Fair Juno (Regencies 4)

‘My dear—my very dear Lady Walford.’ Martin did not try to keep the relief from his voice. ‘What a pleasure it is to see you—at last.’

Helen jumped and turned, knowing who she would see before she did. No one else had a voice that could frazzle her senses. ‘My lord.’ She curtsied. As usual, he raised her and appropriated her hand, as if she had made him a present of it. She had come to accept that particular trick as inevitable, knowing no way of stopping him. But she had yet to come to grips with the warmth in his eyes as they rested on her, and the promise that glowed in their depths.

Breathlessly, she introduced the three ladies in her circle. To her surprise, Martin did not try to remove her but stayed by her side, chatting politely, charming her friends utterly.

When Helen’s friends moved away, to talk to other acquaintances among the growing crowd, Martin dropped the reserve he employed in such social situations. He glanced down into Helen’s green eyes, his own entirely devoid of guile. ‘You’ll have to be my mentor in this particular theatre of war. Where else can we go to be safe?’

Helen looked her astonishment. ‘Safe?’

Martin smiled a little ruefully. ‘I’m claiming your protection.’ When she still looked bemused, he added, ‘In return for my earlier efforts on your behalf.’

A slight blush staining her cheeks, Helen let her eyes slide over his impressive length. ‘However could I protect you? You’re bamming me.’

‘No such thing—rake’s honour.’ Hand over his heart, Martin grinned. ‘The matchmaking mamas are out to leg-shackle me, I do assure you. They’re hunting in packs, what’s more. If I’m to retain any degree of freedom, I’ll need all the help I can get.’

Helen smothered a giggle. ‘You can’t just not take any notice. You’ll have to choose a wife some time.’

The grey eyes holding hers suddenly became intent. But his voice was still even when he asked, ‘You don’t seriously suppose I’d marry any of the delicate debs?’

‘But…it’s what’s expected of men of your position.’ Helen coloured, then abruptly glanced away. Not only was this a most improper conversation, but she had nearly blurted out that hers had been such a conventional marriage. That, she was the first to admit, was hardly a recommendation.

To her unease, the grey eyes were still trained on her face. She could feel them, compelling her to return his regard. Unable to withstand the subtle pressure, she glanced up. Her eyes locked with his.

Martin smiled gently, and raised her hand to his lips, his eyes holding hers steadily. ‘I’ll never marry one of the debs, my dear. My tastes run to women of more…voluptuous charms.’

If Helen had had any doubts over what he intended her to understand by that, the look in his eyes would have dispelled them. For good measure, when she blushed, his eyes dropped to caress the ripe swell of her breasts, more revealed than concealed by the current craze for low necklines. Helen felt her cheeks flame.

‘Martin!’

His eyes returned to her face, gentle laughter in the grey depths. ‘Mmm?’

What could she say? She should talk to him of reality, of all the reasons she was ineligible. Now was the time. Determined to halt his mad schemes before they went any further, before her heart was totally torn in two, Helen raised her eyes to his. ‘My lord, you cannot marry me. My husband was Arthur Walford—you must have known him. He committed suicide, but only after being hounded from the ton. He gambled away everything he owned, including my settlements. With such a background, I’m no suitable wife for you.’

All Martin’s levity had flown. The expression in his eyes, intent yet infinitely gentle, did not waver; his thumb moved caressingly over the back of her hand. ‘My dear, I know all this. Did you think I would care?’

The room was whirling. Helen could not breathe. ‘But…’

Martin’s smile grew. Confidently, he drew her to stroll beside him. If they remained stationary for much longer, someone would stop to talk. ‘My dear Helen, I’ve never been one to act in accordance with society’s dictates. I’ve been a rake and a gamester for as long as anyone here can recall. I assure you, none will think it the least odd that I, of all men, should choose to marry a more mature woman rather than saddle myself with some mindless flibbertigibbet.’

A nervous giggle assured him that she had accepted the truth of that. ‘Now enough of your quibbles. If this is merely a ploy to deny me your protection, I take leave to tell you ‘tis a shabby trick.’

‘As if you need my protection.’ Helen followed his lead in m

oving from the topic of marriage, trying to regain their usual, lightly bantering tone. Her mind was in a whirl. What he had suggested was beyond her wildest dreams; she would need time to consider the possibilities. Her brain was too overloaded to make much sense of it now, particularly not with him by her side. ‘I’m quite sure you could rout all the matchmaking mamas without difficulty.’

‘Unquestionably,’ agreed the rake by her side. ‘But, having done so, I’d be cast out from these hallowed halls, bidden never to return, and thus would be unable to see you on Wednesday nights. Not a prospect I relish. So, in the interests of your Wednesday nights, madam, will you consent to act as my protector?’

Helen could only laugh. ‘Very well. But only within strict limits.’

Martin frowned. ‘What limits?’

‘You must not misbehave with me.’ She glanced up, trying for stern implacability. ‘No dancing more than two waltzes, and never two together. In fact,’ she added, recalling his ability to think up new and ever more disturbing ways of dealing with her, ‘no going beyond the line in any way whatever.’

‘Unfair! How do you imagine I’ll control my rakish tendencies? Have pity, fair Juno. I can’t reform in an instant.’

But Helen stood firm. ‘That’s my best offer, my lord.’ When his brows rose, she added, her own brows rising, ‘You’d hardly ask me to place my own position here in jeopardy?’

Martin sighed in mock-defeat. ‘You drive a hard bargain, sweetheart. I capitulate. In the interests of my own skin, I accept your conditions.’