Fair Juno

by Stephanie Laurens

  With a benedictory smile, Hazelmere moved off, firmly removing his by now intrigued wife.

  Finding his field clear, Martin allowed a rakish smile to surface. He moved to Helen’s side, one black brow rising quizzically. ‘Revealed by the hand of fate, fair Juno.’

  The softly spoken words caressed Helen’s ear, sending a delicious shiver down her spine. ‘Helen,’ she whispered back urgently, searching for some semblance of equilibrium. She dared not look at him until she had found it.

  ‘You’ll always be fair Juno to me,’ came the outrageous reply. ‘What man of flesh and blood could let that image go? Just think of the memories.’

  Helen decided she had better not—her composure was rattled enough already.

  Calmly, Martin appropriated her hand and dropped a light kiss on her fingers, smiling at the tremor of awareness the action provoked.

  Wide-eyed, Helen glanced up at him, only to glance away rapidly. The glow in his eyes suggested he was going to be outrageous; his smile was a declaration of devilish intent.

  Indignation came to her rescue. ‘I take it you’re acquainted with Hazelmere?’

  Martin’s eyes danced. ‘We’re old friends—very old friends.’

  Of that Helen had not a doubt. For years, Marc had sternly protected her from the advances of the rakes of the ton; now, in his own drawing-room, he had all but handed her into Martin Willesden’s arms. Typical! Helen repressed a most unladylike snort.

  With his usual good manners, Ferdie had drifted away when Martin had approached so purposefully. With a warning glance for the reprobate beside her, Helen raised her voice. ‘Ferdie—have you and Lord Merton met?’

  It transpired that they had not. Helen performed the introductions, adding for Martin’s benefit, ‘Ferdie is Hazelmere’s cousin.’

  Martin frowned slightly. ‘The one who rode his father’s stallion?’

  To Helen’s amusement, Ferdie blushed. ‘Didn’t think anyone would remember that.’

  ‘I’ve a particularly good memory,’ Martin averred, his eyes seeking Helen’s. Trapping her gaze, he added, his voice low, ‘Particularly vivid.’

  It was Helen’s turn to blush. Studiously avoiding Ferdie’s interested eye, she placed a hand on Martin’s sleeve, risking the contact in the pursuit of greater safety. ‘Have you met Dorothea’s grandmother, my lord?’ With a nod for Ferdie, she purposefully steered Martin in the direction of the dowagers, hoping that in their presence he would get little opportunity to exercise his facility for unnerving innuendo.

  To her relief, as they circulated among Hazelmere’s guests, Martin behaved in a manner which when she later had time to consider it, only confirmed her assessment of his experience and expertise. He chatted easily with whoever she introduced him to, the ready charm she had always associated with the most dangerous species of rake very apparent. However, at no time did he give any indication of wishing to leave her side. In fact, his attitude declared that, had it been permissible, he would unhesitatingly have monopolised her time.

  He made his preference so clear that both the Dowager, Marc’s mother, and Lady Merion, Dorothea’s grandmother, took great delight in twitting them both over it.

  ‘I gather you’ve been in the colonies for some years, my lord. I dare say it takes time to remember our ways?’

  The pointed look Lady Merion bent on Martin should, by rights, have flustered even him. Yet, to her horror, Helen heard his deep voice reply, ‘Having but recently laid claim to an exceptionable memory, I can hardly now advance forgetfulness as my excuse, ma’am.’

  For the life of her, Helen could not resist glancing his way. The grey eyes were glowing and fixed on her face.

  ‘Perhaps, my lord, you should seek guidance in achieving your re-entry to society?’ The Dowager Marchioness’s eyes were even more innocent than her son’s. ‘Perhaps Lady Walford would be willing to assist?’

  Helen blushed furiously.

  ‘A capital notion, ma’am.’ With a smile for the delighted dowagers that relieved Helen of any need to speak, Martin drew her from their questionable safety.

  Her composure severely compromised, Helen tried to act calmly, tried to convince herself that, in the present circumstances, it was she who should be in control, not he, but in that she failed miserably. As the evening progressed, and they went into dinner, she was not even surprised to find that Martin had somehow arranged things so that it seemed natural for him to lead her in and sit on her right.

  Under cover of an uproarious discussion on the latest of the Prince Regent’s peccadilloes, Martin leaned closer and asked, ‘Will you consent to a drive with me in the Park, fair Juno?’

  Helen sent him a glittering glance, intended to convey her disapproval of his continued use of that name. He received it with an unrepentant smile.

  ‘Good. I’ll call for you at eleven tomorrow.’

  Before she could do more than gasp at his effrontery, he was offering her a dish of crab. Helen drew a determined breath. ‘My lord…’ she began.

  ‘My lady?’ he promptly replied, grey eyes intent.

  Frantically searching for some means of bringing him to a sense of his shortcomings in respect of accepted procedures, Helen looked deep into his eyes, saw them calmly predatory, and knew she stood no chance of turning him from his purpose. His gaze held hers and the fire shrouded by the grey glowed bright. One brow rose. Abruptly, Helen looked down at her plate.

  Smoothly, Martin turned back to the company, a confident smile curving his lips.

  Nerves aflutter, Helen decided she would do well to regroup before she took on an opponent of Martin Willesden’s calibre.

  When they adjourned to the drawing-room, the men eschewing their port in favour of joining the ladies, a different light was cast on Martin’s propensities. It was Cecily, Lady Fanshawe, who opened Helen’s eyes to what had, until that moment, escaped her notice, preoccupied as she had been with Lord Merton’s potential for outrageousness. The youthful Cecily, just seventeen, had bubbled about the company in her usual fashion, but had missed being introduced to Martin earlier. Helen performed the introduction and was slightly startled by Cecily’s reaction. The big pansy brown eyes opened wide; Lady Fanshawe simply stared.

  ‘Ohh,’ she finally breathed, her round eyes taking in as much of Martin as she could.

  Tony Fanshawe came up in time to witness his wife’s response. With a deep sigh, he took her arm.

  ‘Go away, Martin,’ he said, and, with a long-suffering look, drew Cecily around. About to lead her off, he paused and glanced back, wicked lights gleaming in his blue eyes. ‘On second thoughts, why not take Helen away, too?’

  Helen glared. They were insufferable, the lot of them! A gaggle of unrepentant rakes.

  Martin’s chuckle brought her around to face him. ‘What a very good idea.’ The nuance he managed to infuse into the words sent her eyes flying wide. Somehow, his fingers had trapped her hand. Held by the glow in his grey eyes, smoky now with an emotion she was coming to recognise, Helen could only stare as he raised her hand to his lips. The gesture was so simple, yet heavy with meaning. The lingering touch of his lips, a warm caress on her fingertips, sent a succession of shivers through her.

  In desperation, Helen blinked—and saw him through Cecily’s eyes. She was used to men being the same height as she, but Martin was a good half-head taller. His dark hair curled lightly; there was the faintest trace of silver at his temples. The grey eyes, so mesmeric, were watching her from under arched and hooded lids. The lines at their corners suggested that laughter came easily to their owner. His cheeks were lean and tanned, his lips fine-drawn and firm. One glance at his jaw gave warning of his temper.

  With a little sigh, Helen acknowledged the face and moved on to the figure. She was a large woman, junoesque in truth, but he made her feel small. His shoulders were wide, his chest broad, leaving an impression of lean muscle cloaking a large and powerful frame. She knew he moved gracefully, as an athlete would; the idea of waltzing
with him was more than just attractive.

  As she realised, with a jolt, just how long she had stood staring, her eyes flew to his. Heightened consciousness, of him, of her susceptibility, of how much he could see, threatened to overwhelm her. Her breath caught in her throat. She looked away, nervous, confused and more at sea than she had ever been. ‘Can you see Ferdie anywhere?’

  Martin heard the panic in her tone. Smiling, he dutifully scanned the room. Her response was encouraging but now was not the time to press her further. With consummate ease, he took charge. ‘He’s by the fireplace.’ Tucking her hand into the crook of his arm, he strolled back into the fray of conversation.

  Grateful for his understanding, for she knew it was that, Helen took the opportunity he gave her to reassemble her faculties and get her feet back on the ground. As they circulated about the big room, she recalled a comment of Dorothea’s that being in Marc’s care often felt like being caught in a web, with him, the spider, in the centre. That was exactly how she now felt, except that it was Martin at the centre of her web. It was a protective web; the bonds did not hurt. But they were there, inescapable, unbreakable.

  Her relief was very real when Hazelmere approached them, saying to Martin, ‘Tony and I are for White’s. Gisborne—’ he waved in the direction of his brother-in-law ‘—is coming, too. Are you for the tables?’

  Martin smiled. ‘Lead the way.’

  Hazelmere laughed. ‘I didn’t think you’d have changed.’ With a nod for Helen, he left them.

  Martin had taken possession of her hand. Helen glanced up and discovered that the expression in his eyes went far beyond the acceptable, a warm and distinctly intimate caress. He raised her fingers to his lips.

  ‘Until tomorrow, fair Juno.’

  It was all she could do to nod her farewell.

  Much later, in the privacy of her chamber, Helen stared at her reflection in the mirror, and wondered when such madness would end.

  Chapter Six

  Not soon, was Helen’s conclusion when, the next day, Martin called as promised to take her for a drive in the Park. Bowling along beneath the trees, their leaves just beginning to turn, perched in her familiar spot beside him on the box seat, she discovered that he intended to give her no chance to ponder the wisdom of the outing. Instead, he seemed intent on following the Dowager Marchioness of Hazelmere’s advice and enlisting her aid.

  ‘Who is that quiz in the shocking purple toque?’

  Helen followed his glance. ‘That’s Lady Havelock. She’s a bit of a dragon.’

  ‘And looks it. Does she still hold sway with the Melbourne House set?’

  ‘Not so much these days, now that Lady Melbourne lives so retired.’ Helen raised her hand in acknowledgement of a bow from a painted fop.

  ‘And who’s he?’

  At the possessive growl, Helen’s lips twitched. ‘Shiffy? Sir Lumley Sheffington.’

  ‘Oh.’ Martin glanced again at the white-painted face above an outrageous apricot silk bow. ‘I remember now. I’d forgotten about him—entirely understandable.’

  Helen giggled. Shiffy was one of the more memorable figures among the ton.

  Martin kept up a steady stream of questions—on the other occupants of the Park, on the happenings in town and whether certain personages were as he remembered them. Engrossed with her answers, Helen did not notice the passage of time. Their hour together vanished more swiftly, and with greater ease, than she had expected.

  Descending the steps of Helen’s small house in Half Moon Street, having seen his goddess safely inside, Martin startled Joshua, standing at the bays’ heads, with an exceedingly broad grin. Gaining the box seat and retrieving the reins, Martin waved Joshua to his perch. ‘The day bodes fair, my projects proceed apace—what more could a man ask for?’

  Scrambling up behind, Joshua rolled his eyes heavenwards. ‘No mystery what’s come over you,’ he muttered, sotto voce, making a mental note to learn more of Lady Walford. In blissful ignorance of his henchman’s deductions, Martin gave his horses the office, well-pleased with his beginning.

  As the week progressed, he had even more reason for satisfaction. His re-entry to the ton was accomplished more easily than he had hoped. A visit to the theatre, escorting fair Juno to view the latest of Mrs Siddons’ dramatic flights, had brought him to the notice of the major hostesses. The pile of white cards stacked upon his mantelpiece grew day by day. Eschewing all subtlety, he determined which of the parties his delight intended to grace by dint of the simple expedient of asking. Thus forearmed, he felt assured of enjoying those assemblies he deigned to attend.

  Climbing the stairs to Lady Burlington’s ballroom for the first of the larger gatherings on his list, Martin spared a moment to contemplate how the ton would receive him. Invitations were one thing, but how would they treat the black sheep in the flesh? If he was to marry Helen, the ton’s approbation was a hurdle he would have to clear.

  He need not have worried.

  ‘Lord Merton!’ Lady Burlington positively pounced on him. ‘I’m so thrilled you could find time to attend my little party.’

  Replying all but automatically to his hostess’s gushing comments, Martin reflected that, from what he could see, her ‘little party’ numbered over one hundred.

  ‘Pleased you could come.’

  The gruff accents of Lord Burlington were a welcome release. After shaking hands, Martin moved into the room, only to find himself surrounded. By women.

  Blonde hair in ringlets, black hair in curls, every shade and hue pressed in on every side. A medley of perfumes washed over him, light fractured in their gems. ‘Lord Merton!’ was on each pair of lips. The hostesses of the ton, many the very women who had, thirteen years before, closed their doors in his face, all but fell over themselves in their eagerness to impress him with their credentials. Manfully quelling an unnerving impulse to laugh in their powdered faces, Martin drew on his experience, cloaking his antipathy with just the right degree of patronising superiority, and accepted their admiration as became one who knew how their games were played.

  ‘I do hope you’ll find time to call.’

  Martin allowed a black brow to rise at the tone of that particular invitation, coming from a blonde whose eyes vied with her diamonds in hardness. He could hardly be unaware of the heated glances some of the younger matrons were flinging his way. Cynically, he wondered if, had he returned as plain Martin Willesden, unadorned with an earldom and colossal wealth, he would have been welcomed quite so enthusiastically.

  Due to the importunities of the more clinging mesdames, it was late before Martin saw Helen. Instantly, he knew she was aware of him, but, unsure of whether he would notice her, she was making every effort not to notice him. With a devilish smile, he nodded a brief but determined farewell to his court and escaped across the ballroom to his goddess’s side.

  Helen knew he was approaching long before he reached her. It was not simply that the majority of female eyes in the vicinity had suddenly found a common target, nor that Mrs Hitchin, with whom she was conversing, had stopped, slack-jawed, in the middle of a sentence, her eyes fixed on a point beyond Helen’s left shoulder. Her flickering nerves would have told her he was near and getting nearer even had she been blindfold.

  Quelling her traitorous senses, ignoring her increasing pulse, Helen turned and, smoothly, surrendered her hand into his. ‘My lord.’ His fingers closed about hers in a warm, possessive clasp. Determined not to fluster, Helen curtsied.

  Martin raised her, then, slowly, deliberately, holding her gaze with is, he carried her fingers to his lips.

  For an instant, Helen could have sworn that the entire host held its breath. Kissing ladies’ hands was a gallantry no longer common; pray heaven that they put it down to his years away. She, of course, knew better. The glow in his eyes warmed her, the smouldering grey igniting a familiar warmth within.

  To her relief, years of ballroom etiquette came to her rescue. ‘My lord, pray allow me to present Mrs Hitch
in.’

  Martin had no interest in Mrs Hitchin. He bestowed a civil nod upon the lady, and a comforting smile. But he did not let go of Juno’s hand. Instead, he tucked it into his arm. ‘My dear Lady Walford, there’s a waltz about to start. I do hope Mrs Hitchin will excuse us?’

  Helen blinked. How dared he simply walk up and appropriate her? Then full understanding of what he was suggesting broke upon her. A waltz? Held in his arms—and she could imagine just how. Heaven help her—how was she to manage? Just the thought made her feel weak.

  In panic, she looked about for assistance. Mrs Hitchin was no use; the woman was positively basking in the glow of Martin’s smile. But before she could find a lifeline to cling to, Martin was moving towards the area of the room given over to the dancers.

  ‘I promise not to bite.’

  His words, gentle in her ear, stiffened her resolve. She was being silly—missish, she who did not know the meaning of the word. He would not do anything truly outrageous in the middle of a ballroom, would he?

  And then he was drawing her into his arms, holding her every bit as close as she had feared. They joined the whirling couples on the floor. A host of emotions she had never experienced before being exposed to Martin Willesden threatened to overcome her. Helen struggled to quell them. She could not—must not—let him get away with this…this commandeering of her senses.

  ‘My lord,’ she said firmly, raising her eyes to his.

  ‘My lady,’ he replied, his tone investing the term with meaning far beyond the mundane, his eyes confirming his intent.

  Helen felt her eyes grow round. Great heavens! He was seducing her. In the middle of Lady Burlington’s ballroom, with half the ton looking on. Rapidly revising her estimates of his potential, she allowed her lids to veil her eyes and sought for a lighter note. ‘Does polite society thus far meet with your approval?’