring up. With his coat off, his shirt undone, his black hair mussed, he might have been a magnificent, disheveled god, and she was overwhelmed by the sense that she’d dodged a near-fatal blow.

What? she demanded when he didn’t speak.

By any chance are you a...lady’s companion?

Yes.

Two slashes of chagrin darkened his cheeks. His masculine gaze drifted down her body as he assessed her conservative attire, and he smirked with distaste.

I should have guessed by the gray dress.

Yes, you should have.

Come back inside. He gestured into the foyer.

No.

You would disobey my direct order?

Yes.

At her rebuff, he was extremely perplexed, and he frowned.

You’re aware of who I am.

Unfortunately, yes.

Yet you would defy me anyway?

Yes.

Are you dimwitted or are you daft?

I’m neither. I simply don’t like you, and as I’ve been gravely offended and I never intend to see you again, there’s no reason for me to be civil.

Have you any notion of the power I can wield? You sassy little jade, I could do anything to you.

You don’t scare me.

I don’t? He actually chuckled. What is your name?

It’s none of your business.

But Mrs. Ford sent you?

Yes, to my ultimate regret.

Dammit, he muttered.

She turned and ran.

CHAPTER TWO

Miss Stewart will be perfect for you.

I agree.

James Harcourt, Earl of Westwood, smiled across the desk at Mrs. Ford. She preened under his avid scrutiny.

I apologize for the misunderstanding, she said.

Think nothing of it.

Miss Stewart is typically very mild-mannered. I don’t know what came over her.

Women are often flustered around me. I seem to have a disturbing effect on them.

He graced her with another smile, and she giggled like a schoolgirl, but quickly, she regrouped and composed her features.

Footsteps sounded in the hall, and shortly, the elusive Miss Stewart walked in.

Here she is now, Mrs. Ford beamed.

James stood and bowed. Hello, Miss Stewart. We meet again.

On seeing him, Miss Stewart stumbled to a halt, appearing so disconcerted that he wondered if she might faint.

Sit, Helen, sit. Mrs. Ford gestured to a chair.

Miss Stewart glared at James, then the door, then James again, anxious to stomp out, but she didn’t dare.

James had already coaxed Mrs. Ford into revealing that Miss Stewart’s previous post had ended, so she was unemployed and in immediate need of income. The impertinent vixen wouldn’t be able to refuse him.

She slid into the chair Mrs. Ford had indicated, but she perched on the edge as if—with the slightest provocation—she would leap up and race out.

You remember Lord Westwood, don’t you, Helen? Mrs. Ford asked.

Yes, I remember him. If looks could have killed, he’d have been dead a hundred times over.

I have the most marvelous news, Mrs. Ford gushed.

What is it? Miss Stewart grumbled.

After your interview yesterday, Lord Westwood was so delighted that he called on me personally to let me know that he’s giving you the job.

I don’t want it!

At the vehement declaration, Mrs. Ford was taken aback. Scowling, she shifted in her seat and cleared her throat.

"Nonsense, dear. Of course you want it."

Miss Stewart counted his sins on her fingertips. His ward hates me. He has friends over who gamble for high stakes. He laid his hands on me, because he assumed I was a...a...—she leaned nearer to Mrs. Ford and whispered—"prostitute he’d ordered from a brothel."

A minor mistake, I assure you. Mrs. Ford made a wiggling motion with her wrist, dispatching James’s horrid gaffe with a wave. Lord Westwood has explained everything.

Has he!

Miss Stewart glowered at him, her striking emerald eyes narrowed with disgust. It was obvious she didn’t like him, and he was fascinated by her disregard.

Women loved him. They were desperate to please him. They never told him no.

From his earliest memories as a tiny boy with his first nanny, he’d always gotten his way, and in the intervening decades, nothing had changed. With his being a thirty-year-old nobleman, the most beautiful females in the kingdom wrangled to be his paramour. The wives of acquaintances pleaded for trysts. Mothers of debutantes tried to lure him into marital traps baited with their innocent daughters.

Only Miss Stewart seemed immune, and he was greatly humored by her obstinacy. If she hadn’t been so violently opposed to working for him, he wouldn’t have given her a second thought, but when she was so adamant, how could he fail to insist?

Besides, he had to hire someone to fuss with Miranda. Why not the intriguing, stunning, and amusing Miss Stewart? His home would never be dull with her in it.

Miranda had come to town uninvited, claiming she’d intended to visit his brother, Tristan, but she was aware that Tristan was gone. He was a ship’s captain, and he’d sailed a few days prior, so James didn’t know what game she was playing. Nor did he care.

He simply wanted her out of his hair, but he couldn’t kick her out on the street. At the same juncture, he couldn’t have her alone and unchaperoned at the house. He was a renowned scoundrel, and every bit of his low reputation was deserved, so she had to have a companion.

Miss Stewart would do nicely, and he would receive the added benefit of proving to her that he could act however he chose. The previous afternoon, as she’d insulted him in his own driveway, she hadn’t comprehended that he could be an absolute beast—and she was powerless to stop him.

I trust this matter is settled to everyone’s satisfaction? he said, standing. May we go?

Go! Miss Stewart hissed. Go where?

Why...to my home. Where would you suppose?

I’m not going anywhere with you. I’d rather live in a haystack.

Miss Stewart! Mrs. Ford scolded, and she peered over at James. I beg your pardon Lord Westwood. As I mentioned, Miss Stewart is usually so good-natured.

It’s quite all right, he amiably stated. This is all happening a tad fast. She’ll adapt swiftly enough; she’ll be fine.

He glanced over, tickled to note that, when Mrs. Ford had summoned her, she hadn’t had time to put up her hair. The golden locks flowed down her back, restrained with a single green ribbon that matched her emerald eyes.

The lengthy tresses were the oddest shade, not blond and not brown, but somewhere in between. He’d never seen hair like it, and he decided that—so long as she was employed by him—he wouldn’t let her hide it.

She was petite and slender, willowy and lithe, yet she was curved and shapely, so he wasn’t surprised to find himself evaluating her in a thoroughly masculine fashion. He was only human after all, and he wouldn’t ignore the fact that she was very pretty or that he enjoyed looking at her.

May I ask what is happening? Miss Stewart demanded, her rage barely contained.

Isn’t it obvious? he replied. I’ve hired you to be a companion to my ward.

You better not have. She whipped her hot gaze to Mrs. Ford. Tell me it isn’t true.

Oh, but it is, Mrs. Ford confirmed, and I couldn’t have found you a more prominent position. I’m thrilled to provide Lord Westwood with one of my best girls.

Best girls indeed, she fumed. "I know what kind of girl he wants, and it’s definitely not a lady’s companion."

Miss Stewart—Mrs. Ford had a steely tone in her voice—"you’ve insulted the earl several times now, and I command you to desist