Fair Juno

by Stephanie Laurens

  Martin studied the vision before him, reading her unease with accomplished certainty. If circumstances had been different, she would have every reason to feel threatened. As things stood, she was safe. Or at least, he amended, safe enough. He knew she could sense his attraction and was hourly more entertained by her efforts to hide her consciousness of him. Entertained and intrigued. Clearly, fair Juno, if widow she was, was not one of those who dispensed her favours with gay abandon.

  As he watched, a small frown creased Juno’s brow.

  ‘Why aren’t you travelling with a groom or tiger?’

  Elegantly disposing his long limbs in the chair opposite hers, Martin smiled, perfectly ready to converse on such innocent topics. ‘My groom fell victim to a severe head cold. I left him at the Hermitage.’ Considering that fact, privately Martin owned to some relief that Joshua had not been perched behind, cramping his style.

  ‘Does the Hermitage have many farms attached?’

  ‘Six. They’re all leased to long-term tenants.’

  Succeeding questions, which Martin was shrewd enough to know were far from artless, led them to a discussion of farming and the care of estates. He could appreciate Juno’s desire to avoid questions on town pursuits; such topics were likely to give him more clues to her identity. Yet her opinions on the organisation of farm labour and the problems faced by tenant farmers were equally revealing. Her knowledge of the subject could not have been acquired other than through first-hand experience. All of which added to his mental picture of fair Juno. She had spent a goodly portion of her life on a large and well-run estate.

  A brisk knock on the door heralded the landlord. ‘Your dinner, m’lord.’ Carrying a heavily laden tray, he entered, closely followed by a buxom woman with tablecloth and cutlery. Together, they efficiently laid the table, then bowed and withdrew.

  Rising, Martin held out his hand. ‘Shall we?’

  Placing her hand in his, Helen ruthlessly stifled the thrill that shot through her at his touch, assuming her most regal manner as she allowed him to lead her to the table and seat her at one end. The slight smile which played about his lips suggested he was not deceived by her worldly air.

  Thankfully, the food gave her a safe topic for discussion.

  ‘I have to admit to ignorance of the latest fads. Thirteen years is a long time away from the boards of the fashionable.’

  Encouraged by this admission, Helen ignored the laughing understanding lighting his grey eyes and launched into a catalogue of the latest culinary delights.

  When the landlord re-entered to draw the covers, Helen grasped the opportunity to retreat to the chair by the fire. She heard the door shut behind their host and wondered, a little frantically, how she was to manage for the next two hours.

  ‘Brandy?’

  Turning to see Martin at the sideboard, decanter in hand, she shook her head. Did he but know it, he did not need any assistance to befuddle her wits.

  Helping himself to a large dose, undoubtedly required if he was to sleep with Juno, alone, next door, Martin came to stand by the fire, one booted foot on the fender, his shoulders propped against the mantelpiece.

  ‘Your man is not going to be impressed with your boots.’

  Martin followed her glance and grimaced. ‘I’ll have to entrust them to the boots here. Joshua will, in all probability, never forgive me.’

  Helen smiled at his nonsense. Despite the tingling of her nerves, due entirely to her company, she felt relaxed and at peace, not a state she had had much experience of over her life. Content, she thought, searching for the right word. Engaged in a most scandalous escapade and I feel content. How odd.

  Catching Martin’s gaze as it rested lightly upon her, she smiled. He smiled back, a slow, pensive smile, and she felt the heat rise inside her. Her eyes locked with his, smoky grey and intent, and she felt her will start to slip from its moorings.

  Sounds of an arrival disrupted their silent communion. Martin turned to stare at the door. The noise beyond rose until it resolved into the clamour of many voices. An invasion had found the Bells.

  Helen frowned. ‘What could it be?’

  Equally at sea, Martin shook his head. ‘Too late for a scheduled stop, I would have thought.’ Inwardly, he hoped that whatever company had sought shelter at the inn did not include any who might recognise either Juno or himself. If it ever became known, there was no possibility that their escapade would be viewed as innocent.

  The noise outside subsided to a steady hum. Almost immediately, the landlord arrived to satisfy their curiosity.

  ‘Excuse me, m’lord, but it seems a night for accidents. The night coach for Plymouth’s lost a wheel just up the road. The smith says as it can’t be fixed ‘til the morrow, so’s we’re having to put up all the passengers here. If it be all the same to you and her ladyship,’ he said, ducking his head in Helen’s direction, ‘I’ve put you in the main chamber. It’s got a huge bed, m’lord—you won’t be disappointed. But there’s more people than we have beds as ‘tis, so I didn’t think as how you’d mind.’

  The man looked hopefully at Martin. Martin looked back, wondering how Juno was taking the news. From his point of view, the disaster was a damned nuisance. But if he insisted on separate rooms, they would probably end up sharing with some less suitable bedfellows—the sort who travelled on the night coach. And, all in all, with the extra men in the house, he would much rather Juno was safe by his side, even if he got no sleep as a result. ‘Very well,’ he replied in his most languid voice. He heard the hiss of Juno’s indrawn breath and suppressed a smile. ‘In the circumstances, your best chamber will have to do.’

  Obviously relieved, the landlord bobbed his head and departed.

  Martin turned to meet Juno’s reproving gaze. One black brow rose. ‘In truth, my dear, you’ll be far safer with me than alone this night.’

  There was no answer to that. Helen dragged her gaze from his face and fastened it on the flames leaping and dancing about the large log in the grate. The prospect of sleeping in the same bed as Martin Willesden left her feeling numb. It was shock, she supposed. She had slept in his arms in the loft last night, but a loft was not the same as a bed. Her adventure was taking a decidedly dangerous turn. No—it was impossible. She would have to think of some alternative.

  But she had still to discover another way from the impasse when, at Martin’s suggestion, they went upstairs to their room, the largest chamber as promised. A welcoming fire burned in the grate, a bed which was every bit as huge as her fevered imagination had anticipated stood against one wall. The room was comfortably furnished, the age of the hangings disguised by the soft candlelight. Martin held the door for her, then followed her in.

  The click of the latch jolted Helen to action. She swung to face him, clasping her hands firmly before her. ‘My lord, this is impossible.’

  He smiled and moved past her to the window. ‘Martin,’ he said, throwing a mild glance over his shoulder. ‘You’d better stop “my lording” me if we’re supposed to be married.’

  Martin checked the window, opening it a crack to let in some air, then rearranged the heavy drapes. He strolled back to the middle of the room, pausing to shrug out of his coat. He draped it over the back of a chair, then smiled at Juno, still standing, uncertain and nervous, near the door. ‘It’s not impossible,’ he said, beckoning her forward. ‘Come here by the fire and let me unlace your gown.’ He ignored the alarm flaring in her eyes. ‘Then you can wrap yourself in the sheet and be as modestly garbed as a nun.’

  Helen considered his words, her nerves in knots, her mind incapable of finding any way out. When his hand beckoned again, with increasing imperiousness, she walked hesitantly forward, her eyes reflecting her troubled state.

  With a reassuring smile, Martin took her hand and drew her to face the fire. Behind her, he found the lacings of her silk gown. His practised fingers made short work of the closures. He resisted the temptation to part the sides of the garment and run a fingertip down h
er spine, clad only, as he had suspected, in a fine silk chemise. ‘Stay there a moment. I’ll fetch the sheet.’

  Helen stared at the flames, her cheeks rosy red. So far, his behaviour had been as reassuringly unthreatening as his words. It was her own inclinations that were undermining her confidence. She was perfectly well aware of how close she stood to having an illicit affair with one of the most notorious rakes in England. All she needed to do was to give him a sign that she would welcome his advances and she would learn what it was that made rakes so sought after as lovers. Martin Willesden was temptation incarnate. But her common sense stood firmly in her way, prosaically pointing out that the last thing she needed was a fling, an affair of the moment, based on nothing more than a passing attraction. That had never been her style.

  The sheet descended over her shoulders.

  ‘I’ll look the other way. I promise not to peek.’

  Helen did not dare look to see just where he was or if he complied. Hurriedly, she slipped the silk dress down, letting it puddle about her ankles while she wrapped the sheet around and about her, tucking the ends in to secure it. She stepped out of her dress and bent to pick it up.

  The sheet rustled as she moved and Martin turned around, just in time to see her pick up her dress. He admired the view before she straightened, shooting him an uncertain look. The firelight gilded her curls, sheening softly on the exposed ivory shoulders and arms. The ache in his loins, a niggling pain for the past twenty-four hours, intensified. Determined to ignore it, he grinned at her. ‘If you get into bed, I’ll tuck you in.’

  Discovering the teasing glint inhabiting his grey eyes, Helen glared, but obediently moved to the bed. ‘Where are you going to sleep?’ There was no armchair in the room.

  Martin’s grin grew. ‘As the landlord said, it’s a large bed.’ He unbuttoned his waistcoat then started on the laces of his shirt.

  Helen stopped and stared. ‘What are you doing?’

  His control under strain, Martin grimaced. ‘Getting ready for bed. I’ll be damned if I sleep another night in these clothes.’ At the look on fair Juno’s face, a picture of scandalised horror, he growled, ‘For God’s sake, woman! Get into bed and turn the other way. You know you’re perfectly safe.’

  Which was more than he knew, but the longer she stood there, wide green eyes on him, the more danger she courted. When she blinked, then climbed rapidly on to the bed, curling up on one side and pulling the covers about her ears, Martin let out a sigh of relief.

  Nerves skittering uncontrollably, Helen lay and stared at the wall. The candles were snuffed, but the flames from the fire shed enough light to see by. She heard his Hessians hit the floor, then the door opened as he stood them in the corridor for the boots to attend to. He closed the door and she heard the muffled sounds of him undressing. She wished she could stop listening, but her nerves, at full stretch, would not let her. Then the bed at her back sagged. With a small squeak, she clutched the side of the mattress to stop herself from rolling into him.

  In spite of his pain, Martin chuckled. He had not anticipated that difficulty. ‘Don’t worry. You have my word as a gentleman that I won’t take advantage.’

  That’s not what I’m worried about! Helen kept the thought to herself. She was scandalised, tantalised, terrified by the possibilities. It had been a long time since she had been in bed with a man, and that never innocently. Last night in the straw did not count—that had been quite different— that had not been a bed. This was definitely a bed. To her horror, her thoughts kept sliding to how easy it would be to relax, to let herself drift back in the bed, until she met the hard, heavy body indenting the mattress behind her.

  In the dark, Martin mentally gritted his teeth. His loins were as girded as they could get. But the warm perfume of her hair tickled his senses; his body was alive to her nearness. If last night had been difficult, tonight would be torture. As the firelight faded, leaving them in comforting darkness, he realised she was stiff and rigid beside him, definitely not asleep.

  ‘You needn’t worry I’ll move in the night. I sleep very soundly.’ Once I sleep, he added silently. ‘I suspect it’s something to do with having been in the army. One slept when one could, usually in far from comfortable surroundings.’

  ‘How long were you in the Peninsula?’

  Her question, muffled by the bedclothes, reminded Martin of an ascerbic comment made by some high-ranking hostess, to the effect that there was nothing so boring as hearing of men’s military exploits. He seized the idea. Within ten minutes, the woman’s astuteness was confirmed. He paused in the middle of a detailed description of his second major battle. No sound beyond the crackle of the fire disturbed the stillness of the chamber. Then his straining ears caught the soft huff of Juno’s breathing, shallow and even. She was asleep.

  He smiled into the darkness, oddly elated, as if he had succeeded in winning another battle. Knowing she was asleep allowed him to relax. As he slipped into slumber, he sternly reminded himself to make sure he woke properly— before he moved.

  The reminder was needed. He awoke to find that, as he had expected, he had passed the night without stirring. He was no nearer to where Juno had laid her head than before. Unfortunately, Juno herself had moved. A lot closer. She had somehow insinuated herself into his arms, her head comfortably settled on his chest. One naked arm lay about his waist.

  And her sheet had ridden up in the night. He could feel her silken limbs entwined with his.

  Martin clenched every muscle he possessed and willed his body to compliance. Carefully, excruciatingly slowly, he disentangled their limbs, trying not to glance at her legs, too worried about waking her to draw the sheet down. He was naked; if she woke now, she was going to get a shock.

  It was a relief to leave the warmth of the bed. Quickly, he dressed and escaped downstairs.

  He found the landlord in the taproom, serving some of the male passengers from the coach. There were others still asleep on some of the benches. After greeting the man and asking after the weather, Martin casually asked, ‘Have our servants by any chance appeared?’

  The landlord shook his head. ‘No, m’lord. No one’s been by this morning.’

  Frowning direfully, Martin swore. ‘In that case, I’ll hire one of your carriages. My wife can go on to town while I back-track to find out what’s become of our people.’

  The landlord was all sympathetic help. He assured Martin of the quality of his carriage and that the coachman and groom could be trusted to see her ladyship safe into London.

  ‘Very well,’ said Martin, tossing a small purse to the man. ‘Have the carriage ready. I’ll want her ladyship on her way immediately after we breakfast.’ Martin glanced about the taproom and remembered the sensation Juno had caused the previous day. ‘Perhaps you could send a tray upstairs?’

  ‘Certainly, m’lord. I’ll send my missus up directly.’

  Martin returned upstairs, pausing to gather his strength before tapping lightly on the door and entering. To his relief, Juno, fair as ever, was out of bed and fully dressed.

  Helen was seated before the small dressing-table, setting her hair once more into a neat knot. She turned when Martin entered, returning his smile as calmly as she could. She had woken to find him gone, but had found herself in the middle of the bed, her protective sheet twisted high on her thighs. The coverlet had been over the top, but she could not begin to think of where he had been when he had awoken. ‘Good morning.’

  Her pulse accelerating, she turned back to the mirror.

  ‘A fair morning it is.’ Martin came to stand beside the dressing-table, propping his shoulders against the wall.

  To Helen’s sensitised senses, he exuded an overwhelming aura of potent masculinity. Struggling to keep her wits focused, she listened as he told her of his arrangements.

  ‘With luck, you’ll be home shortly after midday.’

  Despite the fact that home was where she wished to be, Helen was acutely aware of a dull, shrinking fe
eling as he pronounced the end to their adventure. Suddenly, the morning seemed less bright.

  Their breakfast arrived and was laid out on the small table by the window. Bidden to attend, Helen tried to shake off her attack of the dismals and respond to his banter as she should. He had been a knight in shining armour, in truth, and she owed him a great deal. So she put a brave face on her irrational despondency and replied brightly to his comments.

  She would have been mortified to know the ease with which Martin read her thoughts. Clearly, Juno had never mastered the art of prevarication. Her expression was open, her eyes a direct reflection of her mood. He accurately sensed her feelings, and her desire to keep them hidden. Wisely, he made no reference to his knowledge, but was inordinately pleased that she should feel saddened at having her time in his company brought to an end. It would make it so much easier to draw her to him when next they met.

  Breakfast over, he escorted her downstairs. The day was fine; Juno did not need his coat. He paused, holding her beside him on the steps of the inn. The carriage which was to convey her to London stood ready before them, as neat and clean as the landlord had said. The coachman and groom were burly fellows, both with the open honesty of countrymen. Juno would be safe in their care. He looked down into her clear green eyes. A wry smile twisted his lips. ‘I’ve told them they should take you to London but that you’ll make up your mind where you wish to go when you get there. I’ve paid them fully, so you don’t need to worry about that.’

  Helen felt breathless. ‘I don’t know how to thank you, my lord,’ she began, her voice soft and low so that none would hear them. ‘You’ve been of inestimable help.’

  Martin’s smile broadened. ‘The pleasure was entirely mine, fair Juno.’ He lifted her hand from his sleeve and placed a kiss on her trembling fingertips.

  ‘Your ring,’ Helen whispered.

  Smoothly, reluctantly, Martin drew the heavy signet from her finger and replaced it on his. He raised his eyes to gaze deeply into hers. ‘Until next we meet.’