It was the first time she had been in love—the first time she had been the object of love. She comforted herself that it was only the novelty that sent her senses skittering in delicious disarray whenever she heard his voice. Doubtless, the effect would wane with time. A niggling suspicion that it would not, and that she had no real desire that it should, undermined her fragile confidence.
The truth was, she could not quite believe it was all real, that the rainbow that had appeared on her horizon would not simply vanish with the next dawn. Love was something she had convinced herself she would have to do without—to have it served up to her on a gilt-edged, solid-silver platter was well beyond her expectations. Helen Walford had never been so lucky.
Reconciling herself to her sudden change in fates was an uphill battle, her difficulties compounded by his persistent presence and the distraction of his grey eyes. As her carriage wheels rattled over the cobbles, taking her home to her lonely bed, Helen sat back with a sigh and sent a silent prayer winging heavenwards. Please God that this time would be truly different, that this time the fates could find it in them to be kind. That this time her dreams would not turn to dross, that happiness like Dorothea’s would at long last be hers.
With a little shiver, Helen closed her eyes. And willed it to be so.
* * *
Damian Willesden returned to the capital the next day. Forced by the exigencies of financial commitments to endure a repairing lease with a friend in the country until quarter-day had brought relief, he sauntered into Manton’s Shooting Gallery determined to find congenial company with which to make up for lost time. Instead, he found his brother.
The broad shoulders encased in a perfectly cut coat of the best superfine were quite unmistakable. Martin was shooting with a party of his friends.
Beyond informing him that Martin had indeed returned, hale and whole, and was busying himself taking up his inheritance, his mother had been unusually reticent on the subject of the new Earl. Damian had interpreted this as another display of her well-known indifference to Martin and all his exploits. Even more than she, he had lived in the confident expectation that his reckless older brother would have managed to get himself killed, leaving the title to him. Martin’s continued existence had been a rude shock. To him and his creditors.
A further surprise had awaited him when he had applied to Martin for assistance. That interview, conducted within days of Martin’s return, had left him convinced that he would see little of the Merton revenues while Martin lived. His memories of Martin had been hazy at best; ten years separated them—they had never been close. But he had vaguely supposed that his brother, having spent so many years in the backwaters of the colonies, would be easily enough persuaded to part with his blunt. Instead, the interview had proved most uncomfortable. Pulling the wool over his brother’s sharp grey eyes was not something he would try again soon.
He comforted himself with the reflection that a man of Martin’s known propensities could be counted on to die young. It could only be a matter of time.
Watching the steadiness of the hand that levelled one of Joseph Manton’s famous pistols at the slimmest of wafers propped as target twenty paces down the gallery, Damian reflected that such skills were presumably required in order to support the rakehell status his brother enjoyed. The pistol discharged; the smoke cleared. A small charred hole had appeared in the very centre of the wafer. As Manton himself came forward with congratulations, Damian decided that any hope that an indignant husband might put a term to his brother’s life was nothing more than wishful thinking.
Turning from Desborough and Fanshawe to lay aside his pistol, Martin saw Damian lounging just inside the door. He nodded and watched his brother reluctantly approach. He could not prevent his lips curving in a knowing smile as the fact that it was two days after quarter-day dawned. Damian saw the smile; his expression turned sulky. Martin felt his own expression harden. Studied critically, there was nothing in Damian’s dress to disgust one—his coat was well-cut, although not of the finest quality; the same could be said of his breeches and boots. It was his demeanour that raised brows. At twenty-four, he should have attained the age of reason, together with a little maturity. But his petulant attitude coupled with his expectation that his family must necessarily support his wastrel ways convinced Martin that his brother still had considerable maturing to do.
He raised his brows as Damian halted before him. ‘Returned to the delights of town?’
Damian shrugged. ‘The country’s too slow for my taste.’ He considered asking for an advance on his allowance but rejected the idea. He was not that desperate yet. He nodded at the target. ‘Pretty shooting. Learned in the colonies, did you?’
Martin laughed. ‘No. That was a talent I’d polished long before I departed these shores.’ He paused, then suggested, ‘Why not try your luck?’
For an instant, Damian wavered, drawn to the prospect of joining his magnificent brother in such a fashionable pursuit and in such august company. Then his eye fell on the gold signet on Martin’s right hand and childish resentment clouded his reason. ‘Heaven forbid,’ he said, waving away the pistol Martin held out. ‘Not my style. I ain’t in any danger from irate husbands.’
A little stunned by his own gaucherie, and less than sure what reaction it might provoke, Damian abruptly turned on his heel and walked rapidly from the Gallery.
Tony Fanshawe, standing on Martin’s other side, an unintentional auditor to the scene, threw Damian a curious glance. ‘That pup wants training,’ he said. ‘Deuced bad manners, walking away from an invitation like that.’
Martin, his eyes on his brother’s retreating back, nodded absent-mindedly. ‘I’m afraid,’ he said, ‘that my brother’s manners leave a lot to be desired. In fact, my brother himself falls rather short of the mark.’ Making a mental note to the effect that some time he was going to have to do something about Damian, Martin turned back to his friends and their game of skills.
He loved her.
That refrain replayed in Helen’s head as she revolved about Lady Broxford’s ballroom firmly held in Martin Willesden’s arms. There was no doubt in her mind of its truth; her heart soared as she finally allowed the prospect of spending the rest of her life under Martin’s smoky grey gaze to take definite shape in her mind. The pot of gold at the end of the rainbow was to be hers at last.
She looked up to find the warm grey eyes upon her, a caress in their depths.
‘A penny for your thoughts, my lady.’
The deep, slightly raspy voice sent a cascade of sensations tingling through her. Suppressing a shiver of pure delight, Helen narrowed her eyes in consideration. ‘I don’t know that telling you my thoughts would be at all wise, my lord. Certainly, all precepts dictate I should stay silent.’
‘Oh? They can’t be that scandalous.’
‘They’re not scandalous. You are,’ Helen retorted. ‘I’m sure it’s written somewhere—in the Handbook for Young Ladies under the heading of “How to Deal with Rakes”— that it’s most unwise to do anything to encourage them.’
The grey eyes opened wide. ‘And knowing your thoughts would encourage me?’
Helen tried to return his intent look with one of the greatest blandness. Her partner was undeterred.
‘My dear Helen, I suspect your education was somewhat circumscribed. You certainly never finished that chapter, or you would have read that it’s even more unwise to whet a rake’s appetite.’
At the unrestrained promise in the gravelly voice, Helen’s eyes grew wide. To her relief, they had come to the end of the room and Martin had to give his attention to turning them around. His arm tightened about her, leaving her even more breathless than before. She felt like a lamb about to be devoured by a wolf. For some reason, the idea was quite attractive. Her wits had obviously scattered. With an effort, she sought to collect them.
Martin glanced down at Helen’s face. The eau-de-Nil silk sheath she wore moulded to her ample curves, sliding and sussuratin
g against his coat with every gliding step they took. With the shifting silk to distract her further he doubted her ability to reorientate her thoughts from the salacious direction he had given them. Thoroughly satisfied with her state, he forbore to press her to converse, giving his mind instead to the vexed question of when? When should he ask her to marry him?
He had planned to propose as soon as he was sure she had accepted the idea of being the Countess of Merton and had got over her apparent nervousness regarding a second marriage. His experienced assessment was that any doubts she had harboured were now things of the past. As the last bars of the waltz sounded, he made his decision. There was no reason to wait.
But the ballroom was crowded, the event a ‘sad crush’. The ante-rooms, he knew, would be full of dowagers trying to escape the heat. He would have to reconnoitre.
The music ceased; they whirled to a halt amid the glittering throng. Breathless, wondering what came next, Helen raised her eyes to Martin’s face. Their eyes met, their gazes locked, but before either had time to speak Lord Peterborough materialised from the crowd.
‘There you are, Helen. I must speak to you about this bad habit of yours—letting this reprobate monopolise your time. Won’t do, m’dear—not at all.’
‘Gerry, how long has it been since someone told you you talk too much?’ Martin released Helen to allow her to greet their old friend.
Peterborough slanted a shrewd look at Helen’s radiant countenance. ‘Don’t seem to be having much effect in this case.’ To Helen, he said, ‘Aside from all the other dangers, I dare swear he’s trodden all over your toes—been in the colonies for too long. Come and waltz with a man who knows how.’
With a flourish, he presented his arm to Helen. Laughing, she took it, throwing one last smile at Martin before consenting to be led back to the floor.
Free, Martin embarked on a perambulation designed to explore all potential sites for a declaration among the rooms made available to Lady Broxford’s guests.
Helen was glad of the opportunity dancing with her usual court gave her to reassemble her treacherous wits and still the fluttering of her heart. She had lived in anticipation of Martin’s declaration for the past week; a sense of acute expectation now had her in its grip. She laughed and smiled, teetering on the brink of the greatest happiness she had yet known.
After Peterborough, she danced with Alvanley, then Desborough and even trod a measure with Hazelmere, spared to her by a radiant Dorothea.
After the first few figures of the cotillion, Hazelmere raised a languid brow. ‘I take it the pleasures of this Little Season met with your approval?’
Sensing a deeper meaning hidden beneath the urbane drawl, Helen threw him a suspicious glance but answered airily, ‘Why, yes. It’s all been most enjoyable.’ Nothing could keep the sheer happiness from her voice.
Both black brows rose; the hazel eyes watching her were as sharp as ever. ‘I wonder why,’ Hazelmere mused. To Helen’s heartfelt relief, her long-time protector forbore to tease her, although his hazel eyes suggested that her joy was transparently obvious.
As he raised her from her final curtsy, Hazelmere said, ‘I fear I should draw Miss Berry to your notice. She’s been trying to attract your attention for some time.’
Following his gaze to where small, bird-like Miss Berry perched on a sofa at the side of the room, Helen chuckled. ‘Poor dear. I dare say she feels she’s missing out on things, now she’s so deaf.’
Hazelmere’s lips quirked but he refrained from further comment. He escorted Helen across the room, leaving her ensconced on the sofa, lending a sympathetic ear to Miss Berry.
From the opposite side of the ballroom, partially screened by a potted palm, Damian Willesden eyed the voluptuous figure in eau-de-Nil silk. He frowned, chewing his lip in vexation. He had come to the Broxfords’ without an invitation, knowing no hostess would turn him from her door. But doing the pretty by a lot of curst females was hardly his style. He had only come because of what his friend Percy Witherspoon had let fall, of the bets regarding his brother’s impending marriage.
He had refused to believe Percy but the entries in Boodle’s wagers book had been too numerous to ignore. He stared across the room at Lady Walford; disaster stared back at him. Supremely confident that he would eventually inherit the Merton estates together with the sizeable fortune his mother insisted on tying to the title, sublimely sure that Martin would never trade his free-wheeling rake’s existence for one of dull matrimony, he had borrowed until he was ear-deep in debt. Damian swallowed convulsively. It was a wonder the cent percenters were not hounding him already.
No—not yet. They would wait until he was no longer Martin’s heir before they moved. Even then, they would start slowly, expecting him to be able to persuade his brother to fish him out of the River Tick. But when they found out Martin had no intention of rescuing him… Never one to dwell on uncomfortable fact, Damian let that thought fade.
He hugged the shadow of the palm and cogitated on his fate—and how to escape it. Ever fertile in subterfuge, his brain fastened on the essential element of his discomfort. It was all quite simple, really. He would just have to see what he could do to prevent this ill-advised marriage.
Having evaded all Miss Berry’s leading questions, Helen finally rose, leaving the old lady with a fond smile. She looked about the room, but could not spot Martin’s dark head amid the throng. Knowing he would seek her with the Hazelmeres and Fanshawes, in whose company she had come to the ball, she headed in the direction of the chaise on which she had last seen Dorothea.
She had moved but mere feet into the crowd when a hand on her arm halted her.
‘Lady Walford?’
Helen turned to see a youth—no, a man, she revised, acknowledging the unformed features that had led her astray. Pale blue eyes returned her regard. There was something vaguely familiar about the gentleman, something about the set and shape of his head, but she was sure she had never met him before. ‘Sir?’
Damian summoned a smile. ‘I’m Damian Willesden— Martin’s brother.’
‘Oh.’ Helen returned his smile readily. ‘How do you do?’ Did Martin know his brother was here?
Damian bowed over her hand. ‘I haven’t seen Martin yet. Is he here?’ He knew it was imperative that no hint of the distance between Martin and himself should show.
‘I saw him earlier in the evening.’ Helen raised her head to glance around. ‘I’m sure he’s still about, somewhere, but it’s so hard to find anyone in this crush.’
Damian fastened on the comment eagerly. ‘Perhaps we could move to that alcove there.’ He pointed to where a curved niche in the wall held a statuette. ‘I’m most curious as to how Martin’s been faring, getting back into the swim of things.’
Helen took his proffered arm, wondering why he was not addressing such queries to his brother direct.
‘I’ve just returned from the country and haven’t had a chance to speak to Martin yet. But,’ said Damian, striving to infuse his light voice with meaning, ‘I have heard certain rumours, linking my brother’s name with that…of a certain lady.’
Helen blushed. ‘Mr Willesden, I would suggest that rumour is an insubstantial entity and that you might be wise to wait for confirmation before you jump to conclusions.’
Damian looked grave, ‘I can appreciate your feelings, Lady Walford, and if the case were straightforward I would share your reservations. However…’ he paused, frowning ‘…I feel a certain degree of…affection for Martin and would be sorry to see him in difficulties once more.’
‘Difficulties?’ Helen was entirely at sea. What difficulties was Martin’s brother alluding to—and why to her? ‘Sir, I’m afraid you will have to be a great deal more direct if I’m to understand you.’
Bowing his head to hide an irrepressible smirk, Damian obliged. But when he spoke again, his voice and features were serious, as befitted his assumed role. ‘As you doubtless know, Martin returned from the colonies to take up his inheritance.
Naturally, what wealth he now has derives entirely from the Merton estates. And, due to past bad management, the Merton estates are kept afloat by my mother’s funds.’ Pausing to let the implications sink in, Damian gave thanks for his eldest brother’s failings. Thanks to George’s incompetence, he had the perfect threat to remove Lady Walford from Martin’s scene. What woman would marry a man forced to hang on his mother’s sleeve? A hostile mother, at that. And, once Lady Walford drew back from the well-publicised relationship, other ladies similarly disposed would, with any luck, have second thoughts. ‘Unfortunately,’ he continued, ‘Martin and the Dowager have never been on good terms. My mother naturally demands that Martin marry as she dictates. Or else…’
Cold fingers had laid hold of Helen’s heart, squeezing until it hurt, leaving nothing but numbness behind. But she had to hear all of it, understand the whole story. ‘Or else what?’
Damian saw the stricken look in the large green eyes and was momentarily taken aback. Then his own future prospects arose in his mind, stiffening his resolve. ‘Or else she’ll withdraw her funds. The estate will collapse. Martin will be destitute, unable to support the lifestyle he’s accustomed to, the lifestyle expected of the Earl of Merton.’
And he will lose all chance of restoring his home. Helen recalled all too vividly Martin’s face, lit by enthusiasm as he had described the Hermitage and told her how it would be once he had finished refurbishing it. As it had been in the days of his father, he had said. In the past weeks, she had heard even more of his dreams and had come to realise how important they were to him. A bridge, a living link to the father he had lost. The destruction of those dreams was a blow he would feel most cruelly—if he married against his mother’s wishes.
If he married her.
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