‘A month?’ Incredulity sharpened Martin’s tone.
‘Precisely,’ affirmed Hazelmere, equally sharp. ‘The newly-weds repaired to Walford Hall. Less than a month after that, Walford reappeared in town. Helen stayed in Oxfordshire. That situation continued, apparently without change, for close on three years. During that time, all the senior players in the drama died—Walford the elder, and both Helen’s parents. The crunch came when, against all odds, Walford succeeded in running through his funds. He had lost his own estates and those that had come to him through Helen. Only Walford Hall remained, as it was entailed. He returned there, not to take up residence but to see what more he could wring from the place. By then, Helen was nineteen. She had still not attained the stature she now has, but she had improved considerably on sixteen.’
Hazelmere paused, studying the glass in his hand. ‘I don’t know to this day what actually happened, but the upshot of it was that Walford struck Helen—during an argument, she said. For her part, she promptly broke a pot over his head and left.’ Hazelmere drained his glass before glancing at Martin. ‘She came to me. She had grown up with my sister Allison and we had always considered her one of the family. I sent her to my estate in Cumbria—well out of Walford’s way should he try to find her. The story of his treatment of Helen got out—as such things do. It became something of a cause célèbre. The upshot was that Walford was hounded from the ton and comprehensively ruined. He took his own life rather than face Newgate.’
Hazelmere paused, considering the past, then shrugged. ‘Later, many of those who had won stakes from Walford donated money to set up a fund for Helen. I manage it for her. It pays the rent on her house in Half Moon Street and keeps her in her current style—but little else. None of her estates was salvaged.’
Martin frowned, his chin sunk in one hand, his gaze fixed on the Turkey rug gracing the floor between them. Carefully, choosing his words, he asked, ‘Is there anything in what you know of her that would lead you to suppose Helen feels any deep-seated revulsion towards marriage? An aversion to the physical side of matrimony?’
Hazelmere’s lips thinned. His eyes on his glass, he shook his head. ‘I couldn’t say—but, conversely, I would not be at all surprised.’ He lifted his gaze to Martin’s face. ‘You know what Walford was like.’
Slowly, Martin nodded. ‘Could it have scarred her—so that she has difficulty bringing herself to contemplate marriage again?’
Hazelmere shrugged. ‘Only Helen could answer that, but I would have thought it a distinct possibility.’
Almost imperceptibly, Martin’s expression lightened. His eyes narrowed in consideration.
Hazelmere noticed. ‘What is it?’
A crooked grin was Martin’s answer. ‘I was just thinking—who better to cure such a malady than I?’ He shot Hazelmere a quizzical glance, then sat back, supremely confident, one brow rising arrogantly. ‘All things considered, I would have to be the perfect candidate for the job of convincing Helen Walford of the earthy benefits of matrimony. If, with my extensive experience, I can’t overcome that particular hurdle, I don’t deserve the lady.’
For a long moment, Hazelmere’s hazel eyes remained serious, while their owner pondered what was, after all, a distinctly scandalous threat to a lady whom many, including himself, regarded as under his protection. But, if he read things aright, Helen’s future happiness was at stake. She had made her partiality plain. And he trusted Martin Willesden as a brother—Helen would come to no harm at his hands. Slowly, a grin twisted Hazelmere’s lips. Inclining his head in tacit approval of Martin’s avowed intention, he raised his glass in salute.
‘Spoken like a true rake.’
Helen settled her skirts and waited for Martin to join her on the box seat of his curricle. The wind whipped loose tendrils of hair about her face and brought colour to her cheeks. As Martin sat beside her and picked up the reins, she flashed a bright smile in answer to his. Then they were off.
With the raucous cries of the Piccadilly street vendors ringing about her, Helen sat, at peace and oddly content, and wondered that it could be so. It was remarkable, she reflected, that, given Martin’s painful declaration just over a week before, they should be able to be together like this, companionably setting out for a drive in the Park. For her part, she would not have credited it. But, to her relief, Martin had behaved in the most honourable way.
He had claimed her for a waltz at the Havelocks’ rout, the next major function they had both attended. Nothing in his manner had altered; he had behaved every bit as proprietorially as before. Only she had heard his whispered words, ‘Trust me. Just relax—there’s nothing to worry about.’
Strangely enough, she had. From beneath her chip bonnet, Helen glanced up at his profile, so harshly handsome. His eyes were fixed on the road ahead, his hands steady on the reins. A smile on her lips, Helen returned her gaze to their surroundings. Relaxing in Martin’s company had been made a great deal easier by the fact that he no longer sought to befuddle her senses with his particular brand of wizardry. She was determined to keep her traitorous senses in line; his power over them was just as strong, but, if she was intent on her course, she could not afford to let them gain the upper hand. Thankfully, Martin seemed to understand. It was clear that, now she had brought the matter to his mind, he had, however reluctantly, accepted that, given his circumstances and hers, they could not marry. And, gentleman that he was, he was intent on keeping their situation from the world. All she was called on to do was respond to his lead, to make it appear as if there were no rupture between them. It was, she had realised, the sensible course. Now, as time passed, they would be able to draw apart without either being exposed to the avid interest of the scandalmongers.
The Park was reached without incident. They embarked on a slow circuit about the leafy avenues, stopping time and again to chat with their acquaintances. It was during one of these halts that Ferdie Acheson-Smythe approached. His bland expression totally devoid of guile, he nodded to Martin then reached up to shake hands with Helen.
‘Hello, Ferdie. Is that a new coat?’ Helen knew any question of fashion was guaranteed to appeal to the immaculate Mr Acheson-Smythe. She had known Ferdie, Hazelmere’s cousin, forever and was truly fond of the elegant dandy.
‘Yes,’ replied Ferdie, unwarrantably brief. ‘But that wasn’t what I wanted to tell you.’ His pale blue eyes flicked to Martin, engrossed with some friends on the other side of the curricle, then returned to her face, a slight frown in their depths. Leaning closer, he said, ‘I know you’ve made a damned habit of this, but do you really think it’s wise?’
With Ferdie, there was no point in pretending to misunderstand. Helen smiled affectionately at his brother-like concern. She lowered her voice. ‘You needn’t worry. I’m perfectly safe.’
‘Humph!’ Ferdie snorted, his gaze once more on Martin’s profile. ‘That’s what I thought about Dorothea and look how wrong I was. Point is, rakes don’t change. They’re damned dangerous in any circumstances.’
Helen laughed. ‘I assure you this one’s tame.’
The comment earned her a highly sceptical look, but Ferdie said no more on the matter, turning his attention instead to complimenting her on her new apricot merino pelisse. When a short while later Martin looked around, ready to move on, Ferdie bowed elegantly and stood back, contenting himself with a warning look addressed to Helen’s account.
Martin saw it. His brows rose superciliously, but by then Ferdie Acheson-Smythe was already dwindling in the distance. Then Martin’s sharp ears caught the muffled giggle as his companion tried to suppress her reaction. Martin relaxed. ‘Tell me, fair Juno, am I still considered “too dangerous”, despite my exemplary behaviour of recent times?’
Helen shot a startled glance up at him. Reassured by the teasing glint in his grey eyes and the laughter bubbling through his deep tones, she smiled and gave due attention to his question. Considering the matter dispassionately was a decidedly tall order. Eventually, know
ing he was waiting on her answer, she ventured, ‘I fear, my lord, that there are some who see your “exemplary behaviour” as merely the wool beneath which a wolf is disguised.’
Martin’s heavy sigh startled her anew.
‘And here I was thinking none could discern the truth.’
Helen’s eyes flew wide. His tone held equal parts of dejection and chagrin but the expression in his eyes was still gently teasing. She tried to read his meaning in their depths, but the subtle glint defeated her. Was he warning her that Ferdie was right. Or was he merely making light conversation, teasing her, knowing she was easy to twit on that score?
Uncertain, Helen spent the next ten minutes inwardly wrestling with the possibilities while outwardly playing the social game. They had finished their first circuit when Martin broke into her thoughts.
‘I still haven’t made the final decisions on the pieces for the parlour.’
‘Oh?’ Helen had heard about the redecoration of his London home, now in its terminal phase, in some detail. Discussions on the relative merits of damasks and chintzes and the impracticality of the current craze for white and gold décor had filled many of their hours together.
Martin was frowning thoughtfully. ‘There’s a piece of furniture on which I would greatly appreciate your opinion. It’s at a house not far from here.’ He glanced at Helen and raised an enquiring brow. ‘Can you spare me a few moments of your time, my dear?’
Swallowing her instinctive response that such matters should be reserved for the consideration of his bride, Helen smiled her acquiescence. One subject she had no intention of mentioning was matrimony. ‘I dare say I could manage a moment or two.’
Courteously inclining his head in acceptance of her boon, Martin headed his team for the gates, a slow smile of satisfaction curving his lips. They were wending their way through the traffic when Helen asked, ‘What is this piece?’
‘An occasional sofa.’
Seeing his attention was fixed on his horses, given to nervously jibbing in the crowded streets, Helen forbore to press him for details. Doubtless she would learn soon enough why there was any question about the suitability of this particular sofa.
To her surprise, Martin drew the horses to a halt in front of an imposing residence in Grosvenor Square. He turned to smile down at her. ‘This is it.’ Relinquishing the reins to Joshua who came running from his perch at the rear, Martin jumped to the pavement and turned to assist Helen. Once on his level, Helen eyed the elegant façade then realised the sofa in question must presently be in the possession of the owner of the mansion.
Surrendering to the subtle pressure of Martin’s hand in the small of her back, Helen went up the steps before him. Martin paused before the door and glanced down, his eyes locking with hers, an unfathomable expression in the steely grey. Suddenly, Helen could not breathe. But before she could register more than a flush of unnerving excitement, Martin raised a gloved fist and beat a peremptory tattoo on the polished oak. The door was opened immediately by an imposing if portly butler, who bowed them into a spacious hall.
‘M’lord.’ The butler turned to her. ‘My lady.’ He reached for her coat. Uncertain, Helen raised an enquiring brow at Martin. When he nodded, she surrendered her pelisse and bonnet. Clearly, the Earl of Merton was well-known to this household.
‘The room at the end of the hall.’ At Martin’s nod, Helen walked forward over the black and white tiles, towards the door that stood open at the far end of the hall. Martin started in her wake, then hesitated and turned back, handing his gloves to the butler. Hearing his footsteps falter, Helen glanced back. Martin smiled his encouragement. Reassured, Helen continued.
As she drew closer to the open door, she noticed a peculiar light glowing from within the room. Almost as if the curtains were drawn and the fire ablaze. Puzzled, Helen gained the threshold and looked in.
‘We don’t wish to be disturbed, Hillthorpe.’
Helen’s gasp stuck in her throat. It did not need the butler’s deferential ‘Yes m’lord’ to confirm her wild conjecture. The proof that, in the case of Martin Willesden, rake of the highest standing, she had been wrong and Ferdie perfectly right lay before her startled gaze. The heavy velvet curtains were indeed drawn, the fire fully stoked and crackling voraciously. A bottle of wine, uncorked, reposed in a silver bucket of ice on the sideboard. Automatically, irrelevantly, Helen searched the room for the sofa she had come to see—the occasional sofa. At first, she could not find it. Then her eyes widened in shock as they focused on the large piece of furniture standing squarely before the hearth. The most massive daybed she had ever seen.
Flee! was her first thought—immediately followed by, How? Martin’s footsteps rang on the tiles; he was but feet behind her. If she turned and tried to escape, he would simply pick her up and carry her through the door. Certainly, his butler would be no help.
Helen drew a deep breath. Danger lay across the threshold. She tried to step back into the relative safety of the hall, only to find that she had hesitated too long. Martin, directly behind her, slipped an arm about her waist and she was swept, effortlessly, into the room.
‘Martin!’ Breathless, Helen swung to face him, to see him shut the door and turn the key. She was only slightly relieved to see that he left the key in the lock. It was him she had to escape; after that, escaping the room would be child’s play. Summoning her defences, she took refuge in indignation. Drawing herself to her full height, in this case unfortunately insufficient to allow her to intimidate the reprobate before her, she fixed him with an affronted glare and prayed her voice would not betray her. ‘You tricked me!’
A slow grin twisted Martin’s mobile lips. ‘’Fraid so.’ His gaze, heated grey, rested, intent, on her face. Slowly, he moved towards her.
He did not look the least bit contrite.
Helen tried to ignore her skittering pulse and let her temper grow. It was the only thing that might save her. She narrowed her eyes, shutting out as much of the potent male presence approaching slowly but, as far as she was concerned, far too fast, as she could. Forced to tilt her chin up as he drew nearer, she struggled to overcome her suddenly breathless state. ‘Your behaviour over the past week has all been a sham, hasn’t it?’ To her horror, it was all she could do not to squeak. What was he about?
Stopping directly in front of her, Martin allowed his grin to develop into the deepest of smiles, a smile of disturbing magnitude and unnerving intent. ‘You’ve unmasked me, fair Juno.’ Eyes glinting, Martin spread his hands in supplication. ‘What can I say in my defence?’
Transfixed by the warmth in his gaze, Helen struggled to collect enough wit to tell him.
Smoothly, confidently, Martin reached for the comb that held her curls in a knot on the top of her head. With a deft flick, he drew it free, sending golden tresses cascading over her shoulders, down her back.
Helen gasped, instinctively putting up her hands to stem the tide. But Martin caught them gently in his and drew them down. Glinting, his eyes roamed the tumbled gold. ‘You’ve no idea how often I’ve considered doing that.’
The idea that he might have done that in the middle of some fashionable ballroom suspended the few faculties Helen had managed to reassemble. His hands released hers, long fingers rising to slip in among the silken strands. The fingers played, sampling the texture, removing loose pins and dropping them like rain on to the floor, then they firmed about her chin, tilting her head up until her eyes locked with his.
Held mesmerised by the smouldering heat in the cloudy grey gaze, Helen felt all thought slipping from her. Martin’s hands left her face; he reached for her and drew her into his arms.
Belatedly, self-preservation jolted Helen back to reality. She braced her hands against Martin’s chest. ‘My lord— Martin!’ she amended, accurately reading the comment in his eyes. ‘This is unseemly. Scandalous—and worse! If you wish to atone for your behaviour—your deceit—you can escort me back to your curricle this instant!’
She
tried to sound firm but her tone was weak and wavering, her diaphragm refusing to lend strength to her words. The smile on the dark face hovering closer and closer to hers only deepened. His arms, already about her, tightened.
‘I’ve a much better idea of how to atone for my sins.’
Martin kissed her. And kept kissing her until every vestige of resistance was overcome, overwhelmed, drowned beneath their passion.
Trapped in his embrace, Helen reluctantly admitted that it was their passion—not his alone. That was what made Martin so very hard to resist. His scandalous advances drew an equally scandalous response from her. Caught on a crest of burgeoning desire, so sweet in its novelty that she was unable to resist, Helen gave up the unequal fight, softening against him. She felt his arms tighten further, crushing her to him. Then they shifted; his hands moved over her back, moulding her yielding form to his hard frame.
Helen struggled against the insidious invitation of his kiss, a blatant temptation to lose her wits and drown in a sea of sensuous sensation, striving instead against the steadily mounting odds to retain some fragment of lucidity.
Martin raised his head to glance down at her, his eyes glowing. ‘Relax,’ he breathed. His lips brushed her forehead. ‘Don’t worry—we’ll take it very slowly.’
As his lips returned to hers, Helen wondered if he intended the deep, gravelly words as a threat or a promise. For a full minute, she considered the implications as her will sank slowly beneath the warm web of sensation evoked by Martin’s sure hands. With a mental jerk, she called her wits to order. What was she to do? The way he was progressing, slow or not, she would only have a few more minutes in which to decide.
It was patently obvious to the meanest intelligence that Martin had reverted to form and intended to compromise her beyond all possible doubt, in fact as well as reputation. Helen had not the slightest doubt that he thought thus to force her acquiescence to their marriage, to overcome her refusal to accept his suit. But she was determined to give him his dream—nothing, not even he, could shake her resolution.