Bowing his head to hide an irrepressible smirk, Damian obliged. But when he spoke again, his voice and features were serious, as befitted his assumed role. ‘As you doubtless know, Martin returned from the colonies to take up his inheritance.
Naturally, what wealth he now has derives entirely from the Merton estates. And, due to past bad management, the Merton estates are kept afloat by my mother’s funds.’ Pausing to let the implications sink in, Damian gave thanks for his eldest brother’s failings. Thanks to George’s incompetence, he had the perfect threat to remove Lady Walford from Martin’s scene. What woman would marry a man forced to hang on his mother’s sleeve? A hostile mother, at that. And, once Lady Walford drew back from the well-publicised relationship, other ladies similarly disposed would, with any luck, have second thoughts. ‘Unfortunately,’ he continued, ‘Martin and the Dowager have never been on good terms. My mother naturally demands that Martin marry as she dictates. Or else…’
Cold fingers had laid hold of Helen’s heart, squeezing until it hurt, leaving nothing but numbness behind. But she had to hear all of it, understand the whole story. ‘Or else what?’
Damian saw the stricken look in the large green eyes and was momentarily taken aback. Then his own future prospects arose in his mind, stiffening his resolve. ‘Or else she’ll withdraw her funds. The estate will collapse. Martin will be destitute, unable to support the lifestyle he’s accustomed to, the lifestyle expected of the Earl of Merton.’
And he will lose all chance of restoring his home. Helen recalled all too vividly Martin’s face, lit by enthusiasm as he had described the Hermitage and told her how it would be once he had finished refurbishing it. As it had been in the days of his father, he had said. In the past weeks, she had heard even more of his dreams and had come to realise how important they were to him. A bridge, a living link to the father he had lost. The destruction of those dreams was a blow he would feel most cruelly—if he married against his mother’s wishes.
If he married her.
None knew better than she that few mothers would approve of an eligible son marrying the widow of a social outcast—a reprobate who had gone well beyond the invisible line and had subsequently taken his own life. She was, she knew, unsuitable.
It had never occurred to her to question Martin’s right to choose his own wife. He had seemed so much in control, she had never thought of him as being in any way under another’s sway. But his brother’s tale rang chillingly true.
Dull emptiness and the cold taste of despair swamped her senses.
Chilled to the bone, deaf to the babel about them, she held out her hand to Martin’s brother. ‘Thank you for telling me.’ Her voice didn’t sound like her own—it was cold and distant, as if she were speaking from a long way away. She put up her chin. ‘You may be sure I’ll do nothing to encourage Martin to harm his future.’
Her voice threatened to break. She could say nothing more. Withdrawing her hand from Damian’s, she turned and walked into the crowd, all but unaware of her direction, oblivious of the odd looks cast her way.
By the time she found Dorothea, on a chaise by the door, Helen had regained some semblance of composure. If she appeared before Hazelmere, or his equally intelligent wife, with her soul in her eyes, she would never escape explanations. Yet the very thought of Martin and her hopes of happiness, now all gone awry, was enough to bring her to the brink of tears. Resolutely, she shut her mind against the pain and forced herself to act normally.
‘Is anything wrong?’ was Dorothea’s opening gambit.
Helen smiled weakly. ‘Just a slight headache—no doubt due to all this noise.’ She sank on to the chaise beside her friend.
‘Well,’ said Dorothea, correctly interpreting Helen’s wish to have nothing made of her indisposition, ‘I’ve determined to leave soon, so I can take you up with me.’
After a fractional hesitation, Helen nodded dully. ‘Yes, that would be best, I expect.’ Martin would expect to see her again that evening, but if she escaped with Dorothea, pleading a headache, then he would not worry. He would call at her home tomorrow, and then she would have to explain. But by then she would have had time to get herself in hand, enough, at least, to face him. For, despite the cold fogs shrouding her mind, there was one point that was crystal-clear. She could not, would not, marry Martin Willesden. She could not face the prospect of being the death of his dream. His interest in her was real—that she knew without reservation. His interest in other women of the ton was non-existent. If she was out of contention, he would no doubt allow his mother to find him a bride and so would achieve his ambition—an ambition entirely appropriate to his station.
Glumly, Helen stifled a sniff and struggled to force a smile to her lips. She would sit quietly by Dorothea’s side until it was time to leave.
Unfortunately for her well-intentioned plans, Martin appeared by her side but minutes later. Helen’s heart leapt in her breast at sight of him; she could not keep the welcoming smile from her face. But he instantly noted its tremulous quality. Drawing her to stand close beside him, he bent his dark head close to ask, ‘What’s the matter?’
With a calm she was far from feeling, Helen reiterated her story of a headache.
Martin frowned at the press of bodies about them. ‘Hardly to be wondered at. Come for a stroll—some fresh air will help clear your head.’
Before she had time to protest—not, she suspected, that he would have listened—Helen found herself strolling by Martin’s side along a suspiciously deserted corridor. Her heart started to beat rather faster.
Her suspicions were confirmed when they reached the door at the end of the corridor and Martin opened it to reveal a small walled garden, deserted and entirely private.
He led Helen to a stone seat worked into the rockery and waited while she settled her skirts on the thyme-cushion growing over it before sitting beside her. On his knees was the prescribed pose, but, given he was thirty-five and she a widow of twenty-six, he felt he did not need to do such violence to his feelings, or to his satin knee-breeches.
She turned to stare up at him. The moonlight gilded her features, features he had come to know very well over the past week. Her green eyes widened, her lips were slightly parted. Because it seemed the right thing to do, and because he had long ago ceased to stop himself doing whatever he wished to do, Martin drew her smoothly into his arms and kissed her.
Helen tried, really tried to hold firm against that kiss, against the invitation to melt into his arms. She had been gathering her strength to speak—to avert any possible declaration, when his dark head had bent and his lips had slanted over hers. But it was impossible to hold back the tide of longing that swept her. Yielding to the inevitable, she softened against him and felt his arms tighten about her.
It was scandalously wrong to sit in a deserted garden and allow a gentleman she was not going to marry to kiss her. Particularly to kiss her like this.
The touch of his lips on hers was sheer bliss. She let her hands settle against his shoulders and leaned into his warm embrace.
Later. She would have to speak later. But for now she might as well enjoy the delicious sensations he stirred within her. He was unlikely to stop soon and at least while he was thus engaged he could not propose to her. Perhaps he did not intend to propose just yet—was merely indulging in a little dalliance further to enthral her? As the pressure of his lips increased, Helen gave up any attempt at thought.
When he finally raised his head, Martin looked down on glittering green eyes, wide and slightly stunned. She was quite speechless and, if experience was any guide, was probably having difficulty stringing two thoughts together. He smiled. It hardly mattered. She would not need to think to answer his question.
‘Will you marry me, my dear?’