Fair Juno (Regencies 4)

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.