It was a full minute before Helen registered the ineligible epithet and by then it was too late to gasp.
To her considerable relief, Martin did behave impeccably for the rest of the evening. She had no illusions as to how outrageous he could be if he put his mind to it. His ‘rakish tendencies’, as he called them, were remarkably strong. But not even the highest stickler could have faulted his performance— beyond the fact that he remained anchored to her side.
After the excitement of Almack’s, Helen had expected to endure a sleepless night. Instead, drugged with unaccustomed happiness, she had slept the sleep of the innocent. Unheralded but sure of his welcome, Martin had called to take her driving at eleven. What with entertaining a small procession of afternoon visitors, all agog to hear anything she might have to say about the Earl of Merton, and then dressing for dinner at Hatcham House, Helen found herself once more in Martin Willesden’s arms, waltzing down a ballroom, without having had more than a moment to spend in consideration of his words of the previous night.
‘Tell me, fairest Juno, is it normal for such affairs as this to be so refreshingly free of the jeunes filles?’
Martin’s voice in her ear summoned her wits from besotted contemplation of how very strong he was and how helpless he made her feel. Helen blinked. ‘Well,’ she temporised, glancing about at the crowd and noticing he was right, ‘I suppose it’s because the Hatchams are rather out of the deb set—their own children are all married. And Lord Pomeroy is giving a ball for his daughter tonight, too, so many of the younger folk will be there, I expect.’
Martin frowned slightly. ‘I don’t suppose I can convince you to eschew the larger balls—at least for this year?’
Helen returned his mock-frown with one of her own. ‘After avoiding the ton and the matchmaking mamas for the past thirteen years, the least you can do is allow them a try at you.’
‘But just think how pointless such an undertaking on their parts will be.’ His expression became earnest. ‘Shouldn’t I, in the interests of the social good, and the matchmaking mamas’ constitutions, simply give them all the go-by?’
The music ceased and they whirled to a halt. Taking his arm all but automatically, Helen fell to strolling by his side. ‘By no means!’ She could not yet see where his conversation was taking them. ‘It’s your duty to be seen at the major functions.’
Martin grimaced. ‘You’re absolutely sure?’
Warily, Helen nodded.
‘Ah, well.’ He sighed. ‘In that case, just as long as you’re there to protect me, I suppose I’ll have to attend.’
‘My lord, I cannot be forever at your side.’ She could see where he was headed now.
‘Why not?’
The grey eyes, impossibly candid, held hers.
‘Because…’ Helen struggled to assemble her reasons— her rational, sensible reasons. But, under the power of his grey gaze, they went winging from her head. They had halted by the side of the ballroom and she had turned, the better to look into his face. The eyes holding hers seemed to look deeper, reach deeper, to touch some chord within her and make it sing. Then, as she watched, he was distracted. His eyes left hers, focusing on some vision a few feet behind her.
‘Speaking of protection…’ Martin drew her hand through his arm, securing her by his side.
‘Martin—darling! How positively thrilling to see you again—after all these years!’
Helen stifled a wince at the arch tones. Small wonder that Martin wished to avoid the mesdames if that was the treatment they accorded him. She felt the muscles of his arm tense beneath her fingers. Helen shifted slightly, to stand more definitely by his side, where she sensed he wanted her, and found herself staring at blonde curls much paler than her own, arranged about a face rather older than her own. But not old enough to be a matchmaking mama. The woman cast the barest of icy smiles in her direction before turning big, pale blue eyes on the new Earl of Merton.
The new Earl remained stubbornly silent.
The lady continued unabashed. ‘Such a surprise, my dear. You should have called.’ A look of unlikely ingenuousness suffused the pale face. ‘Oh! Of course. You wouldn’t know! I’m Lady Rochester now.’
For Helen, the penny dropped with the name. She stifled the urge to look up at Martin, to see what he was making of her ladyship’s performance. Lady Rochester was a widow of some years standing, one of those who, while credited with birth sufficient to enter the ton and title sufficient to open most doors, was nevertheless on the outer circle of polite society. No scandal had ever touched her name, but consistent rumour still tarnished it.
Martin’s silence was beginning to strain her ladyship’s smile. But her voice was determinedly conspiratorial when she said, ‘My dear Martin, I’ve so much to tell you. Perhaps, such old friends as we are, we should repair to some place rather more private to review our histories? If Lady Walford will excuse us?’
The last was said with a dismissive smile. Her ladyship reached for Martin’s other arm. Helen stiffened, and would have drawn her hand from Martin’s sleeve except that his hand, covering hers, tightened, strong fingers gripping hers.
‘I think not.’
Helen blinked, very glad that Martin did not use that particular tone to her. Shafts of ice and arctic winds would have been warmer. Intrigued by this by-play, for it was transparently obvious that there was more to the exchange than she yet knew, she watched Lady Rochester’s face pale to blank-white.
‘But—’
‘As it happens,’ Martin continued, repressive coldness in every syllable, ‘Lady Walford and I were about to take a stroll on the terrace. If you’ll excuse us, Lady Rochester?’
With a distant nod, Martin steered Helen past the importunate Lady Rochester, leaving her ladyship to stare, dumbfounded, at their backs.
Within minutes, they were strolling on the long terrace in relative isolation. Helen felt the tension ease from Martin’s long frame. Who was Lady Rochester that she should draw such a violent, albeit suppressed reaction from Martin? Out of the blue, the answer flew into Helen’s head.