Fair Juno (Regencies 4)

The broad shoulders encased in a perfectly cut coat of the best superfine were quite unmistakable. Martin was shooting with a party of his friends.

Beyond informing him that Martin had indeed returned, hale and whole, and was busying himself taking up his inheritance, his mother had been unusually reticent on the subject of the new Earl. Damian had interpreted this as another display of her well-known indifference to Martin and all his exploits. Even more than she, he had lived in the confident expectation that his reckless older brother would have managed to get himself killed, leaving the title to him. Martin’s continued existence had been a rude shock. To him and his creditors.

A further surprise had awaited him when he had applied to Martin for assistance. That interview, conducted within days of Martin’s return, had left him convinced that he would see little of the Merton revenues while Martin lived. His memories of Martin had been hazy at best; ten years separated them—they had never been close. But he had vaguely supposed that his brother, having spent so many years in the backwaters of the colonies, would be easily enough persuaded to part with his blunt. Instead, the interview had proved most uncomfortable. Pulling the wool over his brother’s sharp grey eyes was not something he would try again soon.

He comforted himself with the reflection that a man of Martin’s known propensities could be counted on to die young. It could only be a matter of time.

Watching the steadiness of the hand that levelled one of Joseph Manton’s famous pistols at the slimmest of wafers propped as target twenty paces down the gallery, Damian reflected that such skills were presumably required in order to support the rakehell status his brother enjoyed. The pistol discharged; the smoke cleared. A small charred hole had appeared in the very centre of the wafer. As Manton himself came forward with congratulations, Damian decided that any hope that an indignant husband might put a term to his brother’s life was nothing more than wishful thinking.

Turning from Desborough and Fanshawe to lay aside his pistol, Martin saw Damian lounging just inside the door. He nodded and watched his brother reluctantly approach. He could not prevent his lips curving in a knowing smile as the fact that it was two days after quarter-day dawned. Damian saw the smile; his expression turned sulky. Martin felt his own expression harden. Studied critically, there was nothing in Damian’s dress to disgust one—his coat was well-cut, although not of the finest quality; the same could be said of his breeches and boots. It was his demeanour that raised brows. At twenty-four, he should have attained the age of reason, together with a little maturity. But his petulant attitude coupled with his expectation that his family must necessarily support his wastrel ways convinced Martin that his brother still had considerable maturing to do.

He raised his brows as Damian halted before him. ‘Returned to the delights of town?’

Damian shrugged. ‘The country’s too slow for my taste.’ He considered asking for an advance on his allowance but rejected the idea. He was not that desperate yet. He nodded at the target. ‘Pretty shooting. Learned in the colonies, did you?’

Martin laughed. ‘No. That was a talent I’d polished long before I departed these shores.’ He paused, then suggested, ‘Why not try your luck?’

For an instant, Damian wavered, drawn to the prospect of joining his magnificent brother in such a fashionable pursuit and in such august company. Then his eye fell on the gold signet on Martin’s right hand and childish resentment clouded his reason. ‘Heaven forbid,’ he said, waving away the pistol Martin held out. ‘Not my style. I ain’t in any danger from irate husbands.’

A little stunned by his own gaucherie, and less than sure what reaction it might provoke, Damian abruptly turned on his heel and walked rapidly from the Gallery.

Tony Fanshawe, standing on Martin’s other side, an unintentional auditor to the scene, threw Damian a curious glance. ‘That pup wants training,’ he said. ‘Deuced bad manners, walking away from an invitation like that.’

Martin, his eyes on his brother’s retreating back, nodded absent-mindedly. ‘I’m afraid,’ he said, ‘that my brother’s manners leave a lot to be desired. In fact, my brother himself falls rather short of the mark.’ Making a mental note to the effect that some time he was going to have to do something about Damian, Martin turned back to his friends and their game of skills.

He loved her.

That refrain replayed in Helen’s head as she revolved about Lady Broxford’s ballroom firmly held in Martin Willesden’s arms. There was no doubt in her mind of its truth; her heart soared as she finally allowed the prospect of spending the rest of her life under Martin’s smoky grey gaze to take definite shape in her mind. The pot of gold at the end of the rainbow was to be hers at last.

She looked up to find the warm grey eyes upon her, a caress in their depths.

‘A penny for your thoughts, my lady.’

The deep, slightly raspy voice sent a cascade of sensations tingling through her. Suppressing a shiver of pure delight, Helen narrowed her eyes in consideration. ‘I don’t know that telling you my thoughts would be at all wise, my lord. Certainly, all precepts dictate I should stay silent.’

‘Oh? They can’t be that scandalous.’

‘They’re not scandalous. You are,’ Helen retorted. ‘I’m sure it’s written somewhere—in the Handbook for Young Ladies under the heading of “How to Deal with Rakes”— that it’s most unwise to do anything to encourage them.’

The grey eyes opened wide. ‘And knowing your thoughts would encourage me?’

Helen tried to return his intent look with one of the greatest blandness. Her partner was undeterred.

‘My dear Helen, I suspect your education was somewhat circumscribed. You certainly never finished that chapter, or you would have read that it’s even more unwise to whet a rake’s appetite.’

At the unrestrained promise in the gravelly voice, Helen’s eyes grew wide. To her relief, they had come to the end of the room and Martin had to give his attention to turning them around. His arm tightened about her, leaving her even more breathless than before. She felt like a lamb about to be devoured by a wolf. For some reason, the idea was quite attractive. Her wits had obviously scattered. With an effort, she sought to collect them.

Martin glanced down at Helen’s face. The eau-de-Nil silk sheath she wore moulded to her ample curves, sliding and sussuratin

g against his coat with every gliding step they took. With the shifting silk to distract her further he doubted her ability to reorientate her thoughts from the salacious direction he had given them. Thoroughly satisfied with her state, he forbore to press her to converse, giving his mind instead to the vexed question of when? When should he ask her to marry him?

He had planned to propose as soon as he was sure she had accepted the idea of being the Countess of Merton and had got over her apparent nervousness regarding a second marriage. His experienced assessment was that any doubts she had harboured were now things of the past. As the last bars of the waltz sounded, he made his decision. There was no reason to wait.

But the ballroom was crowded, the event a ‘sad crush’. The ante-rooms, he knew, would be full of dowagers trying to escape the heat. He would have to reconnoitre.

The music ceased; they whirled to a halt amid the glittering throng. Breathless, wondering what came next, Helen raised her eyes to Martin’s face. Their eyes met, their gazes locked, but before either had time to speak Lord Peterborough materialised from the crowd.

‘There you are, Helen. I must speak to you about this bad habit of yours—letting this reprobate monopolise your time. Won’t do, m’dear—not at all.’