Fair Juno

by Stephanie Laurens

  Helen smiled tremulously, aware of a desire to lean into his warmth, to clutch at his hand.

  Quite where the idea sprang from Martin could not later have said. But it suddenly occurred to him that he was masquerading as her husband. And being her husband gave him certain rights. Furthermore, being a rake, he would be mad not to take advantage of those rights. His lips lifted in a wholly devilish smile.

  Helen saw the smile. Her eyes widened. But she got no chance to do anything at all. One strong arm slipped about her, pulling her firmly against him, while the fingers of his other hand tipped her face up. His lips closed over hers, confidently, possessively. And time stood still.

  For an instant, she held firm against that too knowledgeable kiss, but the subtle invitation to greater intimacy was too compelling to resist. Her lips parted; he took immediate advantage, tasting her, teasing her, languidly, expertly exploring her, sending her mind whirling into fathomless sensation. She was dimly aware of the tightening of his arms about her. She melted against him, seeking to press herself against his muscled length. It was utterly delicious, this invitation to delight. The heady taste of him filled her senses; she was oblivious to all else but him.

  Reluctantly, Martin brought the kiss to an end, wishing he could take their interaction further but knowing that was, for the moment, impossible. But at least he had left her with something to remember him by, until he found her in London and continued her seduction.

  Looking down into her dazed eyes, he smiled and, too wise to attempt conversation, led her to the carriage. The groom, studiously straight-faced, jumped down and opened the door. Martin helped his goddess into the coach and saw her settled comfortably. He raised her hand to his lips. ‘Farewell, fair Juno.’ Till next we meet.’

  Helen blinked. The message in his eyes was clear. Then the door was shut. A minute later the carriage lurched into motion. She resisted the urge to scramble to the window, to stare back at him until he was out of sight. There was no need. ‘’Till next we meet,’ he had said. She had no doubt he meant it.

  Still shaken, Helen drew a ragged breath. If only dreams could come true.

  In the inn yard, Martin stood and watched the carriage until it disappeared along the road to London. His impulse was to order his curricle and follow as fast as he was able. But she could not escape. He would find her in London, of that he was sure.

  She was one goddess he had every intention of worshipping.

  Chapter Five

  Three weeks later, Helen was in her chamber, studying the contents of her wardrobe to determine what could, and could not, be used for the upcoming Little Season, when her maid, Janet, put her head around the door.

  ‘You’ve a visitor, m’lady.’

  Before Helen could extricate herself from the silks and satins and ask who, Janet had gone.

  ‘Bother!’ Helen sat on her heels and wondered who it was. The familiar excitement that had simmered just below her surface ever since she had returned to town blossomed. But it could not be him, she reasoned, not at eleven in the morning. With a sigh, she stood and shook out her primrose morning gown, before seating herself before her dressing-table to straighten her curls.

  Her reappearance in the capital had caused a minor sensation among her friends but, luckily, thanks to the discretion of her servants, her disappearance had not been broadcast throughout the ton. Hence, while she had had to sustain a somewhat strained interview with Ferdie Acheson-Smythe, who had read her a lecture on the ills likely to befall women of her class who kept scandalous secrets, and a much more rigorous cross-examination from Tony Fanshawe, the entire episode had passed off without major catastrophe. Throughout her explanations, she had managed to keep the names of her abductor—for she had no evidence that it had really been Hedley Swayne—and her rescuer—who was far too scandalous to be acknowledged—to herself. In this, she had been lucky. Circumstances, in the form of the birth of his son and heir, had kept her self-appointed guardian, Marc Henry, Marquis of Hazelmere, at home in Surrey. If she had had to face his sharp hazel eyes, she was sure she would have been forced to the truth—the whole truth. Thankfully, fate had spared her.

  Descending the stairs, she was conscious of anticipation still pulsing her veins despite the sure knowledge that she would not meet a pair of stormy grey eyes in her small drawing-room. Those eyes, and their warmth, had haunted her; the memory of his lips on hers lay, a jewel enshrined in her memories. But if he looked for her, he would learn her name. And then he would know. Her silly dreams could never come true.

  Startling eyes did indeed meet her when she entered her drawing-room, but they were emerald-green and belonged to Dorothea, Marchioness of Hazelmere.

  ‘Helen!’ Dorothea jumped to her feet, elegantly gowned as always, her face alight with a happiness so radiant that Helen’s breath caught in her throat.

  ‘Thea—what on earth are you doing here? I thought you’d be fixed at Hazelmere for months.’ Helen returned the younger woman’s warm embrace. They had become firm friends since Dorothea’s marriage to Hazelmere, just over a year ago. Helen’s connection with Hazelmere dated from her childhood; she was distantly connected with the Henrys and had spent many of her summers with Hazelmere’s younger sister in Surrey.

  Helen held Dorothea at arm’s length, conscious of a pang of dismal jealousy that she would never experience the joy that shone from Dorothea’s face. ‘How’s my godson?’ she asked, smiling determinedly.

  ‘Darcy’s fine.’ Dorothea smiled back, linking her arm in Helen’s. Together, they strolled through the open French windows and into the small courtyard.

  An ironwork seat with a padded cushion stood facing the bank of flowerbeds, the sun-warmed house wall at its back. As they sank on to the cushions, Dorothea explained, ‘I’ve installed him on the second floor of Hazelmere House. Mytton doesn’t know how to react. As for Murgatroyd— he’s torn between pride and handing in his notice.’

  Helen grinned. Hazelmere’s butler and his valet were well-known to her. ‘But how did you convince Marc you were well enough to come to town? I was sure he would keep you in semi-permanent seclusion until Darcy was in leading strings, at the very least.’

  ‘Quite simple, really,’ explained Dorothea airily. ‘I merely pointed out that if I was well enough to share his bed I was certainly well enough to endure the rigours of the Season.’

  Helen’s laughter pealed forth. ‘Oh, gracious!’ she gasped, once she was able. ‘What I would have given to have been able to see his face.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Dorothea, emerald eyes twinkling. ‘It really was quite something.’ She turned to study Helen. ‘But enough of my managing husband. What’s this I hear of a disappearance?’

  With practised ease, Helen told her tale. Dorothea did not press her for the details she omitted, merely remarking at the end of the story, ‘Hazelmere hasn’t heard and I don’t see any reason to tell him.’ With a quick smile, she continued, ‘What I came here to do was invite you to dinner on Thursday. Just the family, those who are in town. It’s too early yet for anything formal and we’ll have enough of that once the Season begins. You will come, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Helen. Then she grimaced. ‘Mind you, by then Hazelmere will have heard about my escapade. You may tell him from me that there’s no reason for him to concern himself over it and I won’t take kindly to being interrogated over the dinner-table.’

  Dorothea laughed and squeezed her hand. ‘I’ll make sure he behaves.’

  Reflecting that she had perfect confidence in her friend’s ability on that score, Helen smiled at the thought of the mighty Hazelmere being managed, on however small a scale, by his elegant wife.

  Dorothea rose. ‘I have to hurry for I’ve yet to catch Cecily.’

  Helen escorted her guest to the door.

  ‘Come early, if you can,’ Dorothea urged. ‘Darcy’s always so good with you.’ With an affectionate hug and a cheery wave, Dorothea went down the steps to the street and was
handed into the waiting coach by her footman.

  Helen watched her depart, then, smiling, went back upstairs to see which of her gowns would do for Thursday.

  Martin strolled down St James’s oblivious of the noise and bustle that surrounded him. He had yet to learn fair Juno’s name, an aberration he had every intention of rectifying with all possible speed. Returning to town in her wake, he had expected to be able to make enquiries the next day. Fate, however, had stepped in and engineered a crisis on his Leicestershire estate. His presence had been necessary; the ensuing wrangle had forced him to post down to London in search of documents, then back to the country to see his orders executed. When the dust had finally settled, three weeks had flown.

  He had woken this morning determined to make up for lost time. White’s seemed the obvious place to start. He had never let his membership lapse, despite the years spent far afield. Consequently, when challenged, he felt perfectly confident in directing the porter to the membership lists. All proved in order. From the man’s change in manner, Martin assumed his ascension to the title was common knowledge. He was bowed into the rooms with all due deference.

  He strolled through the interconnecting chambers, pausing to scan the scattered groups for signs of familiar faces. As it transpired, it was they who recognised him.

  ‘Martin?’

  The question had him turning to meet hazel eyes on a level with his own. Delighted, Martin grinned. ‘Marc!’

  They shook hands warmly. After they had exchanged their news, and Martin had duly exclaimed over his friend’s recent marriage, Hazelmere gestured to the rooms ahead.

  ‘Tony’s here somewhere. He’s married too. To Dorothea’s sister, as it happens.’

  Martin turned laughing eyes on him. ‘That must have caused comment. How did Tony take the ribbing about always following your lead?’

  ‘Strangely, this time, I don’t think he cared.’

  They found Anthony, Lord Fanshawe, and various other members of what had once been Martin’s set, ensconced in one of the back rooms. Martin’s entrance caused a mild sensation. He was bombarded with questions, which he answered with good grace, picking up the threads of long-ago friendships, and, to his surprise, gradually relaxing into what had once been his milieu. With so many present, he put aside his questions on fair Juno. To Hazelmere or Fanshawe, his oldest friends, he might admit to an interest in an unknown widow. But to raise speculation in so many minds was not his present aim.

  Leaving the club some hours later, still in company with Hazelmere and Fanshawe, he wryly reflected that at least he had made a start at re-establishing himself socially.

  They were about to part, when Hazelmere stayed him. ‘I’ve just remembered. Come to dinner tomorrow—we’re having an informal affair, just family. Tony’s coming, so you can meet both our wives.’ He smiled proudly. ‘And my heir.’

  ‘God, yes!’ said Fanshawe. ‘Come and add to the mood. It’ll be chaos anyway.’

  Martin could not help his laugh. ‘Very well. I have to confess I’m dying to meet your paragons.’

  ‘Six, then. We still dine early at present.’

  With a nod and a wave, they parted. Striding along the pavement in the direction of his newly refurbished home in Grosvenor Square, Martin mused that the new Lady Hazel-mere might well be one who could assist him in discovering fair Juno’s identity.

  Letting himself into his front hall, he surrendered his cane and gloves to his butler, Hillthorpe, who had instantly materialised from beyond the green baize door. Strolling the corridor to his library, Martin was struck again by the silence of the large house. In his memories, there had always been people around—children, friends of his brothers, friends of his parents. All gone now. Only his mother, tied to her room in Somerset, and his younger brother Damian remained. And God knew where Damian was, nor yet how long he was likely to remain. Martin’s expression hardened, then he shrugged aside all thought of his younger brother. Damian could take care of himself.

  Sinking into a newly upholstered chair, a glass of the finest French brandy in his hand, Martin considered his house. It was empty—indubitably empty. He needed to fill it—with life, with laughter. That was what was still missing. He had rectified the damp and the decay and had cast forth the unscrupulous. The structure was now sound. It was time to turn his mind, and energies, to rebuilding a family—his family.

  Hazelmere’s transparent pride in his wife and son had impressed him. He knew Marc, and a few hours had sufficed to assure him that the bonds of similarity that had drawn them to each other in earlier years still persisted.

  Perhaps that was why fate had thrown fair Juno at his head?

  Martin’s lips twisted in a self-deprecatory smile. Why could he not just admit that he was besotted with the woman? There was no need to invoke fate or any such infernal agency. Juno was very real and, to him, wholly desirable. And, for the first time in his life, he was not contemplating a temporary relationship, limited by his interest. He was quite sure his interest in Juno would never die.

  With a grin, Martin raised his glass in a silent toast. To his goddess. He tossed off the brandy, then, laying down the glass, left the room.

  Thursday evening was mild and clear. Martin walked the few blocks to Cavendish Square. He was admitted to Hazelmere House by the butler, Mytton, whom he recognised and who, to his amazement, recognised him.

  ‘Welcome back, my lord.’

  ‘Er—thank you, Mytton.’

  Hazelmere strolled into the hall. ‘Thought it was you.’

  Martin shook hands but his eyes were drawn to the woman who had followed his host into the hall. Fair-skinned and slender, a wealth of auburn hair crowned a classically featured face. Martin glanced at Hazelmere, his brows lifting in question.

  The smile on the Marquis’s face was answer enough. ‘Permit me to introduce you to my wife. Dorothea, Marchioness of Hazelmere—Martin Willesden, Earl of Merton.’

  Martin bowed over the slim hand that was bestowed on him; Dorothea curtsied, then, rising, looked up at him frankly, green eyes twinkling. ‘Welcome, my lord. We’ve heard so much about you. You see me positively preening, such is the cachet of being the first hostess to entertain you.’

  The low voice invited him to laugh with her at society’s vagaries. Martin smiled. ‘The pleasure is entirely mine, my lady.’ She was, he thought, entirely enchanting, just right for Hazelmere. His gaze shifted to his friend’s face. Hazel-mere was watching his wife, the proprietorial gleam in his hazel eyes pronounced.

  ‘But do come in and meet the others.’ Dorothea took his arm and led him towards the drawing-room.

  Hazelmere fell in on his other side. ‘You have to exclaim over the heir, too,’ he murmured, hazel eyes dancing with laughter.

  They paused on the threshold of the large drawing-room. A babble of gay voices, unaffected by polite restraint, filled the air. Martin scanned those present, noting Fanshawe, with a pretty blonde chit at his side, talking to an older woman whom he recognised as Marc’s mother, the Dowager Marchioness. Martin remembered her with affection; she was one of the few who had not condemned him over the Monckton affair. By her side was an even older woman in a purple turban. She looked vaguely familiar but he could not place her.

  His gaze travelled on to a group before the fireplace— And froze. A woman stood before the hearth, a baby balanced on one hip, cradled in one curvaceous arm. The light from the wall sconce glittered over her golden curls. Her ample charms were exquisitely sheathed in topaz silk; pearls sheened about her throat. She was taller than the dandy she had been talking to, a slim, slight figure with pale blond hair. But his entrance had brought an abrupt halt to their discourse. Eyes of pale green, wide with shock, were fixed on him.

  With a slow, infinitely wicked smile, Martin made straight for fair Juno.

  As he crossed the large room, he was aware of Dorothea by his side, chattering animatedly. Her comments led him to understand that she thought he was interested in se
eing her son. Martin’s smile deepened; his eyes locked with fair Juno’s. The sight of her, with a baby on her hip, affected him more strongly than he wished to admit. No desire, in a life strewn with desire, had ever been so strong. He wanted to see her standing before his fireplace, with his son in her arms. It was that simple.

  Helen couldn’t breathe. The sight of Martin in the doorway had quite literally scattered her wits. In the middle of a sentence, in reply to a question of Ferdie’s, her voice had simply suspended, stopped, her mind totally focused on the rake across the room. And now he was coming to her side! With an effort, she drew breath, and panic rushed in. Her gaze lifted to his and was trapped in clouds of grey. The quality of his smile registered. It was devilish. Repressing a shiver of pure anticipation, Helen dragged her mind free of his spell. Heavens! She was going to have to do better than this—where had her years of experience flown to?

  Then Dorothea was there, reaching for her son. ‘Let me introduce Lord Darcy Henry.’

  Helen handed Darcy over, desperately struggling to find her mental feet. Dorothea held Darcy for Martin to admire. The Earl of Merton barely glanced at Hazelmere’s heir.

  ‘He’s nearly two months old.’ Dorothea looked up to find that her husband’s old friend was not even looking at her son. She stared at Martin, then realised he was staring at Helen. Dorothea followed his gaze and beheld her usually impervious friend mesmerised, bedazzled, wholly hypnotised by Lord Merton’s grey gaze.

  Fascinated, Dorothea was glancing from Martin to Helen and back again when her husband appeared by her side. Ex-rake that he was, Hazelmere took in the scene in one, comprehensive glance.

  ‘Martin, Lord Merton, allow me to introduce Helen, Lady Walford, Darcy’s godmother.’ Hazelmere turned to his wife. ‘Perhaps, my dear, you’d better take Darcy back to the nursery.’ With an innocent air, the hazel gaze returned to Helen. ‘And perhaps, Helen, you could introduce the others—or at least those Martin can’t recall?’