Fair Juno

by Stephanie Laurens

  ‘My dear, dear Lady Walford!’ Hedley Swayne was on his feet and approaching.

  Helen’s eyes grew round as she saw him place his glass on the table. She stood rooted to the spot in surprise as he advanced on her, arms spread wide as if intending to scoop her ample charms into his embrace. When one arm slipped about her, Helen came to her senses with a jolt. ‘Mr Swayne!’ She brought up her hands to ward him off. To her surprise, he jumped back, as if she had threatened him with a burning brand. Then she focused on her fingers and realised they were still liberally coated with dough.

  When Hedley stared, nonplussed, at the threat to his immaculate suiting, Helen struggled to swallow her giggles. Determinedly, she replaced her hands in the dough. As long as her fingers constituted such deadly weapons, she was safe. ‘Mr Swayne,’ she reiterated, striving for calm. ‘I have no idea what rumours you have heard, but I assure you I do not wish to discuss them.’

  Hedley Swayne frowned, clearly piqued at having his orchestrated performance cut short. ‘All very well for you to say, m’dear lady,’ he said peevishly. ‘But people will talk, y’know.’

  ‘I dare say,’ Helen replied discouragingly. ‘But whatever they might say is of no concern to me. Rumour is rumour and nothing more.’

  ‘Ah, yes. But this rumour is rather more specific than usual,’ Hedley continued, then, when he glanced up at his hostess and saw the wrath gathering in her clear eyes, he hurriedly expostulated, ‘But that wasn’t what I came here to say—dear me, no!’

  ‘Mr Swayne,’ said Helen, suddenly very weary of his company, ‘I really don’t think that you could have anything to say, on that subject or any other, that I wish to hear.’

  ‘Now don’t be too hasty, dear lady.’ Hedley Swayne took a step back and, to Helen’s wary gaze, seemed to reorganise his forces. ‘I suggest you listen to my reasoning before you make any intemperate judgements.’

  Helen’s lips thinned. Her gaze as bleak as she could make it, she steeled herself to hear him out.

  Encouraged by her silence, Hedley Swayne drew a portentous breath. ‘I regret the need to speak plainly, m’dear lady, but your recent indiscretion with a peer—who shall remain nameless—is the talk of the town. We all understand, of course,’ he went on, ‘that this association is at an end.’ He took several paces towards the door, then turned to look sternly at Helen. ‘Naturally, the entire episode, and the consequent publicity, has left you in an unenviable position. That being so,’ he stated, pacing back towards her again, ‘you must be glad of any offer that will reinstate you in the eyes of society—the censorious eyes of society.’

  Helen had no difficulty restraining her laughter at his measured periods; she could see where his arguments were headed.

  ‘Thus, my dear Lady Walford, you see me here in the guise of a knight in shining armour. I am come to offer you the protection of my name.’

  There was no help for it but to make her refusal as gracious as she could. Helen suspected his motives were not nearly as pure as he made out, but had no wish to antagonise the man unnecessarily, a neighbour at that. ‘Mr Swayne, I do most sincerely value your proposal but I’m afraid I have no intention of marrying again.’

  ‘Oh, there’s no need to fear I’ll claim any rights over the marriage dear lady. A marriage in name only is what I propose. Why, you’re a widow and I—I’m a man about town. I’m sure we’ll deal famously. No need for you to entertain any worries on that head.’

  Unbeknown to Hedley Swayne, his declaration, far from easing Helen’s fears, only added to the deadening misery threatening to pull her down. Martin had offered her so much more—and she had had to refuse him. How cruel of fate to send Hedley Swayne with his mockery of a proposal in the Earl of Merton’s place. ‘Mr Swayne, I truly—’

  ‘No, no! Don’t be hasty. Just think of the advantages. Why, it’ll put paid to all the rumours—you’ll be able to return to London immediately, rather than languish in this backwater.’

  ‘I enjoy the country.’

  ‘Ah…yes.’ For a moment, Hedley’s lights dimmed. Then he brightened. ‘Well if that’s the case, you can take up residence at Creachley. No problem there. Can’t abide the place myself, but there’s no need for you to come back to town if you don’t favour it.’

  Helen drew herself up haughtily. ‘Mr Swayne, I cannot— will not—accept your proposal. Please,’ she said, holding up one dough-encased hand to halt his reaction, ‘say no more on the matter. I have no intention of remarrying. My decision is final.’

  Hedley’s weak-featured face turned sulky. ‘But you must marry me—stands to reason. Merton won’t marry you. He’s ruined you and now there’s nothing left for it but that you must marry. You should marry me, indeed you should.’

  What little reserve was left to Helen evaporated at his petulant tone. ‘Mr Swayne, I am not constrained to marry anyone!’

  Hedley returned her glare belligerently.

  Just how long they would have remained so, locked in a contest of wills, Helen was destined never to learn, for at that moment the sounds of an arrival reached them. Another carriage, wonder of wonders. Her breathing oddly suspended, Helen waited, eyes glued to the door, to see who it was this time.

  When a large, well-remembered broad-shouldered figure blocked out the light, she was not sure whether to feel relieved or apprehensive. She might have guessed Martin would come to find her.

  The cool gaze swept the room, alighting on the occupants frozen in a most peculiar tableau. Martin instantly realised he had walked in on an altercation of sorts. As if on a stage, Helen stared at him from the other side of a deal table, her hands sunk in a copper basin, her golden curls rioting about her face. One glance was enough to tell him that she had not been taking care of herself as she should. Annoyance at her unwise bolt from the capital, which had developed over the long miles from London, grew. But his immediate concern was to relieve her of the obviously unwelcome presence of Hedley Swayne.

  Martin nodded coolly to Helen and strolled into the room. Then he turned his attention to Hedley Swayne. ‘Swayne.’ With the curtest of nods, Martin acknowledged Hedley Swayne’s flustered bow. The man’s face was evidence enough that he had heard the rumours. Had he had the temerity to approach Helen with them? Martin decided that the sooner Hedley Swayne left, the safer it would be—for Hedley Swayne. ‘But I believe you were about to leave, Mr Swayne?’

  Hedley Swayne swallowed. He glanced nervously at Helen.

  Helen sensed his glance but did not return it, too busy drinking in a sight she had convinced herself she would never see again. It meant that she would have to argue with him again, but, right now, she did not care. Just the sound of his deep, raspy voice had sent tingles down her spine. She was alive again. Her eyes roamed the large figure, noting the broad shoulders stretching the blue material of his coat, and the long sweep of muscled thighs encased in buckskin breeches. One lock of thick dark hair had fallen across his brow. She had forgotten the excitement his mere presence generated; for a moment, at least, she would bask in the warmth.

  ‘Actually—no.’

  The tentative response concentrated Martin’s attention firmly on the flustered fop. ‘What do you mean, no?’

  Sheer aggression vibrated in Martin’s growl. Helen blinked and realised the danger. Good God—the last thing she needed was to have to save Hedley Swayne from annihilation by throwing herself into the breach! Knowing Martin, that was what it would take, once he got started.

  ‘What I mean, my lord,’ said Hedley, screwing his courage to its highest pitch, ‘is that before you interrupted, her ladyship and I were engaged in a delicate negotiation and I really don’t think it would be at all considerate of me to leave before we’ve come to an agreement on the matter.’

  A black scowl had invaded Martin’s face. When the stormy grey gaze flicked her way, Helen was no longer sure which of her suitors it was safest to encourage. Martin radiated menace. He also looked very determined. His jaw was set, his eyes were co
ld. Just how far he would go to gain her consent to their marriage she did not feel qualified to judge. Hedley she was sure she could manage; Martin she was sure she could not.

  Martin stalked the few paces to the other side of the table. ‘Just what sort of “delicate negotiation” were you discussing?’

  Helen wished she could have kicked Hedley but he was too far away. Predictably, the fool thrust his chin in the air and stated, ‘As a matter of fact, we were discussing a topic I doubt you have any interest in, my lord. We were discussing marriage.’

  Martin’s black brows flew. ‘I see. Whose?’

  Helen closed her eyes.

  Hedley blinked. ‘Why—ours, naturally.’ He bridled, but before he could say more Martin’s deep voice, carefully controlled, cut him off.

  ‘Contrary to your suppositions, I rather suspect I’m close to becoming an expert on marriage proposals.’

  His grey gaze flicked Helen’s way. Opening her eyes in time to catch it, she suppressed a wince.

  ‘As it happens, I’ve already proposed to Lady Walford. I’m here to repeat that proposal and ask for her ladyship’s… final answer.’

  Hedley Swayne’s jaw dropped.

  Helen resisted the impulse to close her eyes and fake a faint. The subtle emphasis on the last two words did not escape her. Martin was telling her this was the last time— the last chance she would have to grab happiness. He had turned until he was facing her. The grey eyes were watchful, sharply acute. Then, as she watched, a slight smile twisted his long lips.

  ‘Well, my dear?’ The grey gaze became slightly mocking, distinctly untrustworthy. ‘Now that our liaison is public property, it would seem the only respectable solution for you is marriage. It seems you have a choice. The Countess of Merton or Mrs Swayne. Which is it to be?’

  Helen only just managed to swallow her gasp. Outrageous! He had jockeyed her into the position of accepting one of them, or appearing a reckless wanton, blind to society’s rules. Her instinctive response to his manipulation was to reject them both summarily. Martin, at least, knew she did not have to marry. He, damn his grey eyes, was merely using the situation to further his ends. She opened her mouth but was forestalled by his deep, gravelly voice.

  ‘Think carefully, my dear, before you choose.’

  The look in his eyes warned her that flat rejection of them both would not work. Helen drew a tortured breath and struggled to think. Hedley Swayne was looking at her in fascinated wonder. The fact that she had not immediately leaped to accept Martin’s proposal no doubt gave him heart. If she refused them both, then she would face continued pressure, not just from one, but from both. Martin might say it was her final chance—she did not believe him. He was determined and she suspected few had successfully gainsaid him—not in the past thirteen years. Hedley, on the other hand, would hold out hope undiminished if she rejected Martin. He, too, would persist—he had for the past twelve months, with even less encouragement.

  Her gaze locked with the grey eyes across the table, Helen felt all her strength drain. Frowning, she dragged her eyes from Martin’s and, automatically, put up her hand to push back her curls. Both men moved to stop her. Startled, she remembered the state of her hands and, just in time, used her wrist instead. ‘Give me a moment to think,’ she pleaded.

  Her tone twisted through Martin. He frowned. What the devil did she have to think about? He loved her, she loved him—there was no reason to cogitate. She looked so weary, he was tempted to pick her up and put her to bed—to sleep. Which said a great deal about the state to which love had reduced him. Right now, all he wanted was a yes to his proposal, and after that Helen badly needed looking after— all else took second place. The presence of Hedley Swayne was a bonus. He knew Helen’s instinctive dislike of the man—nothing overly strong but simply the natural antipathy of a beautiful woman for a man who had no use for beautiful women. It was, he suspected, just the situation to break down her barriers. He needed her to say yes—after that, he was prepared to devote his life to ensuring that she never regretted it—in fact, to ensuring that she enjoyed her second marriage as completely as she had disliked her first. He waited for her answer, supremely confident as to what it would be.

  Helen wished the ground would open up and swallow her, that Janet would arrive and break the deadlock, anything at all to get out of making her choice. She did not want to marry Hedley Swayne. But, with every passing minute, that fate took firmer shape.

  She had not expected to see Martin again, not after his brutal dismissal of her and his slap in the face at the Barhams’ ball. That had all been reaction, of course, natural, no doubt, in a man of his temperament. But she had imagined that that would be the end of it; why, then, was he here? The answer was staring her in the face, stated plainly in his words. Her heart contracted painfully. He had come because of the scandal.

  How could she have forgotten? Agonised as she imagined what his feelings must be, finding himself once more forced to make an offer by the weight of the ton’s displeasure, she pressed her hands tightly together inside her dough. He was now the Earl of Merton and would be expected to play by society’s rules. Thus, he would be expected to offer for her. But if she accepted, his mother would, she felt sure, have no compunction in disinheriting him. He would lose his dream. She could save him from both fates—social ignominy and maternal retribution—by the simple expedient of marrying Hedley Swayne. If she were already engaged to marry Hedley, Martin would be absolved from offering her his name in place of her reputation. He would then be free to marry a lady of whom his mother approved, and thus gain his most desired objective.

  Martin shifted his weight. Helen noticed; her time was running out. She glanced up and met his gaze. Something of her decision must have shown in her eyes, for, as she watched, his brows descended and his eyes grew stormy.

  ‘I’ve made up my mind,’ she announced, afraid that if she did not get it out quickly her courage would fail her. Her eyes remained on Martin’s face an instant longer before she turned to Hedley Swayne. ‘Mr Swayne, I accept your proposal.’

  Hedley Swayne gawked at her. ‘Oh. I mean—yes, of course! Delighted, m’dear.’

  The silence from across the table was awful. Helen forced herself to look. Stunned astonishment held Martin’s features immobile for a fleeting moment, then the hurt she had expected showed for the briefest of instants before a mask of impassivity put an end to all revelations. With dreadful civility, he bowed, his natural grace so much more polished than Hedley’s flamboyant rendition.

  ‘You’ve made your choice—I wish you happy, my dear.’ He glanced up and met her gaze. His eyes were cold and stony, grey upon grey, his face a mask. ‘I pray you’ll not regret the bargain you’ve made this day.’

  His eyes held hers for one last, agonised minute, then he turned on his heel and left.

  Helen stood by the table, slowly extricating her hands from the mess of her dough. She was deaf to Hedley’s garrulous self-congratulations, her ears straining to catch the sound of Martin’s retreating carriage. When the rumble had finally died in the distance, she moved slowly to the chair by the end of the table and sank into it. Then, as the full measure of what she had lost, of what she had committed herself to, became clear, she leaned her arms on the table and, laying her forehead upon them, gave way to her tears.

  The crackle of flames came from behind him but, although he felt chilled to the bone, Martin made no move to turn his chair to the fire. If he did, he would see the mantelpiece. Which in turn would remind him of the woman he had left to her fate that morning in Cornwall.

  He could not believe she had accepted Hedley Swayne over him. His frown turned to a scowl. He took a long swig of the amber fluid in his glass. The most damning thought of all was the certain knowledge that by forcing his unholy ultimatum upon her he had driven her into Hedley Swayne’s arms. That thought threatened to drive him mad. He felt like howling with rage. Instead, he drained his glass and reached for the decanter on the small table
at his elbow.

  Outside the uncurtained windows, the stars shone in a black sky. It had been full dark before he had reached the Hermitage, even driving in a frenzy as he had been. Joshua had been silent the entire way, a sure sign of dire disapproval. How long he had sat in the darkened library, drowning his sorrows in the time-honoured way, he did not know. Pentley, his new butler, had entered to suggest dinner but he had ordered him out. All he wanted to do was wallow in his misery—and drink himself into a stupor sufficiently deep to let him sleep.

  He had lost her—irretrievably; nothing else mattered any more.

  The doors to the hall opened. Martin glowered through the dark, preparing an acid rebuke for whoever had dared to disturb his despair. His eyes, adjusted to the gloom, detected no one until, awkwardly, a chair came hesitantly into the room. It stopped just inside the doors, then they shut behind it.

  Stifling a curse, Martin rose to his feet. His mother had come down to him. Who the hell had told her he had arrived?

  Drawing on considerable experience, he summoned the skills required to cross the long room to his mother’s side. He kissed her hand, then her cheek. ‘Mama. There was no need for you to come down—I would have called on you at a more fitting hour tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, I dare say you would prefer me to leave you in peace to drink yourself into oblivion, but, before you’ve entirely lost your wits, there’s something I have to tell you.’

  Through the dark, Martin frowned. ‘I’m not in the mood to listen to homilies or any such, ma’am.’

  Catherine Willesden’s lips twisted. ‘This is more in the nature of information. Information I think you would wish to hear sooner rather than later.’ When her aggravating son made no effort to move, she grimaced. ‘Do come to, Martin! You can’t be that addled yet. Light a candle for goodness’ sake; I’m not particularly fond of the dark. And, if you please, you can push me nearer the fire.’

  With a deep sigh, Martin accepted the inevitable and did as he was told. He could not imagine what she had to tell him, but in his present befuddled state, he was not up to arguing with her. But once he had lighted a single candle and placed the candlestick on a table beside her chair, drawn up before the fire as requested, he retreated to his own chair, still engulfed in shadows, moving it back so that he could see his mother but still be largely screened from the mantelpiece.