Fair Juno

by Stephanie Laurens

None knew better than she that few mothers would approve of an eligible son marrying the widow of a social outcast—a reprobate who had gone well beyond the invisible line and had subsequently taken his own life. She was, she knew, unsuitable.

  It had never occurred to her to question Martin’s right to choose his own wife. He had seemed so much in control, she had never thought of him as being in any way under another’s sway. But his brother’s tale rang chillingly true.

  Dull emptiness and the cold taste of despair swamped her senses.

  Chilled to the bone, deaf to the babel about them, she held out her hand to Martin’s brother. ‘Thank you for telling me.’ Her voice didn’t sound like her own—it was cold and distant, as if she were speaking from a long way away. She put up her chin. ‘You may be sure I’ll do nothing to encourage Martin to harm his future.’

  Her voice threatened to break. She could say nothing more. Withdrawing her hand from Damian’s, she turned and walked into the crowd, all but unaware of her direction, oblivious of the odd looks cast her way.

  By the time she found Dorothea, on a chaise by the door, Helen had regained some semblance of composure. If she appeared before Hazelmere, or his equally intelligent wife, with her soul in her eyes, she would never escape explanations. Yet the very thought of Martin and her hopes of happiness, now all gone awry, was enough to bring her to the brink of tears. Resolutely, she shut her mind against the pain and forced herself to act normally.

  ‘Is anything wrong?’ was Dorothea’s opening gambit.

  Helen smiled weakly. ‘Just a slight headache—no doubt due to all this noise.’ She sank on to the chaise beside her friend.

  ‘Well,’ said Dorothea, correctly interpreting Helen’s wish to have nothing made of her indisposition, ‘I’ve determined to leave soon, so I can take you up with me.’

  After a fractional hesitation, Helen nodded dully. ‘Yes, that would be best, I expect.’ Martin would expect to see her again that evening, but if she escaped with Dorothea, pleading a headache, then he would not worry. He would call at her home tomorrow, and then she would have to explain. But by then she would have had time to get herself in hand, enough, at least, to face him. For, despite the cold fogs shrouding her mind, there was one point that was crystal-clear. She could not, would not, marry Martin Willesden. She could not face the prospect of being the death of his dream. His interest in her was real—that she knew without reservation. His interest in other women of the ton was non-existent. If she was out of contention, he would no doubt allow his mother to find him a bride and so would achieve his ambition—an ambition entirely appropriate to his station.

  Glumly, Helen stifled a sniff and struggled to force a smile to her lips. She would sit quietly by Dorothea’s side until it was time to leave.

  Unfortunately for her well-intentioned plans, Martin appeared by her side but minutes later. Helen’s heart leapt in her breast at sight of him; she could not keep the welcoming smile from her face. But he instantly noted its tremulous quality. Drawing her to stand close beside him, he bent his dark head close to ask, ‘What’s the matter?’

  With a calm she was far from feeling, Helen reiterated her story of a headache.

  Martin frowned at the press of bodies about them. ‘Hardly to be wondered at. Come for a stroll—some fresh air will help clear your head.’

  Before she had time to protest—not, she suspected, that he would have listened—Helen found herself strolling by Martin’s side along a suspiciously deserted corridor. Her heart started to beat rather faster.

  Her suspicions were confirmed when they reached the door at the end of the corridor and Martin opened it to reveal a small walled garden, deserted and entirely private.

  He led Helen to a stone seat worked into the rockery and waited while she settled her skirts on the thyme-cushion growing over it before sitting beside her. On his knees was the prescribed pose, but, given he was thirty-five and she a widow of twenty-six, he felt he did not need to do such violence to his feelings, or to his satin knee-breeches.

  She turned to stare up at him. The moonlight gilded her features, features he had come to know very well over the past week. Her green eyes widened, her lips were slightly parted. Because it seemed the right thing to do, and because he had long ago ceased to stop himself doing whatever he wished to do, Martin drew her smoothly into his arms and kissed her.

  Helen tried, really tried to hold firm against that kiss, against the invitation to melt into his arms. She had been gathering her strength to speak—to avert any possible declaration, when his dark head had bent and his lips had slanted over hers. But it was impossible to hold back the tide of longing that swept her. Yielding to the inevitable, she softened against him and felt his arms tighten about her.

  It was scandalously wrong to sit in a deserted garden and allow a gentleman she was not going to marry to kiss her. Particularly to kiss her like this.

  The touch of his lips on hers was sheer bliss. She let her hands settle against his shoulders and leaned into his warm embrace.

  Later. She would have to speak later. But for now she might as well enjoy the delicious sensations he stirred within her. He was unlikely to stop soon and at least while he was thus engaged he could not propose to her. Perhaps he did not intend to propose just yet—was merely indulging in a little dalliance further to enthral her? As the pressure of his lips increased, Helen gave up any attempt at thought.

  When he finally raised his head, Martin looked down on glittering green eyes, wide and slightly stunned. She was quite speechless and, if experience was any guide, was probably having difficulty stringing two thoughts together. He smiled. It hardly mattered. She would not need to think to answer his question.

  ‘Will you marry me, my dear?’

  Helen’s mind fell into place with a thud. She felt her eyes widen even further. She struggled to assemble the right words but none would leap to her tongue. When she saw the grey eyes sharpen and become intent, she swallowed. ‘No.’

  It was such a small sound, Martin thought he had misheard. But the expression in her eyes, the wordless pain, convinced him he had not been mistaken. Somehow, he had muffed it. When she drew her hands from his shoulders, he smiled and tried to make light of her problem, hoping to learn what it was. ‘My dear Helen, I’ll have you know it’s not done to kiss a man and then refuse his suit.’

  To his increasing unease, she hung her head. ‘I know.’

  Helen found she was wringing her hands, something she had never done in her life. ‘Truly, my lord, I’m more than honoured by your proposal. But I…’ Heavens—what was she to say? ‘But I’ve not thought of remarrying.’

  ‘Well, try thinking about it.’ Martin strove to keep the edge from his tone. This was not how this interview was supposed to have gone. In fact, the more he thought of it, the whole business was deucedly odd. What had happened?

  ‘My lord, I must make you understand—’

  ‘No—it’s I who must needs make you understand. I love you, Helen. And you love me. What more is there to it than that?’

  Helen swallowed and forced her eyes to his. The moon shone from behind him, leaving his features in shadow and her with no real idea of his expression. She imagined it was forbidding. Suppressing a shiver, she tried to speak calmly. ‘My lord, you know as well as I that there’s a great deal more to it than that.’

  Martin stiffened slightly, then remembered that he was atrociously rich. She must be referring to his past, but he had told her about that. Didn’t she believe him? ‘I’m very much afraid, my dear, that you’ll have to be rather more specific if I’m to follow your thread.’

  Helen’s courage was fast deserting her. How to tell a man—an arrogant, proud man—that you knew he was his mother’s pensioner? She shifted back on the seat and felt Martin’s arms fall from about her. Instead of bringing her relief, the withdrawal of his protection left her feeling more lost than ever. She pressed her hands together and in a very small voice said, ‘I was thinking of w
hat your mother would say.’

  His reaction was every bit as violent as she had anticipated.

  ‘My mother?’ Martin was dumbfounded. ‘What the devil do you imagine my mother has to do with this?’ He had almost forgotten his mother’s plans. Had news of her machinations reached town? ‘I’ll marry who I damn well please! My mother doesn’t have any say in the matter.’ The idea that Helen thought him the sort of man who would allow anyone to interfere in such a matter made his tone even more steely.

  Helen had winced at his questions; by the time he had finished his vehement denial she was more than flustered. Her nerves were jittery; she could not think straight. Her head throbbed in earnest. Of course he would deny it. What more could she say? How could she smooth things over and make him understand?

  Martin saw her agitation. Immediately, he sought to cut through the morass they had somehow landed in and bring her to peace again. ‘Helen, my dear, I love you. Even if my whole estate were in the balance, I’d still want to marry you.’

  He spoke simply, from the heart. He was not prepared for her reaction. Wide eyes turned his way; her breath seemed to catch in her throat. Then her full lips trembled and the moonlight glistened on the tears hanging suspended from the tips of her long lashes.

  ‘Oh, Martin!’

  The whispered words caught on a sob.

  Abruptly, Helen looked down, at her fingers tightly twined in her lap. She had never loved anyone as much as she loved him; she could not let him make such a sacrifice.

  Becoming more worried with every passing second, every totally confusing minute, Martin frowned at Helen’s bent head. He reached for her hand.

  The door from the house opened.

  ‘This way, m’dear.’

  Helen would have leapt to her feet, but Martin’s hand on hers restrained her. He moved slightly, so that his bulk shielded her from the intruders. As two guests emerged into the small walled court, Martin rose languidly then turned and helped Helen to rise.

  ‘Oh!’ said Hedley Swayne. ‘My goodness! I’m afraid we didn’t realise this area was occupied.’

  One of Martin’s brows rose. His gaze went from the frippery sight of Mr Swayne to the slight young thing wavering on his arm. ‘No matter, I was just about to escort Lady Walford inside.’

  He turned to offer his arm to Helen. She took it, trying to appear as unaffected as possible, with her nerves in knots and her heart in her shoes.

  ‘Oh, Lady Walford,’ the slight young thing warbled nervously. ‘Would you mind if I came inside with you?’ Without waiting for assent, the girl turned to Hedley Swayne. ‘I really don’t think I wish to view the gardens just at the moment, Mr Swayne.’

  She bobbed a curtsy and hurried to Helen’s side.

  Swallowing his frustration, Martin was forced to escort Helen and her unexpected protégée back to the ballroom. Once under the light of the chandeliers, he saw how badly affected Helen was. Feeling very much as if his world had stopped turning, he resigned himself to letting the matter lapse until a more suitable opportunity to speak privately with her could be arranged. He left her with Dorothea, lifting her hand to his lips with a murmured, ‘I’ll call on you tomorrow,’ before taking his leave.

  Dorothea took one look at Helen’s face, then, without comment, called for her carriage.

  Dawn was streaking the skies before sleep finally closed Helen’s eyes. The pillow beneath her cheek was damp, her lids decidedly puffy. But she had managed to make the decisions that had to be made. There was no hope of explaining things to Martin—he would not accept her refusal any more than she would accept his suit. So she would have to avoid him—make it plain by her behaviour that their association was at an end. It would cause talk, but nothing serious. The ton would wonder what she was thinking of, but there were too many waiting in the wings to claim his attention for the gossipmongers to dwell on her peculiar whims for long.

  She would have to give him up, even though it would be easier to cut out her heart. Instead, she would have to live with it, a leaden weight in her breast, evermore. He would be hurt by her withdrawal and even more hurt by her lack of explanation. But if she tried to explain, he would refuse to accept her decision. She could not see him readily acquiescing; who knew to what lengths he might go to attain his goals? No—there was only one way forward.

  As she snuggled her cheek deeper into the down, she sighed. She should have known how it would end—happiness of that kind was not for her—would never be hers.

  The pot of gold at the end of the rainbow had always been beyond her reach.

  Chapter Eight

  ‘What will you have?’

  Martin waved his hand in the direction of the well-stocked drinks tray reposing on the sideboard in his library.

  ‘If memory serves,’ said Hazelmere, sinking into the comfort of an armchair, ‘your father was a particularly fine judge of Madeira.’

  A grin twisted Martin’s lips. ‘Quite right. And George had no taste for the stuff. Apparently, there’s three full racks in the cellar.’

  He poured two glasses and carried one to his guest before settling in the armchair on the other side of the empty fireplace. A companionable silence fell. Hazelmere, well aware that Martin had asked him to his home for some purpose, was content to wait for his friend to open his budget. Martin, equally well aware of his friend’s understanding, was in no hurry to do so.

  The matter was a delicate one. He had called on Helen the morning after the débâcle of his first declaration, two nights ago. Hours of intense concentration had yielded no clue as to what it was that had made her balk at his proposal. Nevertheless, he had gone to her small house in Half Moon Street, confident of ironing out whatever wrinkles had insinuated themselves into the fabric of their relationship. That was when he had realised how serious her problem, now their problem, was.

  She had refused to see him, sending her maid down with a story of indisposition. For the first time in his life, he had been totally nonplussed. Why?

  There had to be a reason—she was not a dim-witted miss, a flibbertigibbet. It had been his avowal of love that had thrown her, though why that should be so he could not imagine. Eventually, he had come to the conclusion that there had to be some hidden bogey in her past that his words, or the meaning behind them, had conjured up.

  And the one person who knew enough of Helen’s past to be of use was seated in the armchair opposite, a deceptively lazy look in his hazel eyes.

  Martin grimaced. ‘It’s about Helen Walford.’

  ‘Oh?’ A look of reserve veiled Hazelmere’s sharp gaze.

  ‘Yes,’ said Martin, ignoring it. ‘I want to marry her.’

  His friend’s features relaxed in warm approval. ‘Congratulations.’ Hazelmere raised his glass in the gesture of a toast.

  ‘Premature, I’m afraid. She won’t have me.’ Martin bit the words out, then sought solace in a hefty draught of finest quality Madeira.

  A puzzled frown settled over Hazelmere’s black brows. ‘Why, for heaven’s sake?’

  ‘That’s what I want you to tell me.’ Martin settled back in his chair and looked pointedly at Hazelmere.

  Hazelmere frowned back, an exasperated look in his eyes. ‘She likes you. I know she does.’

  ‘So do I—it’s not that.’

  Uncharacteristically at sea, Hazelmere threw Martin a thoroughly bemused look. ‘What then?’

  Martin sighed. ‘When I told her how much I loved her…’ He threw a warning glance at Hazelmere before continuing, ‘She nearly broke down and wept.’

  Hazelmere showed no sigh of treating the subject lightly. If anything, his frown deepened. Eventually, he said. ‘That…is bad. Helen hardly ever cries. I’ve known her since she was three and she’s far more likely to argue than weep.’

  ‘Quite.’ Martin paused, then added diffidently, ‘I had wondered whether there was anything about her previous marriage that would account for it.’

  Hazelmere’s brows rose. Sitting back
, he considered the point, absent-mindedly twirling the stem of his glass between his long fingers. Then, abruptly, as if having reached a decision, he looked at Martin. ‘As you seem set on marrying her, and, even if she doesn’t know it yet, I know that means she’ll be the next Countess of Merton, I’ll tell you what I know.’ At sight of Martin’s quick grin, he added, ‘But I warn you, it’s not much.’

  His features impassive, the expression in his eyes much less so, Martin waited with what patience he could muster while Hazelmere fortified himself with a pensive sip of honey-gold liquor.

  ‘I expect I’d better start at the beginning.’ Hazelmere settled his shoulders against the back of the chair. ‘Helen’s parents presented her at sixteen—a mistake, for my money. She’d been a tomboy, a hoyden, for years and had yet to grow out of her adventures. But her parents had her life all arranged—a marriage to the son of an old friend, Lord Alfred Walford. The son, Arthur Walford, I think you knew?’

  At Hazelmere’s questioning glance, Martin nodded curtly. ‘We met once or twice before I left for the West Indies. Hardly the sort of man careful parents would have in mind for a beautiful and wealthy sixteen-year-old.’

  A fleeting smile lit Hazelmere’s face. ‘Ah—but you didn’t know Helen then. I know it’s hard to believe, seeing her now, but, take it from me, at sixteen she was a Long Meg—and a dreadfully scrawny one at that.’ When Martin looked sceptical, Hazelmere waved the point aside. ‘Not that it mattered. It wouldn’t have made an ounce of difference if she’d been Cleopatra incarnate. The parents, both hers and old Walford, had settled on the alliance long before. It was intended as a dynastic marriage of the most calculated sort. Helen’s parents were both ambitious in an odd sort of way. They never mixed much and lived in seclusion in the country, but they were determined to marry their daughter into one of the oldest families about.’ Hazel-mere paused, his gaze far away, remembering. ‘There were many who tried to dissuade them, my parents among them, but they were fixated on the idea. Walford the elder was keen, because of Helen’s dowry. Arthur Walford was amenable for much the same reason. So Helen was married to Walford a bare month after her come-out.’