Fair Juno (24 page)
Nervousness crept up on her, but then Martin was there, drawing her firmly into his arms. Before he could kiss her, and render her witless, Helen placed her hands on his shoulders and smiled up into the stormy grey eyes. ‘Is this where I say yes?’ she asked, and was surprised at the husky quality of her own voice.
Martin smiled slowly, so slowly that Helen had plenty of time to feel her heart somersault and her stomach contract.
‘Actually,’ he said, ‘given the difficulty you seem to have with that word, I’ve decided some practice would not go astray.’
His tone feathered over her stretched senses, teasing and tantalising. Helen opened her eyes wide. ‘Practice?’ she asked in as innocent a voice as she could muster.
‘Mmm,’ Martin murmured, bending his head to brush his lips across hers. ‘I’d rather thought to make you say it a great…many…times.’ His last words were punctuated by
light kisses, firm enough to whet her appetite, insubstantial enough to leave her hungry.
Helen felt her will slowly seep from her but she retained sufficient curiosity to ask. ‘How will you make me do that?’
Martin did not answer.
Instead, he showed her.
Much later, Martin reached out with one hand and snuffed the candles by the bed. His other arm was occupied, cradling Helen’s warm body by his side. She was asleep, thoroughly exhausted, having said the word he had wanted to hear a great many times indeed. Martin smiled into the dark. She still needed more practice—he was quite certain he would be able to convince her of that later. With her head once more on his shoulder, her soft curls like silk at his throat, he listened to the storm passing overhead. Wind lashed the trees in the Home Wood, rain pelted down on the gravel walks. Helen had not even noticed the tempest without, being too much caught up in the tempest they had created within.
With a deep sigh, Martin closed his eyes. Contentment coursed his veins like a drug, bringing peace and satisfaction in its wake. His house was in order, fair Juno safe by his side. Tonight, with any luck, he would get some sleep. Maybe not much, but some. And, unlike the last stormy night he had spent with fair Juno, the torture between times
would be much more to his taste. He closed his hand over one full breast. And fell asleep.
Helen awoke to rub her nose, then realised that the curly black hair tickling it was attached to Martin’s chest. She stifled a giggle and pushed it aside, then glanced up to find lazy eyes watching her, a suspicious twinkle in their depths.
With a smile, Helen stretched, cat-like, and watched the twinkle intensify to a satisfying gleam. As she felt the arm about her tighten, she pressed her hands against his chest. Heavens! She needed at least two minutes to think! ‘What is your latest dream, my lord?’ she purred, hoping to distract him and appease her curiosity in one stroke.
Martin relaxed and laughed, the warmth in his eyes spreading like a languorous flame over her skin. ‘Should I tell you?’ he asked rhetorically. Then, ‘Perhaps I should.’ His eyes held hers, mock-serious. ‘I don’t think it’ll be too hard for you to handle.’ His smile grew. ‘Well within your capacity, so to speak.’
Feeling the rumble of his laughter, Helen scowled. ‘Martin!’
‘Ah—yes. Well, having had an opportunity to assess your abilities, my love, and having ascertained that you really do enjoy our recent activities for their own delight, as it were, I feel secure in the knowledge that, once you hear of my
dream, you’ll not be called on to sacrifice any feelings of your own in its accomplishment.’
Helen glared at him. ‘Martin! What is it?’
Martin eyed her a little warily. ‘Promise not to laugh?’
Puzzled, Helen’s glare turned to a stare. ‘Why should I laugh?’ she asked. When he said nothing further, she grimaced. ‘All right. I promise not to laugh. Now, what is this dream of yours?’
‘I have this vision of you standing before the mantelpiece— I think the one in the library at Merton House…’ Martin paused, then went on in a rush, ‘With my son balanced on your hip.’
Helen blinked. ‘Oh,’ she said, her voice non-committal. But she could not stop the smile that curved her lips, then deepened to light her eyes. Gazing deep into the grey eyes that held hers, and seeing the hesitant expression that lingered there, Helen decided that she had clearly reached the end of her rainbow and found her pot of gold. Rapidly blinking to clear her eyes of the tears of happiness that threatened, she swallowed and said, ‘Oh, Martin!’ before throwing her arms about his neck and burying her face in his shoulder.
His arms came up to close about her, holding her close. ‘I take it that means you approve?’
A mumble which was clearly an assent answered him. Martin grinned and hugged her more tightly, conscious of the dampness of tears on his shoulder.
Once she had regained her composure, Helen could not resist asking, ‘Is that a typical dream for a rake?’
‘I assure you it’s this rake’s dream.’ Martin moved to glance down at her. He smiled slowly. ‘Now come and do your bit to make it real.’
Helen’s smile answered him. ‘Gladly, my lord.’
She reached up and drew his lips down to hers and, in truth, there was no dream in her mind beyond the attainment of his.
* * * * *
Turn the page for an extract from
Stephanie Laurens’s next fabulous Regency romance
–
FOUR IN HAND,
coming soon from MIRA Books!
T
he rattle of the curtain rings sounded like thunder. The head of the huge four-poster bed remained wreathed in shadow yet Max was aware that for some mysterious reason Masterton was trying to wake him. Surely it couldn’t be noon already?
Lying prone amid his warm sheets, his stubbled cheek cushioned in softest down, Max contemplated faking slumber. But Masterton knew he was awake. And knew that he knew, so to speak. Sometimes, the damned man seemed to know his thoughts before he did. And he certainly wouldn’t go away before Max capitulated and acknowledged him.
Raising his head, Max opened one very blue eye. His terrifyingly correct valet was standing, entirely immobile,
plumb in his line of vision. Masterton’s face was impassive. Max frowned.
In response to this sign of approaching wrath, Master-ton made haste to state his business. Not that it was
his
business, exactly. Only the combined vote of the rest of the senior staff of Delmere House had induced him to disturb His Grace’s rest at the unheard-of hour of nine o’clock. He had every reason to know just how dangerous such an undertaking could be. He had been in the service of Max Rotherbridge, Viscount Delmere, for nine years. It was highly unlikely his master’s recent elevation to the estate of His Grace the Duke of Twyford had in any way altered his temper. In fact, from what Masterton had seen, his master had had more to try his temper in dealing with his unexpected inheritance than in all the rest of his thirty-four years.
“Hillshaw wished me to inform you that there’s a young lady to see you, Your Grace.”
It was still a surprise to Max to hear his new title on his servants’ lips. He had to curb an automatic reaction to look about him for whomever they were addressing. A lady. His frown deepened. “No.” He dropped his head back into the soft pillows and closed his eyes.
“
No
, Your Grace?”
The bewilderment in his valet’s voice was unmistakable. Max’s head ached. He had been up until dawn. The evening
had started badly, when he had felt constrained to attend a ball given by his maternal aunt, Lady Maxwell. He rarely attended such functions. They were too tame for his liking; the languishing sighs his appearance provoked among all the sweet young things were enough to throw even the most hardened reprobate entirely off his stride. And while he had every claim to that title, seducing débutantes was no longer his style. Not at thirty-four.
He had left the ball as soon as he could and repaired to the discreet villa wherein resided his latest mistress. But the beautiful Carmelita had been in a petulant mood. Why were such women invariably so grasping? And why did they imagine he was so besotted that he’d stand for it? They had had an almighty row, which had ended with him giving the luscious ladybird her congé in no uncertain terms.
From there, he had gone to White’s, then Boodles. At that discreet establishment, he had found a group of his cronies and together they had managed to while the night away. And most of the morning, too. He had neither won nor lost. But his head reminded him that he had certainly drunk a lot.
He groaned and raised himself on his elbows, the better to fix Masterton with a gaze which, despite his condition, was remarkably lucid. Speaking in the voice of one instructing a dimwit, he explained. “If there’s a woman to see me, she can’t be a lady. No lady would call here.”
Max thought he was stating the obvious but his henchman stared woodenly at the bedpost. The frown, which had temporarily left his master’s handsome face, returned.
Silence.
Max sighed and dropped his head on to his hands. “Have you seen her, Masterton?”
“I did manage to get a glimpse of the young lady when Hillshaw showed her into the library, Your Grace.”
Max screwed his eyes tightly shut. Masterton’s insistence on using the term “young lady” spoke volumes. All of Max’s servants were experienced in telling the difference between ladies and the sort of female who might be expected to call at a bachelor’s residence. And if both Masterton and Hillshaw insisted the woman downstairs was a young lady, then a young lady she must be. But it was inconceivable that any young lady would pay a nine o’clock call on the most notorious rake in London.
Taking his master’s silence as a sign of commitment to the day, Masterton crossed the large chamber to the wardrobe. “Hillshaw mentioned that the young lady, a Miss Twinning, Your Grace, was under the impression she had an appointment with you.”
Max had the sudden conviction that this was a nightmare. He rarely made appointments with anyone and certainly not with young ladies for nine o’clock in the morning. And particularly
not with unmarried young ladies. “Miss Twinning?” The name rang no bells. Not even a rattle.
“Yes, Your Grace.” Masterton returned to the bed, various garments draped on his arm, a deep blue coat lovingly displayed for approval. “The Bath superfine would, I think, be most appropriate?”
Yielding to the inevitable with a groan, Max sat up.
O
NE FLOOR BELOW
, Caroline Twinning sat calmly reading His Grace of Twyford’s morning paper in an armchair by his library hearth. If she felt any qualms over the propriety of her present position, she hid them well. Her charmingly candid countenance was free of all nervousness and, as she scanned a frankly libellous account of a garden party enlivened by the scandalous propensities of the ageing Duke of Cumberland, an engaging smile curved her generous lips. In truth, she was looking forward to her meeting with the Duke. She and her sisters had spent a most enjoyable eighteen months, the wine of freedom a heady tonic after their previously monastic existence. But it was time and more for them to embark on the serious business of securing their futures. To do that, they needs must enter the
ton
, that glittering arena thus far denied them. And, for them, the Duke of Twyford undeniably held the key to that particular door.
Hearing the tread of a masculine stride approach the
library door, Caroline raised her head, then smiled confidently. Thank heavens the Duke was so easy to manage.
By the time he reached the ground floor, Max had exhausted every possible excuse for the existence of the mysterious Miss Twinning. He had taken little time to dress, having no need to employ extravagant embellishments to distract attention from his long and powerful frame. His broad shoulders and muscular thighs perfectly suited the prevailing fashion. His superbly cut coats looked as though they had been moulded on to him and his buckskin breeches showed not a crease. The understated waistcoat, perfectly tied cravat and shining top-boots which completed the picture were the envy of many an aspiring exquisite. His hair, black as night, was neatly cropped to frame a dark face on which the years had left nothing more than a trace of worldly cynicism. Disdaining the ornamentation common to the times, His Grace of Twyford wore no ring other than a gold signet on his left hand and displayed no fobs or seals. In spite of this, no one setting eyes on him could imagine he was other than he was—one of the most fashionable and wealthy men in the
ton
.
He entered his library, a slight frown in the depths of his midnight-blue eyes. His attention was drawn by a flash of movement as the young lady who had been calmly reading his copy of the morning
Gazette
in his favourite armchair by the hearth folded the paper and laid it aside, before
rising to face him. Max halted, blue eyes suddenly intent, all trace of displeasure vanishing as he surveyed his unexpected visitor. His nightmare had transmogrified into a dream. The vision before him was unquestionably a houri. For a number of moments he remained frozen in rapturous contemplation. Then, his rational mind reasserted itself. Not a houri. Houris did not read the
Gazette
. At least, not in his library at nine o’clock in the morning. From the unruly copper curls clustering around her face to the tips of her tiny slippers, showing tantalisingly from under the simply cut and outrageously fashionable gown, there was nothing with which he could find fault. She was built on generous lines, a tall Junoesque figure, deep-bosomed and wide-hipped, but all in the most perfect proportions. Her apricot silk gown did justice to her ample charms, clinging suggestively to a figure of Grecian delight. When his eyes returned to her face, he had time to take in the straight nose and full lips and the dimple that peeked irrepressibly from one cheek before his gaze was drawn to the finely arched brows and long lashes which framed her large eyes. It was only when he looked into the cool grey-green orbs that he saw the twinkle of amusement lurking there. Unused to provoking such a response, he frowned.