Having deprived both Lord Peterborough and fair Juno of the power of speech, Martin smoothly drew Helen’s hand through his arm and, with a genial nod to his friend, steered her in the direction of the supper-room.
By the time Helen found her tongue, she was seated at a small table in an alcove of the supper-room, a plate of delicacies before her. Fixing the reprobate opposite with a steely glare, her bosom swelled. ‘Lord Merton…’ she began.
‘Martin, remember?’ Martin grinned at her. ‘You didn’t really believe I’d let you go into supper with anyone else, did you?’
Staring into teasing grey eyes, Helen felt totally befuddled. Should she answer yes or no? If she said yes, he would only take the opportunity to tell her she should have known better—which was true. And saying no was out of the question. In the end, she glared. ‘You’re impossible.’
Martin smiled. ‘Have a lobster patty.’
Helen gave up. It was simply too easy for him to pull the rug from beneath her feet in private. She had yet, she reflected, to learn how to keep him at a proper distance. If she did not master the art soon, it would be entirely too late. Already, she had noticed a few curious looks cast their way. Still, as far as the ton knew, he could merely be looking her over, seeking congenial company until the Little Season got into full swing and he set about the serious task of finding a suitable wife.
Pleased by her capitulation, Martin devoted his considerable talents to distracting her, in which endeavour he was so successful that, by the time he returned her to the ballroom, she was thoroughly flustered. In the circumstances, he forbore to claim another dance, contenting himself with placing a most improper kiss in her palm before leaving her to less threatening cavaliers.
The Burlington ball marked the beginning of Martin’s campaign. He was assiduous in attending whatever ball or party Helen Walford graced, paying her such marked attention as could not be misconstrued. He took great delight in teasing her, knowing that she, of all who watched him, was the furtherest from divining his purpose. Many had marked his predilection for her company; he did not, in truth, give a damn. He fully intended to go a great deal further than mere predilection.
Everything he learned of her confirmed his certainty that she was the one woman he wanted before his fireplace. She was accepted and respected, unquestionably good ton. Her maturity was transparent, but, while she clearly understood the rules of the game, she had never, to anyone’s knowledge, played. Not the closest scrutiny uncovered any degree of partiality for the numerous gentlemen who claimed her as friend. She was much admired, by the women as well as the men—no mean feat in these days of cut-throat beauty.
It was a week into the Little Season when his pursuit of her took him to the dim portals of Almack’s. The Marriage Mart had never been one of his favourite venues. As a youth, he had labelled it the Temple of Doom—forswear happiness, all ye who enter here. With a grimace, he gathered his resolution and trod up the steps. Helen was within and he had determined to conquer not only her, but this last bastion of the ton.
The porter admitted him to the hall, but, not being a regular, there he had to wait for one or other of the patronesses to grant him permission to enter the rooms. As luck would have it, it was Sally Jersey who swept out in response to the porter’s summons, her large eyes wide and incredulous.
‘Good God! It is you!’
Martin grinned wryly and bowed. ‘Me, myse
lf and I, alone.’ He smiled winningly. ‘Will you allow me to enter, dear Sally?’
Lady Jersey was no more immune to rakish charm than the next woman. But she knew Martin Willesden, and knew of the scandal in his past. She was also one of those who had never believed it. She eyed the tower of potent masculinity before her and frowned. ‘Will you promise not to cause any undue flutter?’
Martin put back his head and laughed. ‘Sally, oh, Sally. What an impossible stipulation.’
When he eyed her wickedly, Lady Jersey was forced to acknowledge the truth of his words. ‘Oh—very well! I never believed that Monckton chit anyway,’ she muttered.
Martin captured her hand and bowed low. ‘My thanks, Sally.’
‘Oh, go on with you!’ said Lady Jersey. ‘You make me feel old.’
‘Never old, Sally.’ With one last wicked grin, Martin headed for the ballroom.
He had hoped to slip unnoticed to the side of the room, from which vantage point, being so tall, he would have been able to locate Helen. Instead, to his horror, he was mobbed but feet from the door. While he had been speaking to Sally, word of his arrival had gone the rounds. To his incredulous gaze, it appeared that every fond mama with an insipid daughter in tow had gathered near the entrance for the express purpose of accosting him.
‘My dear Lord Merton—I’m Lady Dalgleish—a very old friend of your mama’s. Pray allow me to present…’
‘Such an exciting career as you’ve had, my lord. You must take the time to tell my dear Annabelle all about it— she just adores tales of foreign places.’
Never in his life had Martin faced such a trial. It quickly transpired that, as virtually none could claim acquaintance due to his prolonged sojourn overseas, they had all decided to ignore such niceties and introduce themselves. The reason for his thirteen-year absence was entirely overlooked.
‘You must come to my soirée next week. Just a very select few. You’ll be able to converse with Julia so much more easily without such a horde about.’
Even Martin blinked at that. They were shameless, the lot of them. The temptation to tell them all to go to hell was strong, but Sally would never forgive him. And he wanted to see Helen, who was undoubtedly one of the many enjoying the unexpected entertainment.
In the end, Martin simply stood stock still and let them come at him, steadfastly refusing to ask any young lady to dance, nor to accept any invitation to look over a chit’s finer points during a stroll around the rooms. He knew that none of the hostesses would be so bold as to suggest he dance with any of the young things, regardless of their parents’ wishes. It was the first time he had ever had reason to be thankful for his past.
Finally, the attack faltered. In between deflecting the none too subtle invitations, he had managed to locate Helen in a small knot of ladies at the far end of the room. Sensing a hiatus, he made a bid for freedom before his besiegers had a chance to regroup.
Gracefully, Martin bowed to the stalwart matron planted plumb in front of him, her two freckle-faced daughters flanking her. ‘Your pardon, ma’am. I fear I must leave you. So pleasant to have met your daughters.’ With a vague smile, he beat a hasty retreat.
Helen had certainly noticed the crowd by the door and recognised the dark head at its centre. It was no more than she had expected—his due, nothing more. With an inward sigh, she made an effort to immerse herself in her friends’ discussion. Lord Merton would have his hands full with the debs from now on.