Fair Juno

by Stephanie Laurens

  Relieved to have reached the ground undetected, she let her skirts down, brushing ineffectually at the creases. She pulled a wisp of straw from her hair, grimacing at the thought of how she must look. There was a pail of fresh water beside the ladder, the linen handkerchief she had used the day before draped over the side. Quickly, she splashed her face and rinsed her hands. She was patting her face dry when she heard his step behind her.

  ‘Ah! Fair Juno awakes. I was just about to roust you out.’

  Helen turned. In daylight, her rescuer was even more distressingly handsome than in lamplight. The broad shoulders seemed broader than ever; his height was no dream. Small wonder he had made her feel weak and small. The aquiline features held a touch of harshness, but the impression might be due to his tan. Helen blinked and found his grey eyes laughingly quizzing her. She prayed her blush was not detectable. ‘I’m so sorry. You should have woken me earlier.’

  ‘No matter.’ Martin reached for the harness he had left on the wall of the stall. He had wondered what colour her eyes would prove to be in daylight. Pools of amber and limpid green highlighted with gold, they were the most striking features of a remarkably striking package. He thanked his stars he had not seen her in daylight before being forced to spend a night by her side. Her blush suggested she felt much the same. Martin knew for a certainty that relaxing with rakes was much easier in the dark but he did not want her to retreat behind a correct façade. He smiled and was relieved when she smiled back. ‘The roads are only just dry enough to attempt the curricle.’

  Helen followed him outside, pausing to breathe deeply of the fresh morning air. She saw him struggling to harness the restive horses and went forward to help, approaching steadily so as not to spook the highly strung beasts. Catching hold of the bit of the nearside horse, she crooned sweet nothings and stroked the velvet nose.

  Martin nodded his approval, pleasantly surprised by her practical assistance. Together, they efficiently hitched the pair to the curricle.

  Holding the reins, he went to her side, intending to lift her to the box seat.

  ‘Er—I left the blanket and your coat in the loft.’ The words tumbled out. Helen prayed that he would not notice her fluster. Panic had risen to claim her at the mere thought of him touching her again. After the past ten minutes’ surreptitious observation, she could not understand how she had had the nerve to survive the night.

  One black brow rose; the grey eyes rested thoughtfully on her face. Then he handed her the reins. ‘I’ll get them. Don’t try to move ’em.’

  He was back in two minutes, but by then she had steeled herself for the ordeal. He stowed the blanket and coat behind the seat, then reached for the reins. Helen relinquished them. An instant later, his hands fastened about her waist. A moment of weightlessness followed, before she was deposited, gently, on the seat.

  As she fussed about, settling her skirts, Helen reflected that new experiences were always unsettling. Just what it was she felt every time he touched her she could not have said—but she had no doubt it was scandalous. And delicious. And very likely addictive, as well. Doubtless, it was one of those tricks rakes had at their fingertips, to make susceptible women their slaves. Not that her late and wholly unlamented husband had had the facility. Then again, she amended, giving the devil his due, Arthur had never had much time for her, the gawky sixteen-year old he had wed for her fortune and supplanted within weeks with a more experienced courtesan. However, none of the countless admirers she had had since her return to social acceptability had ever affected her as Martin Willesden did.

  The curricle jerked into motion. Her eyes fell to his hands, long, strong fingers managing the reins. His ability probably owed more to his undeniable experience—the experience that glowed in the smouldering depths of those grey eyes. Whatever it was, wherever its origin, he was dangerous—a fact she should strive to remember.

  The sun found her face; Helen tilted her head up and breathed in the fresh scent of rain-washed greenery. Her mental homily was undoubtedly apt, but, try as she might, she could not take the threat seriously. This was an adventure, her first in years. She was reluctant to allow strictures, however appropriate, to mar the joy. The situation was, after all, beyond outrageous; decorum and social niceties had necessarily been set aside. Why shouldn’t she enjoy the freedom of the moment?

  ‘We should reach Ilchester for a late breakfast.’

  Helen wished he had not mentioned food. Determined to keep her mind from dwelling on her empty stomach, she cast about for some suitably innocuous topic. ‘You said you’d been visiting your home. Is it near here?’

  ‘The other side of Taunton.’

  ‘You’ve been away for some time, haven’t you? Was it much changed?’

  Martin grimaced. ‘Thirteen years of mismanagement have unfortunately taken their toll.’ The silence following this pronouncement suggested that his anger at the fact had shown in his tone. He sought to soften the effect. ‘My mother lives there, but she’s been an invalid for some years. My sister-in-law acts as her companion but unfortunately she’s a nonentity—hardly the sort to raise a dust when the runners disappeared.’

  ‘Disappeared?’ Shocked incredulity showed in fair Juno’s eyes, echoed in her tone.

  Reluctantly, Martin grinned. ‘I’m afraid the place, beyond my mother’s rooms, is barely habitable. That’s why I was so set on heading back to London without delay.’ Reflecting that had this not been the case he would not have had the honour of rescuing fair Juno, Martin began to look on the Hermitage’s shortcomings with a slightly less jaundiced eye. Considering the matter dispassionately, something he had yet to do, he shrugged. ‘It’s not seriously damaged—the fabric’s sound enough. I’ve a team of decorators at work on my town house. When they’ve finished there, I’ll send them to the Hermitage.’

  Intrigued by the distant look in his eyes, Helen gently prompted, ‘Tell me what it’s like.’

  Martin grinned. His eyes on his horses, and on the ruts in the road, he obliged with a thumbnail sketch of the Hermitage, not as he had found it, but as he remembered it. ‘In my father’s day, it was a gracious place,’ he concluded. ‘Whenever I think of it, I remember it as being full of guests. Hopefully, now I’ve returned, I’ll be able to restore it to its previous state.’

  Helen listened intently, struck by the fervour rippling in the undercurrents of his deep voice. ‘It’s your favourite estate?’ she asked, trying to find the reason.

  Martin considered the question, trying to find words to convey his feelings. ‘I suppose it’s the place I call home. The place I most associate with my father. And happier memories.’

  The tone of his last sentence prevented further enquiry. Helen mulled over what little she knew of the new Earl of Merton and realised it was little indeed. He had clearly been out of the country, but why and where she had no idea. She had heard talk of a scandal, unspecified, in his past, but, given the anticipation of the hostesses of the ton, it was clearly of insufficient import to exclude him from their ballrooms and dinners.

  While he conversed, one part of Martin’s mind puzzled over the conundrum of his companion. Fair Juno was not that young, nor yet that old. Mid-twenties was his experienced guess. What did not seem right was the absence of a ring on her left hand. She was undeniably beautiful, attractive in a wholly sensual way, and the sort of lady who was invited to Chatham House. The possibility that she was a lady of a different hue occurred only to be dismissed. Fair Juno was well-bred enough to recognise his potential and be flustered by it—hardly the hallmark of a barque of frailty. All in all, fair Juno was an enigma.

  ‘And now,’ he said, bringing their companionable silence to an end, ‘we should put our minds to deciding how best to return you to your home.’ He glanced at the fair face beside him. ‘Say the word, and I’ll drive you to your door.’ Entirely unintentionally, his voice had dropped several tones. Which, he thought, catching Juno’s wide-eyed look, merely indicated how much she affected him.


  ‘I don’t really think that would be altogether wise,’ Helen returned, suppressing her scandalous inclinations. He was teasing her, she was sure.

  ‘Perhaps not. I had hoped London starchiness had abated somewhat, but clearly the passing of the years has yet to turn that particular stone to dust.’ Martin smiled down into her large eyes, infusing his expression with as much innocence as he was capable. ‘How, then?’

  Helen narrowed her eyes and stared hard at him. ‘I had expected, my lord, that one of your reputation would have no difficulty in overcoming such a minor obstacle. If you put your mind to it, I’m sure you’ll think of something.’

  It was a decidedly impertinent speech and provoked a decidedly audacious reply. The gleam in the grey eyes gave her warning.

  ‘I’m afraid, my dear, that if you consult my reputation more closely you’ll realise I’ve never been one for placating the proprieties.’

  Realising her tactical error, Helen retreated to innocence. How silly to try to deflate a rake with outrageousness. ‘Don’t you really know? I confess, I’d thought you would.’

  For an instant, the grey eyes held hers, suspicion in their depths. Then their quality subtly altered. She was conscious of a stilling of time, of her surroundings dimming into blankness. His grey eyes, and him, filled her senses. Then his lips twisted in a gently mocking smile and he looked away.

  ‘As you say, fair Juno, my experience is extensive.’ Martin slanted another glance her way, and saw a slight frown pucker her brow. ‘I suspect it might be best if we try for one of the minor inns, just before Hounslow. I’ll hire a chaise and escort for you there.’ When the frown did not immediately lift, he smiled. ‘You may give the coachman instructions once you reach the outskirts of London.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Helen, struggling to preserve her calm in the face of the discovery that grey eyes of his particular shade seemed to possess a strange power over her. For a moment, she had been mesmerised, deprived of all will, totally at his mercy. And it had felt quite delicious. ‘I suppose that will do.’

  Her tone of reluctant acceptance brought a smirk to Martin’s lips, quickly suppressed. What a very responsive yet oddly innocent goddess she was. His interest in her, already marked, was growing by the minute. Just as well that they had agreed to part that evening. ‘We should reach Hounslow before dark,’ he said, eager to settle that point.

  They journeyed on in silence. Martin pondered how to broach the subject of her name; Helen pondered him. He was, without doubt, the most attractive man she had ever met. It was not just his physical attributes, though there was no fault to be found with those. Neither could his manners, polished and assured though they were, account for the effect. It was, she decided, something far more fundamental, like the raspy growl of his deep voice and the fire banked like coals in the smoky grey eyes.

  ‘Do you spend much of your year in the country, fair maid?’

  The question jolted Helen back to reality. ‘I often visit at—’ She broke off, then continued smoothly, ‘At friends’ houses.’

  ‘Ah.’

  The quality of the glance that rested fleetingly upon her face confirmed her suspicion. He was trying to learn more of her.

  ‘So you spend most of your year in London?’

  ‘Other than my visits.’

  Conversation rapidly degenerated to a game of quiz and answer, he trying to glean snippets of information, she trying to avoid revealing any identifying fact while politely answering all his queries.

  ‘Do you attend the opera?’

  ‘During the season.’

  ‘In friends’ boxes?’

  Helen threw him a haughty look. ‘I have my own box.’

  ‘Then no doubt I’ll see you there.’ Martin smiled, pleased to have scored a hit.

  Realising her slip, Helen had no choice but to be gracious. She inclined her head. ‘Countess Lieven often joins me. I’m sure she’ll be only too pleased to meet you.’

  ‘Oh.’ Stymied by the mention of the most censorious of the patronesses of Almack’s, Martin looked suitably chagrined. Then his brow cleared. ‘A capital notion. I can sue for permission to waltz in Almack’s. With you.’

  At the thought, Helen had to laugh. The vision of Martin Willesden stalking the hallowed boards, an eagle among the lambs, setting all the mother ewes in a flap, was intensely appealing.

  It was Martin’s turn to look haughty. ‘Do you think I won’t?’

  Abruptly, Helen found herself drowning in smouldering grey, warmed and shaken to the core. Dragging her eyes from his, she looked ahead. ‘I…hadn’t imagined you would be attracted to the mild entertainments of the Marriage Mart.’

  ‘I’m not. Only the promise of all manner of earthly pleasures could get me over its threshold.’

  Helen was not game to try to cap that. She rapidly became absorbed in the scenery.

  A slow smile curved Martin’s lips before he gave his attention to his horses. He could not recall ever enjoying thirty minutes of conversation with a female half as much. In fact, he could not recall any other woman he had ever favoured with half an hour of verbal discourse. Fair Juno was a novelty, her mind quick and adroit. Innocent though the information he had gained was, it confirmed his suspicion that she had attained a position in the ton normally reserved for older matrons. Or widows.

  At the thought, he let his eyes roam in leisurely appraisal over the curvaceous form beside him. She felt his gaze and glanced up, a slightly nervous smile hovering on her rosy lips.

  Helen saw the predatory gleam in the grey eyes and accurately read their message. Dragging her dignity about her, the only protection she possessed, she arched one brow in spirited defence, perfectly ready to continue their banter. But the reprobate by her side merely smiled in a thoroughly seductive way and gave his attention to his horses. Helen transferred her gaze to the scenery, her lips irrepressively curving in appreciation. Conversing with a rake while free of the normal strictures, protected from any physical consequences by the fact he had both hands full of high-tempered horseflesh, was every bit as scandalously exciting as she had ever, as a green girl, imagined it would be. It was all deliciously dangerous but, in this case, completely safe. She had realised as much some miles back. It was a game that, in this particular instance, she could play with impunity. She was in his care and, instinctively, she knew he would honour that charge. While she remained under his protection, she was safe from him.

  Heaven help her later.

  But, of course, there would be no later. Helen stifled a sigh as reality intruded, impossible to deny. The future, for them both, was fixed. When he reached London, he would be the focus of the matchmaking mamas—with good reason. He was titled, wealthy and hideously handsome to boot. Their darling daughters would make cakes of themselves trying to catch his grey eyes. And, inevitably, he would choose one of them as his wife. Some well-dowered, biddable miss with an immaculate reputation. A widow, with no pretensions to property, with a murky marriage to a social outcast behind her and nothing more than her connections to recommend her, was a poor bargain.

  Inwardly, Helen shook herself. Reality began in London. There was no need to cloud her day of adventure with such dismal forebodings. She tried to force the image of Martin Willesden paying court to a sweet young thing from her mind. In truth, the tableau was somewhat hazy. It was hard to believe that a man of his tastes, as demonstrated by their dalliance of the past half-hour, would settle to marriage with a sweet young thing. Doubtless, he would be the sort who kept a mistress or two on the side. Well, who was she to complain? Her husband had done the same, with her blessing. Not that her blessing would have been forthcoming had Martin Willesden been her husband.

  With a determined effort, Helen redirected her thoughts. He wanted to know her name. She could tell him, but her anonymity was a comforting sop to her conscience. Besides which, when he reached London and learned who she was, he would realise such a connection was unsuitable, for no one would ever believe it innoc
ent. If she refused to tell him her name, he would not feel obliged to acknowledge her when he met her again. Then, too, many men felt widows were fair game and she would hate him to consider her a potential candidate for his extramarital vacancy. All in all, she decided, he did not need to know her name.

  Martin wondered what thoughts held his goddess so silent. But the peace of the morning was soothing about them and he made no move to interrupt her reverie. Despite not knowing her name, he felt confident of finding her in the capital. London might be the teeming hub of the nation, but its hallowed halls were trod by few. A gold and ivory goddess would be easy to trace.

  The road widened then dipped. A ford lay ahead. Engrossed in contemplation of the predictable delights of waltzing with fair Juno, Martin automatically checked his pair, then sent them into the shallow water at a smart trot.

  The horses’ hooves clopped on the gravelly surface of the opposite bank; they slowed, then leaned into the traces and strained. The carriage wheels stuck fast, rocking the occupants of the box seat to full awareness of their predicament.

  Helen clutched the side of the seat, then turned a wide-eyed look on her rescuer as a muttered expletive was belatedly smothered.

  Martin shut his eyes in frustration. He had forgotten that minor fords were often not paved. The heavy rain had washed silt into the ford; his wheels felt as if they were six inches deep.

  With a heavy sigh, he opened his eyes. ‘We’re stuck.’

  Helen glanced around at the swiftly moving stream. ‘So we are,’ she agreed helpfully.

  Martin cast her a warning look. She met it with unlikely innocence. Grimacing, he lifted his gaze to scan their surroundings. About them, the silence of woods and fields lay unbroken by human discord. No smoke rose above the trees to give hint of a nearby cottage. Memory suggested they were still some miles from the London road.