Fair Juno (15 page)

‘Keep your eyes shut.’

Helen sensed he was about to undress. She wanted to watch. ‘But—’

‘No buts,’ came the gravelly voice, even deeper and raspier than usual. ‘Do as I say. Just lie there and relax and everything will be wonderful.’

The gentle persuasion in his tone had its effect. Helen lay still, feeling the warmth from the fire flickering over her skin, contrasting with the shimmering touch of the silks and satin on which she lay. Her lips curved slightly at the thought of his lordship’s scandalous taste in furniture. The rustle of starched linen came to her ears. The temptation to peek from beneath her lashes grew.

Helen opened her eyes a fraction. A heavily muscled back filled her view. She watched as Martin divested himself of his clothes, staring for as long as she could until, as he joined her on the daybed, she let her lids fall before allowing them to flicker innocently upwards.

Martin smiled gently, encouragingly. His shoulders were angled over her once more, limiting her view of him. He studied her expression but could detect no hint of panic. Yet. ‘Good girl,’ he murmured, struggling to harness the passion that vibrated in his voice. He lowered his lips to hers and was relieved when her lids fluttered closed once more. In truth, he had little idea what might scare her but, if she had had a difficult time accommodating Walford, seeing him naked was not going to help.

He released her lips to give more attention to the rest of her, all the while soothing her with comforting, reassuring
words. It was not his habit to waste time with talk in such situations but this case was different, unique. He kept watch for any signs of withdrawal or distress, ready to backtrack at the first hint that he was pushing her too fast.

Helen heard his words, letting them wash over her, unable to concentrate on the sentences buried beneath his sensuous rumble. She wished he would stop talking and give all his attention to fulfilling her needs. Her hands itched to explore, but, never having been visited by such a desire before, she was unsure of the etiquette involved. In the end, when, driven by her need, she tentatively spread her hands over the muscles of his back, Martin moved and caught them, trapping them in one of his and drawing them over her head.

‘Not yet, sweetheart. We don’t want to rush things.’

If she had been capable, Helen would have glared. Why not? she wanted to know. She felt as if she wanted to devour him whole and all he would say was ‘Not yet’. Her body felt overheated but all she wanted was more heat.

‘Martin—’

‘Hush.’ He silenced her with a kiss. ‘Trust me. You’ll enjoy it. This time will be different, I promise.’

Inwardly, Helen frowned. Of course this time would be different—she loved him. She had never loved anyone before. Her inward frown grew. She wished she could shake her head to rid herself of the niggle that there was something
here that she was missing, something she did not understand.

‘There’s nothing to be frightened about. We’ll take it slow and easy. No pain at all—only pleasure. Trust me this once and I’ll show you how wonderful it can be.’

The gentleness in his voice, overlaying the suppressed desire, gave Helen the vital clue. Her eyes flew wide but Martin, busy kissing her, missed the shocked response. Quickly, realising her error, Helen shut her eyes again, willing her body to remain in the languid, floating state he had induced.

He thought she was sexually crippled—or, at least, had a broken bone or two. An aversion to lovemaking of some major degree. If he had not been kissing her, Helen would have shaken her head in amazement. How had he come to such a crazy conclusion? Arthur had never hurt her—he had simply failed to engage her passions. Now that she knew what passion between a man and woman was, she knew the truth. She was not the least averse to making love with Martin Willesden—but why had he thought she was?

This, however, was no time for imponderables.

Her wits were barely up to recognising facts, let alone dealing with their ramifications. As Martin deepened their kiss, Helen felt her conscious mind melt. Thought, in any form, became all but impossible. Sensation washed through her; joyfully, with abandon, she surrendered to the warm tide.

To Martin’s gratification, not the slightest ripple of panic, not the smallest quiver of maidenly nerves, marred the response of the beauty in his arms. Nevertheless, he kept a tight rein on his passions, enforcing ruthless discipline in the face of extreme provocation. It was hard work, seducing a goddess—slowly. Painstakingly, he stoked the fever between them, blowing the embers to flame and pouring desire upon them until the conflagration had her firmly in its grip. It started to singe his control. Still, he held back, ensuring her pleasure beyond all doubt. When he finally brought her to the peak, and held her there for that most fleeting of instants, he felt the most intense surge of satisfaction, before his mind was swamped by his own delight.

The chimes of the elegant French carriage clock sitting on Martin’s marble mantelpiece penetrated the pleasured fogs shrouding Helen’s mind. Four o’clock.

Four o’clock
! With a start, she opened her eyes. An expanse of tanned male chest, liberally sprinkled with curling back hair, met her bemused gaze. Her questing senses detected a heavy, muscled arm lying, relaxed, about her.

Stifling a moan, Helen closed her eyes. What now? Languid pleasure still had her in its grip, drugging her mind and body. It would be easy just to lie here, enjoying the warm intimacy, and let fate take its course. Then he would
wake, and ask her to marry him, and she would have to refuse him, while lying naked in his arms.

Helen grimaced. She opened her eyes and slowly raised them to Martin’s face. He was still sleeping. With a small sigh of relief, she set about carefully extricating herself from his loose embrace, untangling her legs from the silk sheets he had drawn over them, Luckily, she was lying on the outer edge of the daybed.

Once free, she dressed quickly. While she wrestled with her stays, she allowed her gaze to roam lovingly over the large frame lying sprawled amid the rumpled sheets. She smiled a trifle mistily. At least she now understood just what it was that lay at the end of the rainbow, what it was that gave rise to the glow of anticipation in Dorothea’s eyes whenever she looked at Hazelmere. Martin had transported her to the end of the rainbow, had given her a moment of sheer delight beyond any she had ever experienced. She would hold the memory of that moment, enshrine it in her heart, to light the lonely years ahead.

Stifling a sigh, she stepped into her dress and eased it up over her petticoat. When he asked for her hand, how was she to answer him? Despite the passing of a week since her last attempt, no simple way of explaining her view to him had occurred. In fact, her cogitations had led her to conclude that explaining at all could itself prove dangerous. Martin was not the sort of man to accept her sacrifice
tamely. He would argue, threaten, run the gamut of all means available to sway her. She was not going to be swayed; despite the glory of the past hours, or, perhaps, because of them, she was even more firmly determined to give him his dreams. She loved him—more deeply than she had realised, more completely than she had understood. Self-sacrifice was an undertaking of which she had considerable experience. Her girlish dreams had been jettisoned for her parents’ ambitions, her pride for her husband’s greed. Martin was more worthy of her sacrifice than any other; she would make it willingly, if sadly.

Calmly determined, Helen allowed her gaze to rest on the strong features only slightly gentled by sleep. She would never succeed in making him accept her view—it would be better not to try. If she offered no explanation, but simply held firm to her refusal, he would be exceedingly angry, but impotent to pressure her to change her mind.

He was not going to like it but it was for his own good.

The buttons down the back of her gown were proving refractory. Seeing her soft carriage boots on the floor, Helen slid her feet into them while glancing about at the elegantly furnished room. Each piece had been chosen with a judicious eye. The theme was simplicity of line and form, an austerity which balanced the stark black, blue and gold décor. In truth, the room suited its owner. She could not imagine him in less expensive surrounds; this was his
milieu, this was where he rightly belonged. This, she was determined, was where he would stay.

Her eyes went once more to the handsome face. Helen smiled as she recalled his efforts to ease her imagined hurt. Her smile faded. In refusing him, she was going to cause him even more hurt than anger. She was going to land a blow where it would hurt a great deal. Her refusal to succumb to his lovemaking was going to place a very large dent in his rake’s pride.

Helen paled and felt suddenly chilled.

At sixteen, she had learned that her life was not destined to be easy. She had borne unhappiness and loneliness and put a brave face on her misery. But what she could not understand was why fate had singled her out for such continually harsh treatment. Why her?

Resolutely, Helen straightened, pushing her depression aside. Her fingers were still fumbling behind her, the small buttons sliding on the silk. Muttering a few choice curses, she attacked them with renewed vigour, only to find them slipping from her grasp.

Exasperated, she glanced up—straight into warm grey eyes, laced with lazy laughter. As she watched, Martin’s smile grew.

‘You should have woken me.’ His voice was still several tones deeper than normal, a warm, raspy invitation to illicit delight.

Helen blinked, struggling to focus her wits. She had to keep calm. Trying for her usual brisk tone, she said, ‘It’s late and I need to get home. I suspected waking you before I got dressed would not necessarily be supportive of that aim.’

Thoroughly relaxed, Martin chuckled. ‘You read me so well, fair Juno.’ He beckoned. ‘Come here.’

Helen eyed him suspiciously. ‘Martin, I really
do
need to go.’

Martin’s eyes flicked to the clock. His brows rose in resignation. ‘I suppose you do.’ He sighed. ‘In which case, you had better let me do up your dress.’ He sat up and swung his leg over the side of the bed, the sheet slipping down to his waist. When he waved her towards him, Helen reluctantly came to stand before him. Martin’s strong hands closed about her waist. For one heart-stopping moment, their gazes locked. Mesmerised, her breath trapped in her throat, Helen watched as the slow smile she knew so well twisted his lips. Then he turned her about.

His strong fingers made short work of her buttons. But before she could move away, his hands fastened about her waist and he drew her down to sit on one sheet-swathed knee.

The feel of her warm body between his hands made Martin wish again that she had woken him earlier. He seriously considered pulling her back to the sheets and wrestling her out of her clothes. Who cared what the world
thought? With a wry grin, he acknowledged that such wildness would no longer do, not if he intended to assume his social position as the Earl of Merton with his Countess at his side. Speaking of which…

He turned fair Juno about so that he could look into her face. He smiled devilishly, the complete rake. ‘Did you like it?’

Helen’s eyes flew wide. She blushed furiously.

Martin laughed, raising one finger to caress her cheek. ‘Say you’ll marry me and we can enjoy such delights every day—or at least every night.’ His second proposal, he reflected, but in circumstances much more to his taste. He smiled confidently and waited for fair Juno’s assent.

Helen could not meet his eyes. As the silence stretched, she felt Martin tense. Feeling a chill creep over her skin, she tried to ease from his hold. He let her go, his hands falling from her as she stood and moved to the fireplace before turning to face him.

Steeling herself, she raised her eyes to his. Cold grey stone would have held more warmth than the grey gaze steadily regarding her. His features were impassive, set like granite; his hands were fisted on his thighs. The light from the dying fire gilded the heavy musculature of his bare chest. He looked very powerful—and deeply angry.

‘Martin, I cannot marry you.’ Helen forced herself to enunciate the words clearly, calmly. Inside, she felt dead.

‘I see.’ The words came like a whiplash. Helen hung her head. ‘You’ll willingly share my bed but you won’t
marry
me.’ During the pause that ensued, she kept her eyes down, too frightened that she would weaken if she looked up and saw his disillusion.

‘Why?’

The confusion and hurt in that single word nearly overset her. She pressed her palms together and forced her head up. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t explain.’

‘
Sorry
?’ Abruptly, Martin surged to his feet.

Startled, Helen glanced away, colour flaring in her pale cheeks. With a strangled curse, Martin stalked to where a silk robe had been left lying over the back of a chair. He shrugged into it, struggling to bring order to the chaotic and violent emotions seething through his brain. ‘Let me just get one point clear,’ he ground out, savagely yanking the sash tight. ‘You were willing, were you not?’

‘Yes.’ Helen brought her head up, relieved to see him decently garbed. Her admission should have sunk her beyond reproach, shaken her to the core. Yet it was the truth; she admitted it without a blink, all her energies concentrated on the difficult task of persuading him to let her go. ‘But that alters nothing. It is simply not possible for me to marry you.’

‘Why?’

This time, the question held more demand. Martin
stalked back and forth before her, a wounded beast. Helen stifled the instinctive urge to offer him comfort. She had to hold firm. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t explain.’

Eyes narrowed to steely slits, Martin stopped directly in front of her. ‘Can’t explain why you’d make a high-class harlot of yourself rather than marry me? I’m hardly surprised, madam!’

Inwardly flinching, Helen held herself proudly, refusing to quail under the glittering grey gaze. She felt sick. He was not impassive now; hurt pride was clearly etched in his forbidding features. But she could not regret their afternoon of delight; she did not intend to feel guilty over the greatest joy she had ever known.