‘I gather you’ve been in the colonies for some years, my lord. I dare say it takes time to remember our ways?’
The pointed look Lady Merion bent on Martin should, by rights, have flustered even him. Yet, to her horror, Helen heard his deep voice reply, ‘Having but recently laid claim to an exceptionable memory, I can hardly now advance forgetfulness as my excuse, ma’am.’
For the life of her, Helen could not resist glancing his way. The grey eyes were glowing and fixed on her face.
‘Perhaps, my lord, you should seek guidance in achieving your re-entry to society?’ The Dowager Marchioness’s eyes were even more innocent than her son’s. ‘Perhaps Lady Walford would be willing to assist?’
Helen blushed furiously.
‘A capital notion, ma’am.’ With a smile for the delighted dowagers that relieved Helen of any need to speak, Martin drew her from their questionable safety.
Her composure severely compromised, Helen tried to act calmly, tried to convince herself that, in the present circumstances, it was she who should be in control, not he, but in that she failed miserably. As the evening progressed, and they went into dinner, she was not even surprised to find that Martin had somehow arranged things so that it seemed natural for him to lead her in and sit on her right.
Under cover of an uproarious discussion on the latest of the Prince Regent’s peccadilloes, Martin leaned closer and asked, ‘Will you consent to a drive with me in the Park, fair Juno?’
Helen sent him a glittering glance, intended to convey her disapproval of his continued use of that name. He received it with an unrepentant smile.
‘Good. I’ll call for you at eleven tomorrow.’
Before she could do more than gasp at his effrontery, he was offering her a dish of crab. Helen drew a determined breath. ‘My lord…’ she began.
‘My lady?’ he promptly replied, grey eyes intent.
Frantically searching for some means of bringing him to a sense of his shortcomings in respect of accepted procedures, Helen looked deep into his eyes, saw them calmly predatory, and knew she stood no chance of turning him from his purpose. His gaze held hers and the fire shrouded by the grey glowed bright. One brow rose. Abruptly, Helen looked down at her plate.
Smoothly, Martin turned back to the company, a confident smile curving his lips.
Nerves aflutter, Helen decided she would do well to regroup before she took on an opponent of Martin Willesden’s calibre.
When they adjourned to the drawing-room, the men eschewing their port in favour of joining the ladies, a different light was cast on Martin’s propensities. It was Cecily, Lady Fanshawe, who opened Helen’s eyes to what had, until that moment, escaped her notice, preoccupied as she had been with Lord Merton’s potential for outrageousness. The youthful Cecily, just seventeen, had bubbled about the company in her usual fashion, but had missed being introduced to Martin earlier. Helen performed the introduction and was slightly startled by Cecily’s reaction. The big pansy brown eyes opened wide; Lady Fanshawe simply stared.
‘Ohh,’ she finally breathed, her round eyes taking in as much of Martin as she could.
Tony Fanshawe came up in time to witness his wife’s response. With a deep sigh, he took her arm.
‘Go away, Martin,’ he said, and, with a long-suffering look, drew Cecily around. About to lead her off, he paused and glanced back, wicked lights gleaming in his blue eyes. ‘On second thoughts, why not take Helen away, too?’
Helen glared. They were insufferable, the lot of them! A gaggle of unrepentant rakes.
Martin’s chuckle brought her around to face him. ‘What a very good idea.’ The nuance he managed to infuse into the words sent her eyes flying wide. Somehow, his fingers had trapped her hand. Held by the glow in his grey eyes, smoky now with an emotion she was coming to recognise, Helen could only stare as he raised her hand to his lips. The gesture was so simple, yet heavy with meaning. The lingering touch of his lips, a warm caress on her fingertips, sent a succession of shivers through her.
In desperation, Helen blinked—and saw him through Cecily’s eyes. She was used to men being the same height as she, but Martin was a good half-head taller. His dark hair curled lightly; there was the faintest trace of silver at his temples. The grey eyes, so mesmeric, were watching her from under arched and hooded lids. The lines at their corners suggested that laughter came easily to their owner. His cheeks were lean and tanned, his lips fine-drawn and firm. One glance at his jaw gave warning of his temper.
With a little sigh, Helen acknowledged the face and moved on to the figure. She was a large woman, junoesque in truth, but he made her feel small. His shoulders were wide, his chest broad, leaving an impression of lean muscle cloaking a large and powerful frame. She knew he moved gracefully, as an athlete would; the idea of waltzing
with him was more than just attractive.
As she realised, with a jolt, just how long she had stood staring, her eyes flew to his. Heightened consciousness, of him, of her susceptibility, of how much he could see, threatened to overwhelm her. Her breath caught in her throat. She looked away, nervous, confused and more at sea than she had ever been. ‘Can you see Ferdie anywhere?’
Martin heard the panic in her tone. Smiling, he dutifully scanned the room. Her response was encouraging but now was not the time to press her further. With consummate ease, he took charge. ‘He’s by the fireplace.’ Tucking her hand into the crook of his arm, he strolled back into the fray of conversation.
Grateful for his understanding, for she knew it was that, Helen took the opportunity he gave her to reassemble her faculties and get her feet back on the ground. As they circulated about the big room, she recalled a comment of Dorothea’s that being in Marc’s care often felt like being caught in a web, with him, the spider, in the centre. That was exactly how she now felt, except that it was Martin at the centre of her web. It was a protective web; the bonds did not hurt. But they were there, inescapable, unbreakable.
Her relief was very real when Hazelmere approached them, saying to Martin, ‘Tony and I are for White’s. Gisborne—’ he waved in the direction of his brother-in-law ‘—is coming, too. Are you for the tables?’
Martin smiled. ‘Lead the way.’
Hazelmere laughed. ‘I didn’t think you’d have changed.’ With a nod for Helen, he left them.