Blackmailed by the Rich Man: In the Millionaire's Possession / Blackmailed Into Marriage / Bedded by Blackmail

Her nails dug painfully into the palms of her hands. ‘Maybe because I’m in love with you.’

‘Well, you’ve got a weird idea of what love’s about,’ Nigel commented sourly. ‘Frankly, I’m sick and tired of this ‘hands off till we’re married’ garbage. I’ve tried everything to get you into bed, but you’ve never wanted to know.’

She bit her lip. ‘I—I realise that now, and I—I’m sorry.’ She looked at him pleadingly. ‘I thought you were prepared to wait too.’

‘No,’ he said brutally. ‘Men only beg for so long, then they lose interest.’ He shook his head. ‘There’s only ever going to be one passion in your life, Helen, and that’s Monteagle. No guy stands a chance against a no-win obsession like that.’

She said carefully, ‘You mean—you don’t want me any more?’

He sighed. ‘Let’s be honest. It was a boy-girl thing at best, and it certainly didn’t make it into the grown-up world. Although I hope we can stay friends,’ he added hastily. ‘Face it, you’ve never been interested in sex—or even curious. A couple of kisses have always been enough for you. But now I’ve met someone with a bit of warmth about her and we’re getting married. I brought her down this weekend to meet my parents, so I really don’t need you ringing up every five minutes.’

‘I see.’ Helen swallowed. ‘You know, I had the strangest idea I was engaged to you myself.’

He shrugged. ‘I know we discussed it,’ he said awkwardly. ‘But there was nothing definite. For one thing, I’d have had a hell of a fight on with my parents.’

‘Oh, yes,’ Helen said unevenly. ‘I always knew they didn’t like me.’

‘It wasn’t that,’ he told her defensively. ‘They felt we were wrong for each other, that’s all. And they didn’t want me tipping everything I earned down that money pit of yours, either.’

He paused. ‘I have ambition, Helen, and I’m not ashamed of it. I want a wife who can help with my career—someone who likes entertaining and can provide the right ambience. Let’s face it, you’d hate that kind of life.’

The wind was cold suddenly—turning her to ice.

She said quietly, ‘And I haven’t any money—to make up for my other deficiencies. Isn’t that part of it?’

He gave her an irritated look. ‘Money matters. Are you pretending it doesn’t?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Particularly when I’ve just been turned down for my grant.’

‘Well, what did you expect? Clearly they don’t want to throw good money after bad,’ he said. ‘That’s not good business practice.’

She winced painfully. ‘Nigel,’ she said urgently, ‘I—I’m trying to save the home I love. I thought you might be able to suggest something—someone who could help. Who might be prepared to invest in the estate…’

‘This is a joke—right?’ His tone was derisive. ‘I suggest you look round for a rich husband—if you can find someone as frigid as you are yourself. And how likely is that?’

The pain was suddenly more than she could bear. She took a step towards him, lifting her hand, driven by a half-crazy need to wipe the sneer from his face.

Nigel retreated, throwing up an arm to ward her off, his smart brogues slipping suddenly in the mud created by the recent bad weather.

Helen saw his face change from alarm to fury as he overbalanced, teetering on the edge of the lake for a moment before he fell backwards into the water with a resounding splash.

He was on his feet instantly, dripping and crimson with rage. ‘Bitch,’ he shouted hoarsely, as Helen turned her back and began to walk, head bent, towards the house. ‘Bitch.’

She was trembling violently, her breathing an agony, every nerve in her body striving to continue putting one foot in front of another so that she could reach sanctuary before she fell on her knees and howled her hurt and misery to the sky.

She was too blinded by his cruelty even to see that someone was standing in front of her until she collided with a hard male body and recoiled with a cry.

‘Tais toi,’ Marc Delaroche said quietly. ‘Be calm.’ His arm round her was like iron, holding her up. ‘I have you safe. Now, walk with me to the house.’

And, too numb to resist, Helen could only obey.

CHAPTER FOUR

HE’D said ‘walk’, but Helen was dazedly aware she was being half-led, half-carried into the house. Warmth surrounded her, and a feeling of safety as its walls closed round her.

She heard Daisy’s shocked exclamation, and his quiet reply.

When she could think clearly again she found she was sitting on the sofa in the library, with a mug of strong, hot tea clasped in her icy hands.

Marc Delaroche was standing by the fireplace, an elbow resting on the mantelshelf, looking contemplatively into the blue flames of the small twig fire that she supposed he’d kindled in the grate.

He was wearing jeans and a matching blue shirt, its top buttons undone and the sleeves rolled back, revealing the shadowing of dark hair on his chest and forearms.

He turned his head slowly and met her accusing gaze.

She said huskily, ‘You knew, didn’t you? I mean about Nigel. Somehow, you knew.’

There was a pause, then reluctantly he nodded. ‘I regret, but, yes.’

‘And is that why you’re here—to gloat?’ She took a gulp of the scalding brew in her beaker.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Why should I do that?’

‘Who knows,’ she said, ‘why you do anything? Yet here you are—again.’

‘Among other things, I came to warn you. But I was too late.’

‘How can this be?’ Helen said, half to herself. ‘How can you have guessed that Nigel didn’t love me when I was still in the dark about it?’

He shrugged. ‘You were in the dark, ma mie, because you had closed your eyes to what was happening—perhaps deliberately. Also,’ he added, ‘I had an advantage, because you were not sitting in the window of the Martinique that day when your supposed fiancé arrived. He came by taxi, not alone, and his companion was most reluctant to let him go. That was how I came to notice him—because their leavetaking was quite a spectacle. Each time he tried to say au revoir she wound herself round him the more. She behaved with une ardeur etonnante,’ he added with a faint whistle. ‘I almost envied him.’

He paused. ‘And then I watched him join you at your table, and realised who he must be, and it was no longer so amusing.’

‘So you took pity on me,’ Helen said bitterly.

‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘But for a moment only. Because I could see that you were strong and would survive your disappointment.’

‘Disappointment?’ she echoed in angry incredulity. ‘My God, I’ve just been dumped by the man I’ve loved all my life. The only man I’ll ever love. And you talk about it as if it were a minor inconvenience.’

She paused. ‘Why didn’t you tell me there and then?’

‘Because I already knew that the committee’s decision would go against you,’ he said. ‘I did not wish to overburden you with bad news.’

‘So instead you let me stew in my fool’s paradise,’ she said. ‘Thank you so much.’

‘Shall we agree it was a no-win situation for us both?’ he suggested.

‘I don’t believe this,’ Helen said raggedly. ‘My life’s in ruins, I’m falling apart—and you sound so bloody casual.’

She gave him an inimical look. ‘And, for the record, there is no “both”. There’s myself alone, and no one else.’

‘Are you so sure of that?’

‘What are you saying? That he’ll dump this new lady too, and come back to me?’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. And do you know why that is, Monsieur Delaroche? It’s because I lack the necessary social skills. Also, I’m frigid—and she isn’t,’ she added, her voice cracking. Then stopped, horrified at what she’d let him see.

‘He told you that?’ Marc Delaroche raised his eyebrows. ‘But how can he possibly know?’

She stared at him in silence, almost paralysed with shame as she interpreted what he’d just said to her. Oh God, she thought, he—he knows I’m still a virgin. And I wish I’d died before he told me so.

But you were the one who told him, said a small cold voice in her head. You let it slip the last time he was here. And he said he’d be patient. How could you have forgotten that?

She’d tried to block out every detail of their previous encounter, but that was something she should have remembered. Because it spelled danger.

‘I understand now why you pushed him into the lake,’ Marc added.

‘I didn’t push him,’ Helen said icily. ‘He slipped.’

‘Quel dommage,’ he murmured. ‘And, no—he will certainly not come back,’ he went on calmly. ‘But for a reason far removed from the ones you have given.’

She said, ‘Oh?’ her voice wooden.

The dark eyes studied her. ‘He did not tell you, peut-être, the identity of his new fiancée? Then I shall. Her name is Amanda Clayburn.’

‘Clayburn?’ Helen repeated, bewildered. ‘You—you mean she’s related to Sir Donald Clayburn, the chairman of the bank?’

‘His only daughter.’ His grin was cynical. ‘Your Nigel is an ambitious man, ma mie. He has chosen money and the fast track to the boardroom.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. And, anyway, he doesn’t need to do that. He has money of his own.’

‘Which he prefers to keep, sans doute.’ He bent and added another handful of twigs to the fire. ‘But it is all true. I have a colleague with contacts at the bank, and he informs me their affaire has been an open secret for weeks. She is wild and spoiled, this Amanda, and her father, they say, is glad she is marrying before she disgraces him openly.’

‘Obviously a marriage made in heaven.’ The words cut at her, but she refused to wince. Instead, she threw back her head. ‘Monteagle and Nigel—the two things I care most about in the world—I’ve lost them both.’

‘I notice,’ he said, ‘you place the house before your fiancé.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Nigel said that too. He said that because of Monteagle I would never be capable of loving anyone properly. All in all, it was a pretty comprehensive condemnation. And do you know the worst of it, Monsieur Delaroche? You—you were here to watch it happening.’ She almost choked on the words. ‘You—of all the people in the world. You’re like some terrible jinx—do you know that?—because each time you appear in my life, everything goes wrong.’

She punched her fist into the palm of her other hand. ‘Well, you’ve had your fun, monsieur, if that’s what you came for, so now you can go. I need to be on my own. Even you should be able to appreciate that,’ she added burningly.

His own glance was cool. ‘You have a strange idea of how I choose to amuse myself, ma chère,’ he drawled. ‘And, although I am desolate to grieve you further, I must tell you I have no intention of leaving yet. Because I came not just to warn you, but also to offer my help.’

‘Oh, of course,’ she said. ‘You spoke up for me at the committee—you and your Dutch colleague. I—I suppose I should thank you.’

‘If we had succeeded, perhaps,’ he said. ‘But as matters stand I do not expect you to torture yourself with an attempt to be grateful.’

‘But why should you do that?’ she asked. ‘When you knew what the verdict would be? You don’t look like someone who supports lost causes.’

He shrugged. ‘Perhaps I felt you did not deserve to lose yet again.’ He gave her a measured look. ‘So—what do you plan to do now? Will you take advantage of Monsieur Newson’s offer—if it still stands?’

‘I’d rather burn the place to the ground.’

‘The insurance company might find that suspicious,’ he murmured.

‘Probably—if we were insured,’ Helen said shortly, and for the first time saw him look taken aback.

‘You like to take risks,’ he said.

‘Sometimes I don’t have a choice in the matter. I found my grandfather had let the premiums lapse.’ She drank the rest of her tea and put down the mug. ‘And now please leave. I’ve answered enough questions, and you have no further excuse to be here.’

‘Except my own inclination,’ he told her brusquely. ‘And I ask again—what will you do next?’

‘I shall open the house up for visitors, as I do every Saturday.’ Her smile was swift and hard as she rose to her feet.

‘I think no one would blame you if, for once, the house remained shut.’

‘I’d blame myself,’ she said. ‘Because Monteagle needs every penny I can earn. And, anyway, I’d rather have something to do.’ She paused. ‘Please don’t feel you have to take the tour again, or pay any more visits here,’ she added pointedly. ‘I’m sure you have places to go and people to see, so let’s both of us get on with our lives. Shall we?’

But he ignored that. ‘Is that truly how you see your future?’ His brows lifted. ‘Welcoming crowds of the curious and the bored pour toujours? Serving them tea?’

She met his gaze. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘If I have to. I told you—I’ll do anything to save Monteagle.’

‘Will you?’ he asked softly. ‘I wonder, ma mie. I very much wonder. For example, will you have dinner with me this evening?’

Her lips parted in sheer astonishment. She said unevenly, ‘My God, you never give up, do you? Do you think I’m in any mood to listen to another of your insensitive—tasteless invitations? Can’t you understand that I’ve just lost the man I love?’

‘You are planning to starve to death as an act of revenge?’ He had the gall to sound faintly amused.

‘No,’ Helen said stormily. ‘But I’d rather die than have dinner with you.’

He was laughing openly now, to her fury. ‘A fate worse than death, ma belle? I always thought that involved far more than simply sharing a meal.’

She marched to the door and held it open. ‘Just get out of my house and don’t come back.’

‘Your house,’ Marc said softly, unmoved and unmoving. ‘And how much longer will you be able to call it that, unless you find financial support—and quickly? You said you would do anything to save Monteagle. So, can you afford to reject my offer of assistance unheard?’

There was silence in the room, broken only by the crackle of the burning wood and the swift flurry of her own ragged breathing.

She felt like a small animal, caught in the headlights of an approaching juggernaut. Only she’d been trapped, instead, by her own words, she realised bitterly.

She said thickly, ‘What—kind of help?’

‘We will not discuss that now. Your mood is hardly—receptive. Also,’ he added silkily, ‘you have work to do. We will speak again later.’

He walked past her and she shrank backwards, flattening herself against the thick wooden door as she remembered, only too well, his last leavetaking. The hardness of his body against hers. The touch—the taste of his mouth.

He favoured her with a brief, sardonic smile. À tout à l’heure!’ he told her quietly, and then he was gone.

Did you take an order from the people in the far corner, Miss Helen?’ asked Daisy, entering the kitchen with a stacked tray of dirty dishes. ‘Because they’re playing up at having to wait.’

Helen, lost in thought at the sink, started guiltily. ‘Oh, Lord,’ she muttered. ‘I forgot all about them. I’ll serve them next,’ she added hurriedly, collecting one of the larger teapots from the shelf.

‘Your mind’s not on it today, and no wonder. You should have gone for a nice lie-down in your room,’ Daisy said severely. ‘I’d have got George to do the waiting on.’

‘I’m fine,’ Helen said untruthfully. ‘And I really prefer to be busy,’ she added placatingly.

Daisy sniffed. ‘There’s busy and busy,’ she said. ‘You’ve just put cream in the sugar basin.’

Swearing under her breath, Helen relaid the tray and carried it out into the sunshine.

Once again she’d been astonished at the number of visitors, but they hadn’t been as easy to handle as last week’s selection.

‘You don’t see much for your money,’ one man had complained.

‘We’re hoping to extend the tour to other rooms in the house quite soon,’ Helen had explained, but he’d glared at her.

‘Well, that’s no good to me,’ he’d said. ‘I’ve already paid.’

And a large family party had demanded why there were no games machines for kiddies, or even a playground, and why they couldn’t play football in an adjoining field.

‘Because my tenant wouldn’t like it,’ Helen had said, in a tone that brooked no further argument.

It had been an afternoon of moans and niggles, she thought wearily, and from the look of strained tolerance she’d glimpsed on Marion Lowell’s face at one point, she wasn’t the only sufferer.

Altogether, this was the day from hell, she thought. And she still couldn’t decide what to do about Marc Delaroche and his dinner invitation.

Instinct told her to refuse. Reason suggested that if Monteagle’s welfare was involved she should at least give him a hearing. But not over dinner, she thought. That was too much like a date rather than a business meeting.

‘And about time.’ Helen was greeted truculently by a red-haired woman as she reached the corner table and set down the heavy tray. She and her glum-looking husband peered suspiciously at the plates of scones and cakes. ‘Is this all we get? Aren’t there are any sandwiches? Ham would do. We’ve got a growing lad here.’

Growing outwards as well as upwards, Helen noticed with disfavour, as the child in question dug a podgy finger into the bowl of cream.

She said quietly, ‘I’m sorry, it’s a standard tea. But everything is home-made.’

The little boy glared at her. ‘Aren’t there any crisps? And where’s my drink?’

‘He doesn’t like tea,’ his mother explained in a tone that invited congratulation. ‘He wants orange squash.’

Helen repressed a sigh. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

Back in the kitchen, she halved oranges from the fruit bowl, squeezed out their juice, and put it in a glass with a pinch of sugar and some ice cubes.

Improvisation, she told herself with mild triumph as she took the drink outside.

‘What’s that?’ The boy stabbed an accusing finger at it. ‘I want a real drink. That’s got bits in it.’

‘They’re bits of orange—’ Helen began.

‘Yuck.’ The child’s face twisted into a grimace. ‘I’m not drinking that.’ And he picked up the glass and threw the contents at Helen, spattering her with the sticky juice.

She gasped and fell back, wiping her face with her hand, then felt hands grip her shoulders, putting her to one side.

‘Go and get clean,’ Marc directed quietly. ‘I will deal with this.’

She hadn’t even been aware of his approach. She wanted to tell him she could manage, but she wasn’t sure it was true.

She turned away, walking quickly back to the house, stripping off her ruined apron as she went, her colour rising as she became aware of sympathetic smiles and murmurs from other customers.

She looked back over her shoulder and saw Marc talking to the husband. Noticed the other man rise uncomfortably to his feet, his face sullen, gesturing to his family to follow.

When she reached the kitchen she found Lottie waiting, her face grave and troubled. ‘Honey,’ she said, ‘I’m so sorry.’

Helen bit her lip. ‘I see you’ve heard the news.’ She ran cold water into a bowl and put her stained apron to soak.

Lottie nodded unhappily. ‘It’s all round the village. I still can’t quite believe it.’

‘It’s perfectly true.’ Helen lifted her chin. ‘Nigel is being splendidly conventional and marrying his boss’s daughter. I haven’t worked out yet whether he ever meant to tell me to my face, or if he hoped I’d simply—fade away and save him the trouble.’

‘Bastard,’ said Lottie, with some force. ‘But it certainly explains the special buffet episode.’ She snorted. ‘Well, I’ve rung his poisonous mother and told her to find another caterer.’

Helen smiled wanly. ‘It’s a lovely thought,’ she said. ‘But it’s also the kind of gesture you can’t afford any more than I could.’ She glanced round her. ‘Where’s Daisy?’

‘She said she had something to do upstairs and that she’d ask Mrs Lowell to collect the tea money. She probably thought we’d want to talk in private.’

‘I don’t think I have much privacy left,’ Helen said ruefully. ‘Not if the whole village knows.’ She paused. ‘I also found out this morning that I’d been turned down for that grant.’

‘Oh, no,’ Lottie groaned. ‘That’s really evil timing.’ She gave Helen a compassionate look. ‘Well—they say bad luck comes in threes, so let’s hope your final misfortune is a minor one.’

Helen bit her lip as she refilled the kettle and set it to boil. ‘No such luck, I’m afraid. It’s happened—and it’s another disaster.’

Lottie whistled. ‘Tell me something—is there some gruesome family curse hanging over the Fraynes that you’ve never thought to mention?’

‘If only.’ Helen grinned faintly. ‘Good business, a family curse. I’d have given it a whole page in the guidebook.’

Lottie started to laugh, and then, as if some switch had been operated, the amusement was wiped from her face, to be replaced by astonishment bordering on awe.

Helen turned quickly and saw Marc in the doorway, completely at his ease, arms folded across his chest and one shoulder propped nonchalantly against the frame.

He said, ‘Je suis désolè. I am intruding.’

‘No,’ Lottie denied with something of a gulp, getting quickly to her feet. ‘No, of course not. I’m Charlotte Davis—Lottie—a friend of Helen’s from the village.’

He sent her a pleasant smile. ‘Enchanté, mademoiselle. And I am Marc Delaroche—à votre service.’

To her eternal credit, Lottie didn’t allow herself even a flicker of recognition.

Helen swallowed. ‘What—what did you say to those people just now?’ she asked a little breathlessly.

‘I suggested only that they might prefer the Monteagle Arms. They accepted my advice.’ He walked across to the table and put down some money. ‘They also paid,’ he added laconically. He paused. ‘Tell me, ma mie, are many of your customers like that?’

‘Not usually.’ She went over to the stove and busied herself with the kettle. ‘I’m just having a generally bad day, I think.’ She hesitated. ‘Would you like some coffee?’ she offered unwillingly—as he instantly detected.

‘Merci.’ He slanted a faint grin at her. ‘But I will leave you to talk in peace to your friend.’ He added softly, ‘I came only to say that I have reserved a table for eight o’clock at the Oxbow. I hope you will feel able to join me.’

He gave them both a slight bow and walked back into the sunshine, leaving a tingling silence behind him.

It was broken at last by Lottie. ‘Wow,’ she said reverently. ‘Don’t pretend even for a moment that he’s your third disaster.’

‘Oh, you’re as bad as Mrs Lowell,’ Helen said crossly, aware that her face had warmed. ‘She was rhapsodising about him last week.’

‘You mean this is his second visit?’ Lottie’s brows shot sky-wards. ‘Better and better.’ She eyed Helen. ‘So, what are you going to wear tonight?’

‘Nothing!’

Lottie grinned wickedly. ‘Well, it would certainly save him time and effort,’ she said. ‘But a little obvious for a first date, don’t you think?’

Helen’s colour deepened hectically. ‘I didn’t mean that—as you well know,’ she said, carrying the coffee back to the table. ‘And it’s not a date. In fact, I have no intention of having dinner with Monsieur Delaroche—tonight or any other time.’

‘Nonsense,’ Lottie said briskly. ‘Of course you’re going. Why not?’

Helen sank limply on to the nearest chair. ‘You seem to have forgotten about Nigel.’

‘Unfortunately, no,’ said Lottie. ‘But I’m working on it, and so should you.’ She gave Helen’s arm a quick squeeze. ‘And what more could you ask than for a seriously attractive man to wine and dine you?’

‘You really think that a meal at the Oxbow could console me in any way for Nigel?’ Helen shook her head. ‘Lottie—I’m really hurting. He’s always been part of my life—and now he’s gone.’

‘Helen—be honest. You had a crush on him when you were thirteen and decided he was the man of your dreams. He went along with it for a while, but he’s spent less and less time here for over a year now. Some love affair.’