Hazelmere fell in on his other side. ‘You have to exclaim over the heir, too,’ he murmured, hazel eyes dancing with laughter.
They paused on the threshold of the large drawing-room. A babble of gay voices, unaffected by polite restraint, filled the air. Martin scanned those present, noting Fanshawe, with a pretty blonde chit at his side, talking to an older woman whom he recognised as Marc’s mother, the Dowager Marchioness. Martin remembered her with affection; she was one of the few who had not condemned him over the Monckton affair. By her side was an even older woman in a purple turban. She looked vaguely familiar but he could not place her.
His gaze travelled on to a group before the fireplace— And froze. A woman stood before the hearth, a baby balanced on one hip, cradled in one curvaceous arm. The light from the wall sconce glittered over her golden curls. Her ample charms were exquisitely sheathed in topaz silk; pearls sheened about her throat. She was taller than the dandy she had been talking to, a slim, slight figure with pale blond hair. But his entrance had brought an abrupt halt to their discourse. Eyes of pale green, wide with shock, were fixed on him.
With a slow, infinitely wicked smile, Martin made straight for fair Juno.
As he crossed the large room, he was aware of Dorothea by his side, chattering animatedly. Her comments led him to understand that she thought he was interested in se
eing her son. Martin’s smile deepened; his eyes locked with fair Juno’s. The sight of her, with a baby on her hip, affected him more strongly than he wished to admit. No desire, in a life strewn with desire, had ever been so strong. He wanted to see her standing before his fireplace, with his son in her arms. It was that simple.
Helen couldn’t breathe. The sight of Martin in the doorway had quite literally scattered her wits. In the middle of a sentence, in reply to a question of Ferdie’s, her voice had simply suspended, stopped, her mind totally focused on the rake across the room. And now he was coming to her side! With an effort, she drew breath, and panic rushed in. Her gaze lifted to his and was trapped in clouds of grey. The quality of his smile registered. It was devilish. Repressing a shiver of pure anticipation, Helen dragged her mind free of his spell. Heavens! She was going to have to do better than this—where had her years of experience flown to?
Then Dorothea was there, reaching for her son. ‘Let me introduce Lord Darcy Henry.’
Helen handed Darcy over, desperately struggling to find her mental feet. Dorothea held Darcy for Martin to admire. The Earl of Merton barely glanced at Hazelmere’s heir.
‘He’s nearly two months old.’ Dorothea looked up to find that her husband’s old friend was not even looking at her son. She stared at Martin, then realised he was staring at Helen. Dorothea followed his gaze and beheld her usually impervious friend mesmerised, bedazzled, wholly hypnotised by Lord Merton’s grey gaze.
Fascinated, Dorothea was glancing from Martin to Helen and back again when her husband appeared by her side. Ex-rake that he was, Hazelmere took in the scene in one, comprehensive glance.
‘Martin, Lord Merton, allow me to introduce Helen, Lady Walford, Darcy’s godmother.’ Hazelmere turned to his wife. ‘Perhaps, my dear, you’d better take Darcy back to the nursery.’ With an innocent air, the hazel gaze returned to Helen. ‘And perhaps, Helen, you could introduce the others—or at least those Martin can’t recall?’
With a benedictory smile, Hazelmere moved off, firmly removing his by now intrigued wife.
Finding his field clear, Martin allowed a rakish smile to surface. He moved to Helen’s side, one black brow rising quizzically. ‘Revealed by the hand of fate, fair Juno.’
The softly spoken words caressed Helen’s ear, sending a delicious shiver down her spine. ‘Helen,’ she whispered back urgently, searching for some semblance of equilibrium. She dared not look at him until she had found it.
‘You’ll always be fair Juno to me,’ came the outrageous reply. ‘What man of flesh and blood could let that image go? Just think of the memories.’
Helen decided she had better not—her composure was rattled enough already.
Calmly, Martin appropriated her hand and dropped a light kiss on her fingers, smiling at the tremor of awareness the action provoked.
Wide-eyed, Helen glanced up at him, only to glance away rapidly. The glow in his eyes suggested he was going to be outrageous; his smile was a declaration of devilish intent.
Indignation came to her rescue. ‘I take it you’re acquainted with Hazelmere?’
Martin’s eyes danced. ‘We’re old friends—very old friends.’
Of that Helen had not a doubt. For years, Marc had sternly protected her from the advances of the rakes of the ton; now, in his own drawing-room, he had all but handed her into Martin Willesden’s arms. Typical! Helen repressed a most unladylike snort.
With his usual good manners, Ferdie had drifted away when Martin had approached so purposefully. With a warning glance for the reprobate beside her, Helen raised her voice. ‘Ferdie—have you and Lord Merton met?’
It transpired that they had not. Helen performed the introductions, adding for Martin’s benefit, ‘Ferdie is Hazelmere’s cousin.’
Martin frowned slightly. ‘The one who rode his father’s stallion?’
To Helen’s amusement, Ferdie blushed. ‘Didn’t think anyone would remember that.’
‘I’ve a particularly good memory,’ Martin averred, his eyes seeking Helen’s. Trapping her gaze, he added, his voice low, ‘Particularly vivid.’
It was Helen’s turn to blush. Studiously avoiding Ferdie’s interested eye, she placed a hand on Martin’s sleeve, risking the contact in the pursuit of greater safety. ‘Have you met Dorothea’s grandmother, my lord?’ With a nod for Ferdie, she purposefully steered Martin in the direction of the dowagers, hoping that in their presence he would get little opportunity to exercise his facility for unnerving innuendo.
To her relief, as they circulated among Hazelmere’s guests, Martin behaved in a manner which when she later had time to consider it, only confirmed her assessment of his experience and expertise. He chatted easily with whoever she introduced him to, the ready charm she had always associated with the most dangerous species of rake very apparent. However, at no time did he give any indication of wishing to leave her side. In fact, his attitude declared that, had it been permissible, he would unhesitatingly have monopolised her time.
He made his preference so clear that both the Dowager, Marc’s mother, and Lady Merion, Dorothea’s grandmother, took great delight in twitting them both over it.