Free Her Protector's Pleasure by Grace Callaway

his cups. What am I supposed to do with a good-for-nothing chit?
    Marianne did not like to remember the past. What was done was done. And she knew jealousy was small of her. While she did not like herself for it, she at least recognized her own flaws. Sweet, virtuous Helena deserved every happiness; Marianne did not begrudge her for it. It did not, however, make Marianne eager to expose her own failures.
    And what would she say?
    By the by, Helena, your brother and I were tupping behind your back. We went to ask for your father's blessing; the earl said he'd disown Thomas before he let his heir marry a slut like me. Thomas died while trying to get back to me. Oh, and that old lecher I married? He kidnapped my sweet babe and consigned her to purgatory.
    Marianne set her Sèvres cup down upon the coffee table. "Thank you, dearest, but nothing is the matter."
    Helena chewed on her lip, and Marianne steeled herself for what was to come next. She was relieved by the change in topic.
    "In that case, I wondered if you'd care to join us for a supper party next week. Harteford has made a new acquaintance,"—the briefest of pauses betrayed the marchioness' intention—"a very nice gentleman by the name of Mayberry. He's an earl and quite handsome …"
    As Helena waxed on about the earl's attributes, Marianne wondered when she and her friend had switched roles in their relationship. Not so long ago, it had been Helena who asked her for advice in the matters of love and romance; now the happily married marchioness saw fit to do the dispensing. And it nettled Marianne's pride.
    "Thank you, but I am capable of finding my own gentlemen," she drawled, cutting the other off. "Trust me, there is no shortage."
    "I know that, of course. You are ever so popular, Marianne. 'Tis only …" Helena flushed, yet her shoulders drew up. "I wonder if you are truly happy . And if your reluctance to settle down has something to do with your past. Whenever I ask you about your marriage to Lord Draven, you clam up."
    Though Marianne resisted, Draven's nasal, angry tones sliced through her, sharper than any crop: This is your fault, you worthless bitch! I've never had this problem before. Beneath your beauty, you're nothing more than a dirty cunt. Well, you had best employ your whore's tricks or you shall never see your Primrose again …
    Her hand trembled slightly as she smoothed her skirts. "Suffice it to say, I have no desire to call any man my lord and master again. Please, Helena," she said icily, "let us move onto a less tedious subject."
    The marchioness's shoulders fell, hurt sliding across her soft features.
    Stifling a sigh, Marianne said in gentler tones, "In point of fact, we have more pressing matters to discuss. How is our young Miss Percy faring?"
    A few days ago, Helena had apprised her of their mutual friend Miss Persephone Fines' entanglement with a scoundrel named Gavin Hunt. Marianne regretted any inadvertent part that she'd played in the fiasco. She'd considered herself a mentor of sorts to the feisty Percy, and when Percy had come to her for advice on love, she'd given it freely. She hadn't known, however, that the object of the spirited miss' affections was Hunt, a notorious gaming hell owner who turned out to be a nemesis of Harteford's.
    Lud, could the plot thicken any further?
    "The dear girl seems to be doing better now," Helena said, though she sounded far from certain. "Her mama should be arriving at any minute, and I must ask you not to mention the matter. Poor Mrs. Fines has been beside herself with worry. Imagine—Percy getting mixed up with some riffraff from the stews!"
    Marianne's brows lifted. "Yes, imagine that. Falling in love with a man from the rookery."
    "That's not what I meant," Helena said with a huff. "Besides, Harteford may have been born in that unfortunate place, but he is in every way a gentleman. Unlike this detestable fellow Hunt. Why, I'd like to ... wring his neck for planning to hurt Percy, not to