Fair Juno (Regencies 4)

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?’

Martin smiled. ‘I hardly know. I’ve had so little in recent years to compare it with.’ He felt her relax, and took the opportunity provided by negotiating the tight turn at the bottom of the room to draw her more firmly against him. ‘But, as far as the company goes, I’ve some reservations.’

‘Oh?’ Thankful that he was prepared to converse reasonably, Helen decided to overlook the almost imperceptible tightening of his arm about her. ‘Why is that?’

‘Well,’ said Martin, frowning as if considering his words, ‘it’s the female element I have most trouble with.’

Suspicion bloomed in Helen’s mind. What did a rake consider reasonable conversation? She felt compelled to give him the benefit of her doubt and asked, ‘What is it that particularly troubles you?’

The concerned look he threw her almost had her believing his, ‘It’s their predatory tendencies that worry me.’ When she looked sceptical, he added defensively, ‘It’s most unnerving to a fully licenced rake to find himself the pursued rather than the pursuer. Just imagine it, if you can.’

‘Strange,’ said Helen, green eyes glinting. ‘I could almost believe I know just how you feel.’

At that he smiled, a dazzling smile that overloaded her senses and sent them spinning. By the time she had collected them, the music had ceased. ‘Perhaps I should return to—’ In confusion, Helen bit her lip. Heavens, she was no débutante to be returning to a chaperon’s side! What was she thinking of—what was it the man by her side made her think of?

Martin chuckled, following her thoughts easily. ‘Fear not, fair Juno. Your reputation is safe with me.’ He paused then added in a pensive tone, ‘As for the rest of you, though…’ The shocked glance she sent him had him chuckling again.

When, a few minutes later, he relinquished her to Lord Alvanley, still flustered but recovered enough to throw him a speaking glance, he reflected that he had spoken no more than the truth throughout their exchanges. Which was odd enough. But he did, in fact, find the cloying interest of the unmarried females repelling and suspected his feeling sprang, as he had told her, from his liking to be the driving force behind his relationships. Her far more natural response to him was gratifying; her attempts to hide it, believing, correctly, that it gave him far more influence over her than she would like, made her irresistibly attractive to a man of his ilk. Given his long-term plans for her, he had no intention that her reputation should suffer at his or anyone else’s hands. And he felt positively righteous that he had gone so far as to give her clear warning of his intent.

Halo glowing, he strolled about the room, waiting for the time to claim her for supper.

Dancing with friends and acquaintances who demanded no more from her than polite conversation gave Helen time to consider Martin Willesden’s words. Not for the life of her could she fathom what he meant. If it had not been for the fact that he knew she was a connection of Hazelmere’s, she might have suspected he intended to set her up as his mistress. But she knew enough of the peculiar code of the rake to know that Hazelmere’s protection would not be challenged by a friend. But, if not that, then his words could only mean he was on the lookout for a wife and believed she would suit.

Inwardly, Helen sighed, and wished it were so. But he was wrong—and the sooner he learned his error the better. He was going to break her heart if he did not desist from his determined pursuit. None knew better than she that, while her birth was perfectly acceptable and her connections beyond reproach, being the relict of a social outcast would not be considered a suitable background for the new Countess of Merton. That position should rightly be reserved for one of the incomparables, or, at the very least, a richly dowered débutante. She had never been one of the former, though she had, for a bare month before her marriage, been one of the latter.

The cotillion came to an end. Lord Peterborough, whom she had known forever, bowed elegantly over her hand. ‘Thank you, Gerry,’ she said, smiling. ‘You’re always such an eligible parti.’

His lordship laughed and offered her his arm. Supper was being served downstairs. Helen raised her hand to place it on his sleeve but, to her surprise, warm fingers closed about hers.

‘Ah, Gerry. I have to tell you Lady Birchfield is looking for you.’

Lord Peterborough glared. ‘Dammit, Martin! Lady Birchfield can look all she likes. The woman’s old enough to be m’mother.’

‘Really? I’d no idea you were so young.’ Martin’s eyes gleamed. ‘It’s just as well I’ve arrived to escort Lady Walford to supper. It wouldn’t do for her to be thought a cradle-snatcher.’