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‘Oh! Is she the one who—?’ Abruptly, she cut off her words; embarrassment rose to smother her.
Beside her, she felt rather than heard Martin’s sigh.
‘She’s the one who engineered the little drama that saw me exiled from England.’
Engineered? What drama? Helen wished she had the nerve to ask.
Martin stared out over the darkly shadowed gardens, seeing the shadows from his past. He did not want them to cloud his future. There was no one within earshot. ‘When I was twenty-two, Serena Monckton, now Lady Rochester, was a débutante. She quite literally threw herself at my head.’ He glanced down at Helen’s face, and saw the little frown of concentration that dragged at her brows. He smiled. ‘As I told you, I have a constitutional dislike of being pursued. In this case, however, I underestimated the opposition. Serena engineered a compromising situation— and then cried rape.’
Helen’s brows flew but she said nothing.
‘Unfortunately, that little contretemps came on top of the discovery by my father of a rash of gambling debts— nothing overly outrageous, only what was to be expected from a youth such as I was. But my father was determined to keep me in line. Serena’s little ploy was the last straw. He issued an ultimatum.’
Despite his clipped tones, and the effort he was making to tell his story without emotion, Helen heard the pain, dulled by the years but still there, an undercurrent that had sprung to life immediately he had mentioned his father.
‘Either I married the chit or he’d send me to the colonies. I chose the colonies.’ Martin raised his brows, considering his life in brief. ‘All in all, that was the luckiest decision of my life.’ His lips curled. ‘Perhaps I should thank Serena. Without her efforts, I doubt I would be worth quite as much as I am today.’
Helen threw him a soft smile. Hesitantly, and only because she was desperate to know, she asked, ‘Did your father learn the truth later?’
There was a distinct pause before the answer came. ‘No. I never saw him again. He died two years after the event, while I was still in Jamaica.’
Helen did not need to ask herself if she had heard the truth. Every particle of her being knew that she had. No matter how accomplished an actor, no man, she felt sure, could manufacture the emptiness, the intense loss, that vibrated in the deep, gravelly voice. She had heard vague murmurings of the scanda
l in his past. She was pleased that he had told her of it—now she could disregard it.
They paced the length of the terrace to where a series of shallow steps led down to a fountain surrounded by an area of parterre. A number of couples were strolling in the fresh night air, seeking relief from the closeness of the ballroom.
Glancing at the serious face beside him, Martin smiled. She was so easy to read. He felt curiously honoured that she should concern herself with his long-ago hurts. But it was time she smiled again. ‘Can I tempt you from the terrace, fair Juno? I promise not to abduct you.’
Helen looked up and smiled as the implication of his words registered. A disavowal of any negative response to being abducted by him had almost reached her lips before, horrified, she stilled the words. Fancy admitting to a desire to be kidnapped—by a rake, no less! Her wits were becoming thoroughly untrustworthy when he was by her side. She covered her confusion by drawing away and sweeping him a curtsy. ‘Why, thank you, my lord. A brisk turn about the fountain will doubtless clear my head.’
Martin’s brows rose. ‘Does it need clearing? What’s it full of?’
You, was her thought. But his eyes were quizzing her. Determined not to be jockeyed into making any revealing disclosures, Helen put her nose in the air and her hand on his arm. ‘The fountain, my lord.’
His soft laugh set every nerve tingling.
‘As you command, fair Juno.’
Chapter Seven
The Little Season progressed and, with it, Martin’s campaign. By the time the first flurry of balls had faded into memory, and the trees in the Park had begun to shed their leaves, he felt it was time to re-evaluate his position. Helen Walford was his—that was quite clear to him. Hopefully, it would, by now, also be quite clear to the ton at large. Watching his fair Juno from the side of Lady Winchester’s ballroom, his shoulders propped against the panelled wall, he spared a moment in fond amazement that she, alone, was still uncertain on the matter, unsure that the future he had planned for her would ever come true.
He had taken great delight in conveying, by every subtle means at his disposal, just how exciting her future would be. She was fascinated. Her insecurity stemmed, he surmised, from her unhappy marriage—a fact he had no difficulty believing. Arthur Walford must have been all of fifteen years her senior.
‘I wonder…is it possible to tempt you to the card-room?’
At the familiar languid tones, Martin smiled and shifted his gaze sideways to the Marquis of Hazelmere’s face. ‘Unlikely.’
Hazelmere sighed. ‘I thought not. I’ll have to hunt up Tony.’ He clapped Martin on the shoulder and was turning away when he paused to add, ‘Just remember—the sooner you resolve this matter, the sooner you can join us. It doesn’t do to forget your friends.’ With a smile of the most complete understanding, Hazelmere moved on.
Turning back to the ballroom in time to see Helen throw a laughing smile at her partner—Alvanley and therefore perfectly safe—Martin smiled wryly. He had only just arrived, yet the urge to monopolise Lady Walford’s company was growing stronger by the minute. He would resist the tug yet awhile; there was a limit to all things— even the leniency of the ton towards one who they were now convinced had been wrongfully slighted. Martin’s smile grew. In truth, the past no longer haunted him. His only concern was for the future. But the approbation of the ton would be important to the future Countess of Merton, so he was pleased to have secured that elusive cachet.
As to the future itself, he had no doubts. In fact, if he was forced to the truth, he would have to admit that he had made up his mind to wed Helen Walford the instant he had seen her standing before the Hazelmeres’ fireplace. The only consideration that had kept him from a declaration was a desire not to startle her—or the ton. The ton was now taken care of. She was still slightly nervous over what she knew would shortly be her fate, but, if anything, that touch of the wide-eyed innocent only made him more eager to make her his.
The music came to an end and the guests milled across the floor. Conversation rose to cloak the scene lit by the heavy chandeliers. The curls in the ladies’ artfully arranged coiffures sheened; jewels winked about their throats. Their gowns swirled, the colours of spring flowers about the trunks of the darker-garbed males.
Juno had her own little court. Over the heads of the throng, Martin watched as she smiled and traded quips. Her gown of palest amber became her fair charms to admiration. With an inward glow, he noted the way her eyes lifted every now and then to scan the company. She had yet to see him. Then, as he watched, waiting for the right moment to make his presence known, a fop in a coat of a peculiar shade of green insinuated himself at Helen’s side.
