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

In a perverse way she hoped it wasn’t Nigel, because she knew what she looked like in old jeans, with a polo shirt sticking damply to her body and her hair bundled into an untidy knot on top of her head and secured by a silver clip, and knew that he disliked seeing her like that.

But, no matter who was waiting for her, she owed it to herself and no one else to make herself slightly more presentable, even if it was only a matter of washing her face and hands and tidying her hair.

She supposed reluctantly that she’d better sneak in through the kitchen and go up the back stairs to her room.

But he’d forestalled her—the intruder—because he was already there in the kitchen, sitting at the table and tucking into a bacon sandwich with total relish while Daisy fussed round him, filling his cup with more coffee.

Helen halted abruptly. ‘What are you doing here?’ She heard the note of aggression in her voice and saw Daisy glance at her, her lips pursed.

Marc Delaroche got to his feet. In casual khaki pants and a short-sleeved black shirt, he looked less of a business tycoon and more of a tough from the back streets of Marseilles.

‘As you see, mademoiselle, I am having some breakfast.’ He slanted a smile at Daisy. ‘Your housekeeper is an angel who has taken pity on me.’

Helen forced herself to amend her tone slightly. ‘I meant surely you saw everything you needed to yesterday, so why are you still around?’ She pushed a dusty strand of hair back from her face. ‘After all, a village is hardly your kind of place.’

‘I still had some unfinished business here,’ he said softly. ‘So I decided to spend the night at the Monteagle Arms.’

She raised her brows. ‘They don’t do breakfast?’

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘But after the dinner they served last night I was not tempted to try the petit dejeuner.’ He gestured at his plate. ‘May I continue?’

‘Coffee, Miss Helen?’ Daisy placed another mug on the table and waited, coffeepot poised, her expression indicating that her employer had breached quite enough of the laws of hospitality already.

‘Please.’ Helen gave her a swift conciliatory smile, and subsided unwillingly on to the chair opposite him.

She was bitterly aware that she’d neglected to put on a bra that morning—a fact that would not be lost on her unwanted guest, she thought angrily, burning her mouth on an unwary gulp of coffee.

‘You mentioned unfinished business?’ she said after a pause. ‘I presume it’s something to do with the house?’ She forced a smile. ‘After all, why else would you be here?’

‘Why indeed?’ he agreed cordially.

‘So…’ Helen gestured awkwardly. ‘If I can help…?’

‘I was not able to see all the rooms in the house during the tour yesterday, because your charming guide told me they are the private living quarters of yourself and your staff.’ Marc Delaroche paused. ‘Perhaps you could show them to me presently?’

Helen put down her mug. ‘Is that strictly necessary?’

‘It is,’ he said. ‘Or I would not have asked. Your application to the committee covered the entire building, not merely selected sections, as I am sure you understand. And your accommodation includes rooms of historic importance—the library, I believe, and the Long Gallery, and also the State Bedroom.’ He gave her an enquiring look. ‘Is that where you sleep, perhaps?’ He added gently, ‘I hope you do not find the question indelicate.’

‘I have never slept there,’ Helen said coldly. ‘It was last occupied by my grandfather, and I wasn’t planning to make it available to the public.’

‘Even though one of your kings used it for a romantic rendezvous? Charles the First, I think?’

‘Charles the Second,’ Helen corrected. ‘He’s supposed to have come here to seduce the daughter of the house, who’d fled from court to escape him.’

His brows lifted. ‘And did he succeed in his quest?’

‘I haven’t the faintest idea,’ Helen said shortly. ‘And, anyway, it’s just a legend. I don’t believe a word of it even though I was named after her!’

‘Quel dommage,’ he murmured.

‘Well, Sir Henry always said it was true,’ Daisy interposed from the stove.

‘My grandfather liked to tease people,’ Helen said stonily. ‘He said the room was haunted, too, if you remember.’

‘And you thought if you slept there you might wake to find a ghost in your bed?’ The dark eyes were dancing.

‘Not at all,’ Helen denied. ‘I simply prefer my own room.’

‘Until you are married, hein?’ Marc Delaroche said carelessly. ‘When you have a living man beside you at night, ma belle, there will be no room for ghosts.’

‘Thank you,’ Helen told him, biting her lip. ‘You paint such a frank picture.’

He shrugged. ‘Marriage is a frank relationship.’ He paused. ‘But, legend or not, the State Bedroom and its romantic associations should be available to your public. I hope you will allow me to be its first visitor.’

Helen finished her coffee. ‘Just as you wish, monsieur. Would you like to begin now?’

‘Pourquoi pas?’ he said softly. ‘Why not?’

Oh, Helen thought wearily as she led the way to the kitchen door, I can think of so many reasons why not. And having to be alone with you, Monsieur Delaroche, heads the list every time.

And, heaven help me, I’m not even sure whether it’s you I don’t trust—or myself.

CHAPTER THREE

HELEN was still recovering from that unwelcome piece of self-revelation when they entered the library together. She pushed her hands into the pockets of her jeans, trying to compose herself for the inevitable inquisition, but at first there was only silence as Marc Delaroche stood looking round with a frown at the empty oak shelves that still lined the walls.

‘It was a valuable collection?’ he asked at last.

‘Yes—very.’ She hesitated. ‘My grandfather was forced to sell it in the eighties, along with a number of pictures. It almost broke his heart, but it gave Monteagle a reprieve.’

He shook his head slightly, his gaze travelling over the motley collection of shabby furniture, the peeling paintwork, and the ancient velvet curtains hanging limply at the windows. ‘And this is where you spend your leisure time?’

‘Yes, what there is of it,’ she returned. ‘There’s always some job needing to be done in a place like this.’

‘You do not find it—triste? A little gloomy.’

‘In winter it’s quite cosy,’ she retorted defensively. ‘There’s plenty of wood on the estate, so I have an open fire, and I burn candles most of the time.’

‘Certainly a kinder light than a midsummer sun,’ he commented drily. ‘Shall we continue?’

She supposed they must. The truth was she felt totally unnerved by her physical consciousness of his presence beside her. Although he was deliberately keeping his distance, she realised, and standing back to allow her to precede him through doorways, and up the Great Staircase to the Long Gallery. But it made no difference. The panelled walls still seemed to press in upon them, forcing them closer together. An illusion, she knew, but no less disturbing for that.

She thought, I should have made some excuse—asked Daisy to show him round.

Aloud, she said, ‘This is where the family used to gather, and where the ladies of the house took exercise in bad weather.’

‘But not, of course, with holes in the floorboards,’ he said.