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‘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.’
