Fair Juno (16 page)

Martin held her gaze, willing her to back down. When the clear green gaze remained steady, unwavering, he growled and flung away. He felt violent. He wanted to shake her—to take her back to the bed and reduce her to a state where she would do, and say, anything he wished. But that was no real solution. He threw a furious glance her way. She was still standing, with a calm he knew was assumed, before his fireplace—where he wanted to see her, but without the mantle he wished to place on her shoulders. He could push her to become his mistress, and she might just give way. But he wanted her as his wife.

With a growl of frustration, Martin turned and stalked back to her. ‘If my honest proposal is repugnant to you, my
lady, I would suggest you leave. Before my baser instincts drive me to make you a far more insulting offer.’

Helen’s eyes widened. Martin’s fingers closed, vice-like, about her arm. Stifling a gasp, she allowed him to march her, unresisting, to the door. It was better this way. If she had to depart of her own accord, leaving him hurt, wounded and without explanation, she might waver and fail. His furious rejection might break her heart but it might also save his.

In a muddled, befuddled fury, Martin strode into his hall, dragging Helen with him. ‘Hillthorpe!’

Instantly, his butler emerged from behind the green baize door. At sight of them, his demeanour underwent a subtle change.

Martin ignored the evidence of Hillthorpe’s surprise. ‘Lady Walford is leaving. Get a hackney for her ladyship.’ He released Helen and, with the curtest of nods, turned on his heel and strode back to the parlour.

When the door slammed behind him, Helen drew a ragged breath. She felt as if her world had crashed about her very ears. Her head was spinning; she felt queasy inside. But there was nothing to do but face the disaster with as much dignity as she could. Her hair was still down, but her pins were irretrievable; she would have to make the best of it. She refused to permit herself to break down and cry, much as she wished to, until she was safe in her chamber.
Reaching that sanctuary with all possible haste was her immediate goal.

One glance at Martin’s butler showed he was as stunned as she at Martin’s rudeness but, unlike her, had no idea from where the uncharacteristic reaction sprang. ‘If you would get my hat and coat?’

Her quiet question jolted Hillthorpe out of his state of shock. ‘Yes, of course, my lady.’ Never in his extensive experience of Mr Martin had Hillthorpe seen him in such a temper. Which, he thought, as he bowed to Lady Walford and hurried to do her bidding, was a damned shame. The servants had been particularly pleased when Mr Martin had inherited. Of the four sons of the house, he had always been their favourite. He was a hard but fair master; they were relieved that the estate was once more in capable hands. Not since the late master, his father, had they felt so secure. And, as servants did, they had kept abreast of his endeavours to secure his Countess. The news that he had chosen Lady Walford for the position had been greeted with considerable relief. Many were the instances when men such as his lordship married youthful misses who led everyone a dance and set the household by the ears. But Lady Walford was well spoken of, kind and generous, a lady in truth.

As he held her ladyship’s coat for her, Hillthorpe frowned. She was upset, as she had no doubt every right to
be. What was the master thinking of? A hackney? He would summon the unmarked carriage instead. As she turned to face him, buttoning up her coat, he bowed low. ‘If you’ll just take a seat in the drawing-room, ma’am, I’ll summon the carriage directly.’

Grateful for the man’s smooth handling of the matter, Helen followed him, battening down her emotions until it was safe to set them free.

From the bend in the spiral staircase two floors above, Damian Willesden watched her disappear down the hall. His eyes widened in surprise. Slowly, he slumped on to the stairs, the better to consider the implications of what he had just seen.

So—Martin had run true to form and seduced the beautiful Lady Walford? That thought pleased Damian no end. With a little crow of delight, he gave thanks for Martin’s rakish tendencies. Lady Walford might be his brother’s mistress but she would not be his wife. Her ladyship could be crossed off the list of potential candidates for the position of the Countess of Merton.

Or could she?

Damian sobered and gave the matter due thought. He could not imagine why a man such as his brother would marry a woman he could have as his mistress but the unpalatable truth was, such things had been known to occur. All too often. Particularly with unmarried peers.

The front door opened and shut. Lady Walford was gone.

But
he
was not yet safe. Damian frowned and drummed his fingers on his knee. He could not believe that Martin would want to marry the lady now, particularly after that abrupt dismissal, but that did not mean she might not try to entrap him later. Adrift in social straits he normally eschewed with a vengeance, Damian pondered deeply. In the end, he concluded that it would quite obviously be better all round, for Martin as well as for himself, if Lady Walford were not in a position to demand that Martin marry her.

And she could not do that if her reputation was already in shreds.

Aside from anything else, the Dowager would not stand for it. Damian had immense confidence in his mother. And her money.

With a smug smile, Damian rose and sauntered down the stairs. It would be easy, so easy, to ensure his peace of mind. He called for his hat and cane and, once supplied with these necessary items, issued forth from the house of his fathers, determined to make sure that it would one day be his. He turned his footsteps in the direction of St James.

T
he Barham House ball was to be held that night. Wearily, Helen acknowledged that it was impossible for her to miss the event—the Barhams had stood her friends for years. Hopefully, Martin, not so constrained, would not go.

With a dismal sniff, she hauled herself out of the comforting softness of her bed and gave her eyes one last pat with her sodden handkerchief. Janet would have to find some cucumber to take the swelling down. Her bout of tears had done no more than ease her immediate hurt; the deeper pain would linger, undimmed by any show of misery. With an effort, Helen stood and crossed the room to tug the bell-pull. Then she ventured to her wardrobe.

Black was what she felt like wearing, but in the circumstances, dark blue would have to do. The heavy silk was
edged with gold ribbons; more ribbon cinched the high waist. In it, she knew she looked austere and a little remote. Perfect for tonight. With any luck, the solid colour would help disguise her paleness.

A bath restored some semblance of vitality. Janet fussed and fretted and coaxed her to eat some lightly broiled chicken. Her cook had tried, but the food might as well have been ashes.

And then she was in her carriage, bowling along to Barham House. What would she do if Martin did attend? Helen drew a long breath and buried that thought deep. In her present state, it was far too unnerving to contemplate.

The Barhams greeted her warmly. In the ballroom, she found Dorothea and Lady Merion already present. In the comfort of her familiar circle, she relaxed, allowed a mask of calm unconcern to cloak her bruised heart.

Midway through the evening, her mask slipped alarmingly. She was waltzing with Viscount Alvanley when she became aware that Martin had indeed attended the ball. He was standing by the side of the ballroom, powerful shoulders propped against the wall, a look of brooding intensity darkening his features. His gaze was fixed unwaveringly upon her.

Even Alvanley, genial chatterer that he was, noticed her start. ‘What’s up?’ he asked, peering at her over the folds of his monstrous neckcloth.

‘Er—nothing. What were you saying about Lady Havelock?’

Alvanley frowned at her. ‘Not Havelock,’ he said, piqued. ‘Hatcham.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Helen, praying that he would resume whatever anecdote he had been pouring into her ears. She kept her eyes on the Viscount’s face, inwardly struggling to calm her panicky breathing and the erratic pounding of her heart. To her relief, Alvanley happily took up his tale.

Helen tried to ignore the grey gaze from across the room, tried to keep her mind engaged with all manner of distractions, afraid that if she allowed herself to meet Martin’s eyes her fragile control would break. She could not let that happen—not in the middle of the Barhams’ ballroom. Aside from anything else, Martin in his present mood was perfectly capable of taking advantage of such weakness to force her either to explain, or, if she was truly overcome, to accept his suit. Irrelevantly, Helen belatedly recalled Ferdie’s warning. Her old friend had been right—rakes were dangerous in any circumstances.

Despite the sea of fashionable heads separating them, Martin’s senses, finely tuned where Helen was concerned, detected her unease. Through the veils of rage that still clouded his reason, he realised she did not wish him to approach her. He was tempted to ignore her wishes and claim her for a waltz. Only his uncertainty over what might happen if he did, an unnerving occurrence in itself, kept him from doing so. He was not even sure why he was here, other
than that there had been nothing else he had wanted to do. Seeing Helen every evening had become a habit—a habit he was damned if he could break—a habit he had no wish to break. The events of the afternoon had left him more than confused. Anger still rode him, a potent influence, effectively countering all efforts at rational thought. From experience, he knew his mind would not function properly until he had worked it out of his system. How to achieve that laudable goal had him presently at a loss.

He knew his continued staring at Helen was causing comment but he could not stop. His mind was totally consumed by her; his eyes simply followed his thoughts. He saw Hedley Swayne and spared a moment to scowl at him. The fop took fright and disappeared into the crowd.

‘Martin! How pleasant to see you again.’

Martin looked down as a hand touched his arm. Seeing Serena Monckton—no, she was Lady Rochester now— smiling up at him, he repressed the urge to shake off her hand. He nodded casually and came away from the wall. ‘Serena.’

Lady Rochester preened. It was the first time since he had reappeared as the Earl of Merton that she had managed to get Martin to use her first name. Perhaps there was hope for her yet?

Martin saw her reaction and inwardly cursed. He had studiously kept Serena at a distance, knowing how cloying her
attention could be. He also trusted her not at all, a fact he felt was excusable. With his mind engrossed with Helen, he had forgotten to keep his defences up. Now he would have to repair the damage.

‘I do
love
waltzing.’ Coquettishly, Lady Rochester smiled up at him. ‘So few of the men these days know how to do it properly. But you were with Wellington at Waterloo, weren’t you?’

Stifling a curse, Martin reflected that no moss grew on Serena Monckton. She was shameless, propositioning him in such a way. Particularly him. He opened his mouth to put her in her place, when it suddenly occurred to him that perhaps here was an opportunity to demonstrate to another shameless woman just what it felt like to be rejected. The very same shameless woman who had spent the afternoon on his daybed and then rejected him. A single glance over the crowd showed that Helen was sitting out the dance, seated on a chaise by Dorothea’s side. Martin’s eyes dropped to Serena’s eager face, his lips curved in a practised smile. ‘I do believe that’s a waltz starting up now. Shall we?’

He did not have to ask twice. But, immediately his feet started to circle, Martin wished he had thought twice. Dancing with Serena felt all wrong; she was not the woman he wanted in his arms. Gripped by a sudden sense of foreboding, Martin glanced over the heads of the dancers. Helen
had not seen them yet. But many others had. He had made a habit of dancing with Helen Walford alone; his sudden appearance on the dance-floor with another woman in his arms, Serena Monckton at that, while Helen was in the room and unengaged, was, Martin belatedly realised, a somewhat obvious insult. The full enormity of his mistake hit him when he again looked Helen’s way. They were much closer now. She had seen them; the expression in her large green eyes cut him to the core. Abruptly, she looked down and away, saying something to distract Dorothea, who was staring at him in undisguised fury.

Martin felt chilled. He waltzed automatically, paying no attention at all to Serena’s chatter. When their revolutions took them past the chaise where Helen had been, he saw that it was empty. The third time around, and Dorothea was back, alone, staring daggers at him.

Helen had left the ball.

Because of him. He had hurt her and she had fled, not something she would readily do, having, as he knew, no liking for appearing in
on-dits
.

An odd numbness had closed about his heart; his mind refused to function at all. As soon as the dance ended, Martin bowed over Serena’s hand and, leaving her standing by the side of the room, paid his respects to his by now curious hostess and left.

From the shadows of a potted palm decorating the side of
the room, Damian watched Martin depart and rejoiced. Better and better. After that little scene, there was no chance of his brother and Lady Walford patching things up. Particularly not when the story he had spent the evening seeding into fertile soil took root. It would take a day or so, but after that he would be home and hosed, past the post, safe and sound.

He had decided that, in the circumstances, he would do well to attend a few of the
ton
assemblies, just until the danger of Lady Walford was past. Clearly, he would not have to suffer such boring gatherings for much longer. Virtually the entire ballroom had noticed the incident. Inwardly, Damian hugged himself. Whatever had possessed Martin to take such drastic action he could not imagine but he had to admit that, when his brother struck, he was effective. Lady Rochester was still standing a little way away, trying to pretend that Martin had truly been interested in her. Not that anyone would believe that. Feeling in unexpected charity with his brother, Damian decided to do him a favour.

He strolled to her ladyship’s side and waited until the ageing roué who was currently bending her ear departed before nodding his greeting. ‘Helpful of you to give Martin a hand.’

Serena scowled. ‘Whatever do you mean, sir?’

Her peevish tone brought out the devil in Damian. ‘Oh, I think you know.’ He watched as Lady Rochester’s face
purpled. ‘Who knows?’ he continued smoothly before she could explode. ‘Perhaps Martin might be grateful in a way you’d appreciate, now he’s terminated his relationship with Lady Walford and will no longer be availing himself of her charms.’

Serena’s eyes grew round, and then even rounder as the full implication of what he was saying sank in. ‘You mean…?’ Her voice was an incredulous whisper.

Damian looked surprised. ‘Didn’t you know? I thought everyone did. Ah well.’ He shrugged. ‘Just goes to show, don’t it?’ And with that he moved away, perfectly sure he had warned Lady Rochester off, too. For if Martin could seduce and ruin a woman of Lady Walford’s calibre, it stood to reason that he would make short work of such as Lady Rochester.

Left alone, Serena took a long moment to sort out how what she had just heard could be used to greatest effect. She was perfectly well aware that Martin had only waltzed with her to hurt Helen Walford. The fiend had not so much as glanced properly at her—she was finished with trying to attract his notice. But she could not believe he was finished with the beautiful widow. From where she had stood, it had been blatantly obvious that he was still obsessed with Lady Walford. She had no quarrel with Helen Walford, just as long as she did not marry Martin Willesden. She herself held no illusion that she could ever fill that position—not now. But she drew the line at the thought of Martin enjoying
his wife. Better anyone than Lady Walford. The rumour Damian was spreading, true or not, would surely cook Lady Walford’s goose. And, if Martin was truly enamoured of Helen Walford, as Serena had every reason to suspect, then such an outcome would cause him grief.

Coolly, Lady Rochester smiled. None knew better than she that her long-ago claim of rape had been entirely without foundation. None knew better than she how furious Martin Willesden had made her by denying it and then accepting exile rather than marry her. Time had healed some of the wounds, but she saw no reason not to do what she could to spread Damian’s delightful rumour.

Buoyed by a pleasant sense of mischief, she moved into the crowd to see what she could do.

His frown still black, Martin strode into his library. He shut the door with a decided click, then crossed to the sideboard and poured himself a generous quantity of brandy before slumping into the armchair by the fire.

Why? What had possessed him to make such an error of judgement? Never before had he made such a wrong-footed move. He had let his temper take control and it had led him off track. His equilibrium was out of kilter—he was dangerously adrift.

If this was what love did to a man, he was not sure he approved.

With a frustrated groan, he placed his glass on the table beside him and ran his hands over his face. He had hurt her. Dammit—all he wanted to do was make the wretched woman happy. Instead, he had succeeded in making them both miserable. The urge to go around to Half Moon Street and knock on her door until she let him in grew.

Reluctantly, Martin quashed the impulse and reached for his glass.

Enough of histrionics—they had landed him in a worse state than he had been in before. He was more than old enough to know better.

And, speaking of knowing better, did he really want to marry a woman who allowed herself to be seduced while having absolutely no intention of marrying her seducer? A difficult question, given that he had been the seducer and he had not married anyone before. Martin grimaced and took a long sip of brandy. Regardless of present appearance, regardless of her words, he knew, as only a rake could, that Helen Walford was not promiscuous. Why then her refusal?

For a long while, he stared at the fire while the long case clock in the corner ticked on. The sheer fury he had felt when he had understood her intention of refusing him again, when he had realised that the woman he wanted to place before his fireplace was the sort who could walk away from intimacy without a second thought, still seethed, scrambling his wits.

He shook his head in frustration. It was no good. He could not think straight with his mind in such turmoil. Best to get away, to get out of it, until his temper died and he could consider the matter more calmly. Right now, he was not even sure what he wanted any more, let alone how best to achieve it. His agent at Merton had written, begging his attendance. The decorators were there, making his dream a reality; he should see how they were progressing. He would go down for a few days. Perhaps the peace of the Hermitage would help him sort things out, decide where he stood, what he wanted to do.