Fair Juno (23 page)

A groan of surpassing frustration fell on her ears. The horses were hauled to a halt; she was hauled into Martin’s arms and ruthlessly kissed.

‘Woman!’ he growled when he eventually raised his head. ‘What further tortures do you have planned for me?’

With an enormous effort, Helen focused her faculties. Heaven preserve her, but if he realised she lost her wits every time he kissed her she would be in serious trouble. ‘Is it torture?’ she asked, quite fascinated.

That question got her kissed again. ‘Dammit—I want you, don’t you know that?’

She did, but Helen also wanted a wedding to remember. Her first, she had spent years trying to forget. And, despite the facts, a rushed wedding would be food for the gossip mills. Suppressing the shiver of delight that Martin’s gravelly tone sent coursing through her, she set herself to the task of winning him over. ‘It’ll only take a few days— a week at the outside,’ she offered.

Martin snorted disgustedly and released her. Helen watched as he took up the reins again and set the horses forward. The cast of his features suggested, at the least, disenchantment, at the worst, downright aggravation. She cast about for some gesture, some facet she could add to her
plan, which would make the delay more appealing to him. Then she remembered his home and his hopes for it. She sat up straighter. ‘You said your father used to entertain a great deal at the Hermitage and that you wanted to do the same.’

Martin shot her a glance from under lowered brows. ‘So?’

‘So why not make our marriage the first occasion you throw open your refurbished house?’

For a few moments, the horses’ hoofbeats and the regular rattle of the wheels were the only sounds about them. Then Helen saw Martin purse his lips in consideration. When she saw his dejection lift, she inwardly hugged herself.

‘Not a bad idea,’ he eventually conceded. He glanced down at her. ‘We could invite the Hazelmeres and Fanshawes and Acheson-Smythe and a few of the others.’

Helen smiled brilliantly, and slipped a small hand through his arm. ‘I’m sure they’ll come.’

The grey eyes glinted down at her. Then Martin humphed and gave his attention to the road. ‘Just as long as you say yes at the appropriate time.’

T
he Hermitage was much bigger than Helen had expected. Even allowing for the deceptive perspective of twilight, the many-windowed two wings stretched deep into the formal gardens. They approached the house from the rear, Martin having driven the curricle around to the stables. The formal front façade, holding court before the sweep of manicured lawns leading to a lake on one side and a stand of majestic horse chestnuts on the other, had been impressive. The back of the mansion was even more appealing, with the pergola-like glassed conservatory positioned at the end of the ballroom in the centre of the main block. The conservatory steps led to a small fountain, centrepiece of the formal gardens enclosed within the wings. Beyond, Helen could just make out the
outliers of a wood and the mellow brick wall of the kitchen garden.

Her hand firmly trapped on Martin’s sleeve, she was led to a door at the end of one of the wings.

‘I suppose I should take you around to the front door, but it’s quite a long way.’ Glancing down into her upturned face, Martin forbore to add that she was looking tired, which she was. Hardly surprising, for she had had a long day. But at least she was smiling and her eyes were alight. He patted her hand. ‘You’ll want to freshen up before we have dinner.’

Helen came to an abrupt halt, her eyes widening as she realised what he intended. Then her eyes went to her creased and crumpled bronze silk gown. ‘Oh, Martin!’ she all but wailed.

Swiftly, Martin pulled her to him and kissed her soundly. ‘My mother would welcome you if you were dressed in rags. Now don’t fret.’ He smiled down into her anguished eyes. ‘I’ll take you to Bender, my housekeeper. I’m sure she’ll be able to help.’

Twenty minutes later, Helen gave thanks for Bender. The large, round-faced woman, in country plaid rather than the regulation bombazine, had immediately understood her wordless plea. While she washed her face and hands and brushed her hair free of the dust of the road, her dress was ruthlessly shaken, then quickly pressed. It would never be the same again, of course, but at least it looked halfway respectable.
When Martin tapped on the door of the pleasant bedchamber Bender had taken her to, Helen was ready to face what she privately considered her final hurdle—the final hurdle before she could reach for her rainbow.

Martin’s presence by her side, large and infinitely reassuring, helped her hold her head high as she crossed the threshold of the drawing-room, her eyes opening wide as she beheld quite the most elegant room she had entered in years. At the sudden thought that, if the fates were at last disposed to be kind, she would soon be mistress here, Helen’s confidence faltered. But then Martin was speaking, introducing her. Helen looked down into the grey eyes watching her, and blinked in surprise.

How alike they were, was her first thought, superseded almost immediately by the recognition of subtle differences. Martin’s mother’s dark brows were much finer than her son’s, though her features were equally arrogant in cast. Her chin and lips were much softer in line, and the grey eyes, so startlingly similar, lacked the wicked glint often lurking in her son’s. Helen realised she was staring. With a little start, she bobbed a curtsy.

‘I’m most honoured to meet you, ma’am.’

Catherine Willesden eyed the golden-haired beauty before her and was not displeased with what she saw. An unusually tall woman and well-built with it—she could readily see just what in Helen Walford had excited her son’s
interest. And she looked the sort who could carry children well and would enjoy doing so, even more to the point. But what decided the Dowager in Helen’s favour, beyond the slightest qualms, was the look of untold pride that lit her son’s grey eyes whenever, as now, they rested on his bride- to-be. That, thought the Dowager, was what counted above all.

‘Believe me when I say that it is I who am most thoroughly pleased to see you, my dear.’ The Dowager threw a meaningful look at her son before, with an effort, she raised her hands to grasp Helen’s cold fingers.

Realising the Dowager’s difficulty, Helen immediately took hold of the frail claws and readily bent to place a kiss on the older woman’s lined cheek.

From then on, it was fair weather and plain sailing between the Dowager and the soon-to-be Countess. Pleased with their ready acceptance of each other and not a little entertained, Martin drew back, leaving the two women to find their own way about each other. But when, after they had left the dining-table for the comfort of the drawing-room, and spent half an hour discussing the details of the wedding and planning the week-long house party, they turned their attention to the wedding feast, he had had enough.

‘Mama, it’s late. I’ll take you upstairs.’

His mother’s eyes widened. She opened her mouth to protest, then, catching his eye, closed it again. ‘Very well,’
she agreed. She turned to Helen, holding out one frail hand. ‘Sleep well, my child.’

Martin wheeled his mother out before she could think of any more witticisms. He returned from the Dowager’s rooms to find Helen wandering the hall, examining the landscapes on the wall.

‘Come for a stroll. The light’s not yet gone.’

Helen smiled and calmly placed her hand on his proffered sleeve. Inside, she felt anything but calm. Her heart was leaping about, turning cartwheels and somersaults with sheer happiness. The Dowager was no dragon and clearly well- disposed. The house—Martin’s home—pleased her beyond her wildest dreams. She already felt drawn to it, at home within its spell, though whether the feeling owed anything to the house itself, rather than being a reflection of her all- encompassing love for Martin, she could not have said.

As they stepped from the terrace to stroll, arm in arm, along a gravelled path into a landscaped shrubbery, she felt contentment such as she had never known lay its hand upon her.

‘We can send letters to the Hazelmeres and the rest tomorrow.’

Martin’s murmur wafted the curls by her ear. Helen turned to smile her acquiescence, then, fleetingly, pressed her temple against his shoulder. With no need for words, they wended their way about the low clipped hedges of a miniature maze, to stand by the small fountain at its centre.
Smoothly, Martin drew her around, so that the back of her shoulders brushed his chest. His arms slipped about her waist, steel bands holding her against him. He bent his head and his lips grazed her bare shoulder. Helen felt a giggle bubble in her throat. Only a very accomplished rake, she felt sure, would choose the middle of a maze to play at seduction. However, she was not in the mood to deny him. Obligingly, she tilted her head away, giving him access to the long column of her throat. She did not try to stifle the shiver of pure delight that ran through her at the intimate caress.

A crackling twig brought Martin’s head up. His eyes scanned the bushes, then the grassed path leading around to the stables. Just discernible in the gloom was the figure of a man, temporarily immobile. With an oath, Martin released Helen and gave chase, leaping over the low hedges, making directly for the man who, after an instant’s hesitation, had taken to his heels.

Martin’s long legs gave him a telling advantage. He caught up with Damian before he had reached the wood. Catching hold of one padded shoulder, Martin spun his brother about before sending him to grass with a punishing right cross.

For an instant, Damian simply lay, eyes closed, stretched out on the turf. Then he groaned. Perfectly certain that he had not hit his brother with sufficient force to do permanent
injury, Martin stood over him, hands on hips, and waited for him to get up. When it became clear that Damian was not going to get up without assistance, Martin’s jaw hardened. He was reaching for his brother’s coat when Helen erupted out of the darkness behind him and caught hold of his arm.

One glance at Damian, cringing on the ground, confirmed Helen’s guess. ‘Don’t kill him,’ she pleaded, gasping to catch her breath. Abruptly deserted by the fountain, she had spent no more than a minute staring in amazement. Then she had followed. But her escape from the maze had been a great deal slower than Martin’s. She could not leap over the low hedges in her gown and, without Martin’s assistance, she had not known how to get out of the maze. In the end, glancing about through the gathering gloom and deciding that the gardeners would long since have gone home, she had hiked her skirts to her thighs and clambered over the bushes.

Now, finding Martin looking as if he was preparing to thrash the life out of his brother, her only thought was to stop him.

To her relief, Martin promptly drew back, his hands coming to hold hers, his eyes searching her face in the last of the twilight, a curious expression in their grey depths. ‘I wasn’t about to,’ he replied mildly. ‘But I shouldn’t have thought that, in the circumstances, you would mind.’

Still out of breath, Helen shook her head. She had learned the full sum of Damian’s iniquity from the Dowager. ‘If it were that simple, you could have at him with my goodwill. But if you kill him, you’ll be tried for murder and where would that leave my rainbow?’

‘Your what?’ Martin’s smile gleamed white in the dark.

Helen felt her cheeks burn with embarrassment.

Still smiling, Martin patted her hand. ‘Never mind. You can explain it to me later.’ He slipped an arm about his bride-to-be’s waist and drew her to his side. Then he looked down at his brother, still sprawled at his feet. He shook his head. ‘For God’s sake, get up! I’m not going to hit you again, though, as God is my witness, you deserve to be horse-whipped.’

Damian half rose, but at the strengthening of his brother’s tone he froze.

Martin looked down at him in exasperation. ‘You may thank your soon-to-be sister-in-law for deliverance from any punishment I might otherwise have been inclined to mete out.’ When Damian said nothing but simply stared, Martin snorted in disgust and turned away. ‘Get to your room. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

Drawing Helen with him, Martin started back towards the house, then bethought himself of one last warning. He turned to find Damian weaving on his feet. ‘In case you’re planning a sudden departure, I should warn you I’ve already
given orders that, once here, you are not to be permitted to leave again. Not until tomorrow, when you’ll depart under escort for Plymouth.’

‘Plymouth?’ Damian all but shuddered. ‘I won’t go,’ he said, but to Helen his tone lacked strength.

‘I rather think you will.’ Martin’s tone, on the other hand, radiated strength. ‘Mama and I have decided a sojourn in the Indies might well be of as much benefit to you as it was to me.’ He paused, then added in a more pensive tone, ‘I rather think you’ll find it a tad difficult, living in London, once it becomes known that both Mama and I have withdrawn our support.’

Even in the dim light, Helen could see how Damian paled. Obviously, Martin’s threat was well-aimed. Martin did not wait to see how his brother reacted. He turned once more in the direction of the house, tucking her hand into the crook of his arm. Obediently, Helen paced by his side.

There was a storm brewing. Large ruffled clouds of deepest grey were blowing up from the west. After a few minutes, Helen glanced up to find that Martin’s forbidding expression had disappeared. In its place was a pensive look she rather thought she should distrust.

‘Now, where were we?’ he murmured, before flashing her a devilish smile. ‘Wherever, I rather think we had better go indoors. The evening grows cold and you’re without a shawl.’

Forbearing to point out that her lack of a shawl was entirely his fault, Helen happily permitted him to escort her within doors. He led her upstairs, picking up a candelabra from the table in the hall to light their way. In the long gallery, he showed her the portraits of past Willesdens, hanging between the long velvet-curtained windows.

Picking the most scandalous of the family’s tales of yore as the most suitable for his purpose, Martin had Helen in stitches as they moved on through the long corridor that led to the west wing. Embellishing freely, he ensured that she was completely enthralled long enough for them to reach the door at the end of the wing.

It was only then that Helen, catching a sudden gleam in Martin’s mesmerising grey eyes, looked about her and realised she was lost—in company with a thoroughly untrustworthy host. Far from feeling threatened, she revelled in the delicious anticipation that stirred in her breast. She looked at the door before her—a very large, well-polished oak door— and then looked at Martin, one brow rising in question.

All he did was smile, successfully scattering her wits, then leaned forward to set the door wide.

Feeling very much as if she was taking some irretrievable step, Helen crossed the threshold. The room was huge—and so was the four-poster bed that stood against the wall, long windows flanking it open to the balcony, their fine lace curtains streaming in with the freshening breeze.
She watched as Martin closed the shutters. The only light came from the candelabra, which he had placed on a table by the bed. The glow centred on the bed, drawing Helen’s awareness with it. A heavy silk counterpane, embossed with what she recognised as the Willesden arms, covered the expanse in deep blue-grey. Silken tassels of the same colour hung from the cord holding the bed curtains back. The oak headboard was heavily carved, again incorporating the family arms, meshed within twining vine leaves.