Fair Juno (Regencies 4)

‘No,’ said Martin. ‘I want to marry you as soon as possible and that’s tomorrow.’

Seeing his jaw firm and the line of his lips narrow, Helen resigned herself to walking up the aisle at the earliest possible hour the next morning. But she was beginning to feel that her overbearing suitor

was having things a great deal too much his own way. Consequently, she composed her features to calm and stated, ‘That’s as maybe. However, despite whatever outrageous claims you may choose to make to the contrary, I have not yet agreed to marry you, Martin.’

A worried frown, tending black, was thrown at her. For a moment, he said nothing. Then, ‘All you have to do is say yes.’

The low growl suggested that was her only option. Helen put her head on one side, to consider his point. ‘I would really feel much happier waiting until after I’ve met your mother.’

‘You can meet her tonight and spend all tomorrow morning with her. We can be married in the afternoon.’

‘But I’ve nothing to wear,’ Helen said, appalled as she realised this was true. She had not thought anything of marrying Hedley Swayne in whatever was to hand, but the idea of becoming the Countess of Merton in a worn ballgown was too hideous to contemplate. ‘No, Martin,’ she said, her voice increasing in firmness. ‘I’m very much afraid you’ll have to wait at least until I get a suitable gown. I will not marry you otherwise.’

A groan of surpassing frustration fell on her ears. The horses were hauled to a halt; she was hauled into Martin’s arms and ruthlessly kissed.

‘Woman!’ he growled when he eventually raised his head. ‘What further tortures do you have planned for me?’

With an enormous effort, Helen focused her faculties. Heaven preserve her, but if he realised she lost her wits every time he kissed her she would be in serious trouble. ‘Is it torture?’ she asked, quite fascinated.

That question got her kissed again. ‘Dammit—I want you, don’t you know that?’

She did, but Helen also wanted a wedding to remember. Her first, she had spent years trying to forget. And, despite the facts, a rushed wedding would be food for the gossip mills. Suppressing the shiver of delight that Martin’s gravelly tone sent coursing through her, she set herself to the task of winning him over. ‘It’ll only take a few days— a week at the outside,’ she offered.

Martin snorted disgustedly and released her. Helen watched as he took up the reins again and set the horses forward. The cast of his features suggested, at the least, disenchantment, at the worst, downright aggravation. She cast about for some gesture, some facet she could add to her plan, which would make the delay more appealing to him. Then she remembered his home and his hopes for it. She sat up straighter. ‘You said your father used to entertain a great deal at the Hermitage and that you wanted to do the same.’

Martin shot her a glance from under lowered brows. ‘So?’

‘So why not make our marriage the first occasion you throw open your refurbished house?’

For a few moments, the horses’ hoofbeats and the regular rattle of the wheels were the only sounds about them. Then Helen saw Martin purse his lips in consideration. When she saw his dejection lift, she inwardly hugged herself.

‘Not a bad idea,’ he eventually conceded. He glanced down at her. ‘We could invite the Hazelmeres and Fanshawes and Acheson-Smythe and a few of the others.’

Helen smiled brilliantly, and slipped a small hand through his arm. ‘I’m sure they’ll come.’

The grey eyes glinted down at her. Then Martin humphed and gave his attention to the road. ‘Just as long as you say yes at the appropriate time.’

Chapter Thirteen

The Hermitage was much bigger than Helen had expected. Even allowing for the deceptive perspective of twilight, the many-windowed two wings stretched deep into the formal gardens. They approached the house from the rear, Martin having driven the curricle around to the stables. The formal front façade, holding court before the sweep of manicured lawns leading to a lake on one side and a stand of majestic horse chestnuts on the other, had been impressive. The back of the mansion was even more appealing, with the pergola-like glassed conservatory positioned at the end of the ballroom in the centre of the main block. The conservatory steps led to a small fountain, centrepiece of the formal gardens enclosed within the wings. Beyond, Helen could just make out the outliers of a wood and the mellow brick wall of the kitchen garden.

Her hand firmly trapped on Martin’s sleeve, she was led to a door at the end of one of the wings.

‘I suppose I should take you around to the front door, but it’s quite a long way.’ Glancing down into her upturned face, Martin forbore to add that she was looking tired, which she was. Hardly surprising, for she had had a long day. But at least she was smiling and her eyes were alight. He patted her hand. ‘You’ll want to freshen up before we have dinner.’

Helen came to an abrupt halt, her eyes widening as she realised what he intended. Then her eyes went to her creased and crumpled bronze silk gown. ‘Oh, Martin!’ she all but wailed.

Swiftly, Martin pulled her to him and kissed her soundly. ‘My mother would welcome you if you were dressed in rags. Now don’t fret.’ He smiled down into her anguished eyes. ‘I’ll take you to Bender, my housekeeper. I’m sure she’ll be able to help.’

Twenty minutes later, Helen gave thanks for Bender. The large, round-faced woman, in country plaid rather than the regulation bombazine, had immediately understood her wordless plea. While she washed her face and hands and brushed her hair free of the dust of the road, her dress was ruthlessly shaken, then quickly pressed. It would never be the same again, of course, but at least it looked halfway respectable. When Martin tapped on the door of the pleasant bedchamber Bender had taken her to, Helen was ready to face what she privately considered her final hurdle—the final hurdle before she could reach for her rainbow.

Martin’s presence by her side, large and infinitely reassuring, helped her hold her head high as she crossed the threshold of the drawing-room, her eyes opening wide as she beheld quite the most elegant room she had entered in years. At the sudden thought that, if the fates were at last disposed to be kind, she would soon be mistress here, Helen’s confidence faltered. But then Martin was speaking, introducing her. Helen looked down into the grey eyes watching her, and blinked in surprise.

How alike they were, was her first thought, superseded almost immediately by the recognition of subtle differences. Martin’s mother’s dark brows were much finer than her son’s, though her features were equally arrogant in cast. Her chin and lips were much softer in line, and the grey eyes, so startlingly similar, lacked the wicked glint often lurking in her son’s. Helen realised she was staring. With a little start, she bobbed a curtsy.

‘I’m most honoured to meet you, ma’am.’

Catherine Willesden eyed the golden-haired beauty before her and was not displeased with what she saw. An unusually tall woman and well-built with it—she could readily see just what in Helen Walford had excited her son’s interest. And she looked the sort who could carry children well and would enjoy doing so, even more to the point. But what decided the Dowager in Helen’s favour, beyond the slightest qualms, was the look of untold pride that lit her son’s grey eyes whenever, as now, they rested on his bride- to-be. That, thought the Dowager, was what counted above all.