Dawn was streaking the skies before sleep finally closed Helen’s eyes. The pillow beneath her cheek was damp, her lids decidedly puffy. But she had managed to make the decisions that had to be made. There was no hope of explaining things to Martin—he would not accept her refusal any more than she would accept his suit. So she would have to avoid him—make it plain by her behaviour that their association was at an end. It would cause talk, but nothing serious. The ton would wonder what she was thinking of, but there were too many waiting in the wings to claim his attention for the gossipmongers to dwell on her peculiar whims for long.
She would have to give him up, even though it would be easier to cut out her heart. Instead, she would have to live with it, a leaden weight in her breast, evermore. He would be hurt by her withdrawal and even more hurt by her lack of explanation. But if she tried to explain, he would refuse to accept her decision. She could not see him readily acquiescing; who knew to what lengths he might go to attain his goals? No—there was only one way forward.
As she snuggled her cheek deeper into the down, she sighed. She should have known how it would end—happiness of that kind was not for her—would never be hers.
The pot of gold at the end of the rainbow had always been beyond her reach.
Chapter Eight
‘What will you have?’
Martin waved his hand in the direction of the well-stocked drinks tray reposing on the sideboard in his library.
‘If memory serves,’ said Hazelmere, sinking into the comfort of an armchair, ‘your father was a particularly fine judge of Madeira.’
A grin twisted Martin’s lips. ‘Quite right. And George had no taste for the stuff. Apparently, there’s three full racks in the cellar.’
He poured two glasses and carried one to his guest before settling in the armchair on the other side of the empty fireplace. A companionable silence fell. Hazelmere, well aware that Martin had asked him to his home for some purpose, was content to wait for his friend to open his budget. Martin, equally well aware of his friend’s understanding, was in no hurry to do so.
The matter was a delicate one. He had called on Helen the morning after the débâcle of his first declaration, two nights ago. Hours of intense concentration had yielded no clue as to what it was that had made her balk at his proposal. Nevertheless, he had gone to her small house in Half Moon Street, confident of ironing out whatever wrinkles had insinuated themselves into the fabric of their relationship. That was when he had realised how serious her problem, now their problem, was.
She had refused to see him, sending her maid down with a story of indisposition. For the first time in his life, he had been totally nonplussed. Why?
There had to be a reason—she was not a dim-witted miss, a flibbertigibbet. It had been his avowal of love that had thrown her, though why that should be so he could not imagine. Eventually, he had come to the conclusion that there had to be some hidden bogey in her past that his words, or the meaning behind them, had conjured up.
And the one person who knew enough of Helen’s past to be of use was seated in the armchair opposite, a deceptively lazy look in his hazel eyes.
Martin grimaced. ‘It’s about Helen Walford.’
‘Oh?’ A look of reserve veiled Hazelmere’s sharp gaze.
‘Yes,’ said Martin, ignoring it. ‘I want to marry her.’
His friend’s features relaxed in warm approval. ‘Congratulations.’ Hazelmere raised his glass in the gesture of a toast.
‘Premature, I’m afraid. She won’t have me.’ Martin bit the words out, then sought solace in a hefty draught of finest quality Madeira.
A puzzled frown settled over Hazelmere’s black brows. ‘Why, for heaven’s sake?’
‘That’s what I want you to tell me.’ Martin settled back in his chair and looked pointedly at Hazelmere.
Hazelmere frowned back, an exasperated look in his eyes. ‘She likes you. I know she does.’
‘So do I—it’s not that.’
Uncharacteristically at sea, Hazelmere threw Martin a thoroughly bemused look. ‘What then?’
Martin sighed. ‘When I told her how much I loved her…’ He threw a warning glance at Hazelmere before continuing, ‘She nearly broke down and wept.’
Hazelmere showed no sigh of treating the subject lightly. If anything, his frown deepened. Eventually, he said. ‘That…is bad. Helen hardly ever cries. I’ve known her since she was three and she’s far more likely to argue than weep.’
‘Quite.’ Martin paused, then added diffidently, ‘I had wondered whether there was anything about her previous marriage that would account for it.’
Hazelmere’s brows rose. Sitting back
, he considered the point, absent-mindedly twirling the stem of his glass between his long fingers. Then, abruptly, as if having reached a decision, he looked at Martin. ‘As you seem set on marrying her, and, even if she doesn’t know it yet, I know that means she’ll be the next Countess of Merton, I’ll tell you what I know.’ At sight of Martin’s quick grin, he added, ‘But I warn you, it’s not much.’
His features impassive, the expression in his eyes much less so, Martin waited with what patience he could muster while Hazelmere fortified himself with a pensive sip of honey-gold liquor.