Fair Juno (Regencies 4)

Martin came away from the wall. He started across the floor, automatically smiling and nodding at those he knew, his attention focused on the man beside Helen. He had noticed him, and his interest in Lady Walford, before. Discreet enquiry had elicited the information that he was one Hedley Swayne, Esquire, of a small but prosperous estate in Cornwall. Despite the lack of firm evidence, it was entirely possible that Hedley Swayne had indeed been behind Helen’s kidnapping. The ton had noted a singular tendency for Mr Swayne to pay assiduous court to Lady Walford but had dismissed this as a mere smokescreen erected by the gentleman with a view to being regarded as fashionable; none could imagine the undeniably fashionable Lady Walford having any serious interest in a man a good half-head shorter than herself and distinctly less high in social rank to boot. Martin had seen Hedley Swayne at numerous gatherings, but this was the first time the fop had had the temerity to approach Helen.

Long before he reached her side, Martin sensed Helen’s unease. Mr Swayne had picked his moment; there were none but the more youthful of her cavaliers at present about her. As he paused to dutifully exchange compliments with an ageing dowager, a friend of his mother’s, Martin saw Helen frown.

‘I assure you, Mr Swayne, that I am not such a weakling as to need to repair instantly to the terrace immediately a dance is ended.’ Helen tried not to sound waspish but Hedley Swayne would try the patience of a saint.

‘I merely wished to explain—’

‘I don’t believe I wish to hear any explanation, Mr Swayne.’ Helen wished it were permissible to glare. She came as close as she could, viewing the pale face and long, pink-tipped nose of the unfortunate Mr Swayne with every evidence of aversion. If the man had any sensibility at all, he would leave. Her court had deserted her, prompted by his declared intention of walking with her on the terrace. As if she would risk a terrace in his company! But she knew from experience that Hedley Swayne was all but irrepressible. She compressed her lips in reluctant resignation as she watched him draw breath to put forward his next suggestion. Why wouldn’t he just leave her alone?

‘Mr Hedley Swayne, I presume?’

The languid tones surprised Hedley Swayne, making him look rather like a startled rabbit. As his eyes rose to take in the gentleman now by her side, the huge floppy bow at his throat, hallmark of the well-dressed fop, all but quivered in agitation. Swallowing a sudden urge to giggle, Helen turned slightly, putting out her hand to Martin. He took it and tucked it into his arm, but spared only a glance for her before returning his attention to her persecutor.

Under the grey gaze, Hedley Swayne blinked nervously. ‘Ah—I don’t believe we’ve been introduced, my lord.’

Martin noticed he did not say he did not know who he was. He smiled coldly. ‘Not exactly. Your reputation goes before you, you see. I believe we just missed each other— in Somerset, some weeks ago?’

At the heavy meaning underlying the polite words, Hedley Swayne’s pale eyes grew round. He blanched, then flushed. ‘Er…ah…’

Martin’s gaze grew steely. ‘Just so.’

Helen watched in appreciation. It must have been Hedley behind her kidnapping after all. Then the musicians started playing the music for the next dance—a waltz.

Eyes still holding Hedley Swayne’s, Martin smiled, letting dire warning show beneath

his urbanity. ‘My dance, I believe, my lady. Mr Swayne.’ With a nod for the hapless Hedley, Martin drew his future wife firmly into his arms, a little shocked at how intensely possessive he felt.

Slightly surprised at being denied the opportunity to take proper leave of Mr Swayne, irritating though that gentleman was, Helen nevertheless could not find it in her to cavil. Waltzing with Martin was a heavenly delight—she had no intention of losing so much as a moment of her rapture over something as inconsequential as a fop called Hedley Swayne.

‘Has he been bothering you?’

Helen glanced up to find a frown gathering in the grey eyes fixed on her face. Bother Hedley! She shrugged. ‘He’s totally innocuous, really.’

‘Innocuous enough to have you kidnapped.’

This time, Helen sighed. ‘There’s no need to worry about him.’

‘I assure you it’s not Hedley Swayne I worry about.’

Helen looked up and was trapped in his grey gaze. Suddenly, she felt breathless, her pulse accelerating. ‘You worry too much, my lord,’ she whispered, dragging her eyes from his.

At her tone, Martin shut his lips on his retort. He was tempted to order her to avoid Hedley Swayne, but, as yet, his jurisdiction did not stretch that far. He placated his urge to ensure her safety with the reflection that, soon, he would be in a position to make sure she saw nothing more of Mr Swayne.

Despite his not having uttered his decree, Helen got the message quite clearly. She felt thoroughly disgruntled when the music ceased, denying her the chance to dwell further on the peculiarly addictive sensation of drifting, light as air, in Martin’s arms. His discussion of Hedley had distracted her and now their waltz—the last one of the night, what was more—was over.

Nevertheless, she made the most of the rest of her evening, going into supper on the Earl of Merton’s arm. She had given up trying to tell herself he was not serious. He was perfectly serious when he wished to be and on the subject of her future he was unshakeable. It was simply not possible to mistake the intentions of a gentleman who made it patently clear that he attended the ton parties purely to dance attendance on one woman. Being that woman made her more nervous than she had ever been in her life.

It was the first time she had been in love—the first time she had been the object of love. She comforted herself that it was only the novelty that sent her senses skittering in delicious disarray whenever she heard his voice. Doubtless, the effect would wane with time. A niggling suspicion that it would not, and that she had no real desire that it should, undermined her fragile confidence.

The truth was, she could not quite believe it was all real, that the rainbow that had appeared on her horizon would not simply vanish with the next dawn. Love was something she had convinced herself she would have to do without—to have it served up to her on a gilt-edged, solid-silver platter was well beyond her expectations. Helen Walford had never been so lucky.

Reconciling herself to her sudden change in fates was an uphill battle, her difficulties compounded by his persistent presence and the distraction of his grey eyes. As her carriage wheels rattled over the cobbles, taking her home to her lonely bed, Helen sat back with a sigh and sent a silent prayer winging heavenwards. Please God that this time would be truly different, that this time the fates could find it in them to be kind. That this time her dreams would not turn to dross, that happiness like Dorothea’s would at long last be hers.

With a little shiver, Helen closed her eyes. And willed it to be so.

* * *

Damian Willesden returned to the capital the next day. Forced by the exigencies of financial commitments to endure a repairing lease with a friend in the country until quarter-day had brought relief, he sauntered into Manton’s Shooting Gallery determined to find congenial company with which to make up for lost time. Instead, he found his brother.