‘I expect I’d better start at the beginning.’ Hazelmere settled his shoulders against the back of the chair. ‘Helen’s parents presented her at sixteen—a mistake, for my money. She’d been a tomboy, a hoyden, for years and had yet to grow out of her adventures. But her parents had her life all arranged—a marriage to the son of an old friend, Lord Alfred Walford. The son, Arthur Walford, I think you knew?’
At Hazelmere’s questioning glance, Martin nodded curtly. ‘We met once or twice before I left for the West Indies. Hardly the sort of man careful parents would have in mind for a beautiful and wealthy sixteen-year-old.’
A fleeting smile lit Hazelmere’s face. ‘Ah—but you didn’t know Helen then. I know it’s hard to believe, seeing her now, but, take it from me, at sixteen she was a Long Meg—and a dreadfully scrawny one at that.’ When Martin looked sceptical, Hazelmere waved the point aside. ‘Not that it mattered. It wouldn’t have made an ounce of difference if she’d been Cleopatra incarnate. The parents, both hers and old Walford, had settled on the alliance long before. It was intended as a dynastic marriage of the most calculated sort. Helen’s parents were both ambitious in an odd sort of way. They never mixed much and lived in seclusion in the country, but they were determined to marry their daughter into one of the oldest families about.’ Hazel-mere paused, his gaze far away, remembering. ‘There were many who tried to dissuade them, my parents among them, but they were fixated on the idea. Walford the elder was keen, because of Helen’s dowry. Arthur Walford was amenable for much the same reason. So Helen was married to Walford a bare month after her come-out.’
‘A month?’ Incredulity sharpened Martin’s tone.
‘Precisely,’ affirmed Hazelmere, equally sharp. ‘The newly-weds repaired to Walford Hall. Less than a month after that, Walford reappeared in town. Helen stayed in Oxfordshire. That situation continued, apparently without change, for close on three years. During that time, all the senior players in the drama died—Walford the elder, and both Helen’s parents. The crunch came when, against all odds, Walford succeeded in running through his funds. He had lost his own estates and those that had come to him through Helen. Only Walford Hall remained, as it was entailed. He returned there, not to take up residence but to see what more he could wring from the place. By then, Helen was nineteen. She had still not attained the stature she now has, but she had improved considerably on sixteen.’
Hazelmere paused, studying the glass in his hand. ‘I don’t know to this day what actually happened, but the upshot of it was that Walford struck Helen—during an argument, she said. For her part, she promptly broke a pot over his head and left.’ Hazelmere drained his glass before glancing at Martin. ‘She came to me. She had grown up with my sister Allison and we had always considered her one of the family. I sent her to my estate in Cumbria—well out of Walford’s way should he try to find her. The story of his treatment of Helen got out—as such things do. It became something of a cause célèbre. The upshot was that Walford was hounded from the ton and comprehensively ruined. He took his own life rather than face Newgate.’
Hazelmere paused, considering the past, then shrugged. ‘Later, many of those who had won stakes from Walford donated money to set up a fund for Helen. I manage it for her. It pays the rent on her house in Half Moon Street and keeps her in her current style—but little else. None of her estates was salvaged.’
Martin frowned, his chin sunk in one hand, his gaze fixed on the Turkey rug gracing the floor between them. Carefully, choosing his words, he asked, ‘Is there anything in what you know of her that would lead you to suppose Helen feels any deep-seated revulsion towards marriage? An aversion to the physical side of matrimony?’
Hazelmere’s lips thinned. His eyes on his glass, he shook his head. ‘I couldn’t say—but, conversely, I would not be at all surprised.’ He lifted his gaze to Martin’s face. ‘You know what Walford was like.’
Slowly, Martin nodded. ‘Could it have scarred her—so that she has difficulty bringing herself to contemplate marriage again?’
Hazelmere shrugged. ‘Only Helen could answer that, but I would have thought it a distinct possibility.’
Almost imperceptibly, Martin’s expression lightened. His eyes narrowed in consideration.
Hazelmere noticed. ‘What is it?’
A crooked grin was Martin’s answer. ‘I was just thinking—who better to cure such a malady than I?’ He shot Hazelmere a quizzical glance, then sat back, supremely confident, one brow rising arrogantly. ‘All things considered, I would have to be the perfect candidate for the job of convincing Helen Walford of the earthy benefits of matrimony. If, with my extensive experience, I can’t overcome that particular hurdle, I don’t deserve the lady.’
For a long moment, Hazelmere’s hazel eyes remained serious, while their owner pondered what was, after all, a distinctly scandalous threat to a lady whom many, including himself, regarded as under his protection. But, if he read things aright, Helen’s future happiness was at stake. She had made her partiality plain. And he trusted Martin Willesden as a brother—Helen would come to no harm at his hands. Slowly, a grin twisted Hazelmere’s lips. Inclining his head in tacit approval of Martin’s avowed intention, he raised his glass in salute.
‘Spoken like a true rake.’
Helen settled her skirts and waited for Martin to join her on the box seat of his curricle. The wind whipped loose tendrils of hair about her face and brought colour to her cheeks. As Martin sat beside her and picked up the reins, she flashed a bright smile in answer to his. Then they were off.
With the raucous cries of the Piccadilly street vendors ringing about her, Helen sat, at peace and oddly content, and wondered that it could be so. It was remarkable, she reflected, that, given Martin’s painful declaration just over a week before, they should be able to be together like this, companionably setting out for a drive in the Park. For her part, she would not have credited it. But, to her relief, Martin had behaved in the most honourable way.
He had claimed her for a waltz at the Havelocks’ rout, the next major function they had both attended. Nothing in his manner had altered; he had behaved every bit as proprietorially as before. Only she had heard his whispered words, ‘Trust me. Just relax—there’s nothing to worry about.’
Strangely enough, she had. From beneath her chip bonnet, Helen glanced up at his profile, so harshly handsome. His eyes were fixed on the road ahead, his hands steady on the reins. A smile on her lips, Helen returned her gaze to their surroundings. Relaxing in Martin’s company had been made a great deal easier by the fact that he no longer sought to befuddle her senses with his particular brand of wizardry. She was determined to keep her traitorous senses in line; his power over them was just as strong, but, if she was intent on her course, she could not afford to let them gain the upper hand. Thankfully, Martin seemed to understand. It was clear that, now she had brought the matter to his mind, he had, however reluctantly, accepted that, given his circumstances and hers, they could not marry. And, gentleman that he was, he was intent on keeping their situation from the world. All she was called on to do was respond to his lead, to make it appear as if there were no rupture between them. It was, she had realised, the sensible course. Now, as time passed, they would be able to draw apart without either being exposed to the avid interest of the scandalmongers.
The Park was reached without incident. They embarked on a slow circuit about the leafy avenues, stopping time and again to chat with their acquaintances. It was during one of these halts that Ferdie Acheson-Smythe approached. His bland expression totally devoid of guile, he nodded to Martin then reached up to shake hands with Helen.
‘Hello, Ferdie. Is that a new coat?’ Helen knew any question of fashion was guaranteed to appeal to the immaculate Mr Acheson-Smythe. She had known Ferdie, Hazelmere’s cousin, forever and was truly fond of the elegant dandy.
‘Yes,’ replied Ferdie, unwarrantably brief. ‘But that wasn’t what I wanted to tell you.’ His pale blue eyes flicked to Martin, engrossed with some friends on the other side of the curricle, then returned to her face, a slight frown in their depths. Leaning closer, he said, ‘I know you’ve made a damned habit of this, but do you really think it’s wise?’
With Ferdie, there was no point in pretending to misunderstand. Helen smiled affectionately at his brother-like concern. She lowered her voice. ‘You needn’t worry. I’m perfectly safe.’
‘Humph!’ Ferdie snorted, his gaze once more on Martin’s profile. ‘That’s what I thought about Dorothea and look how wrong I was. Point is, rakes don’t change. They’re damned dangerous in any circumstances.’
Helen laughed. ‘I assure you this one’s tame.’
The comment earned her a highly sceptical look, but Ferdie said no more on the matter, turning his attention instead to complimenting her on her new apricot merino pelisse. When a short while later Martin looked around, ready to move on, Ferdie bowed elegantly and stood back, contenting himself with a warning look addressed to Helen’s account.
Martin saw it. His brows rose superciliously, but by then Ferdie Acheson-Smythe was already dwindling in the distance. Then Martin’s sharp ears caught the muffled giggle as his companion tried to suppress her reaction. Martin relaxed. ‘Tell me, fair Juno, am I still considered “too dangerous”, despite my exemplary behaviour of recent times?’
Helen shot a startled glance up at him. Reassured by the teasing glint in his grey eyes and the laughter bubbling through his deep tones, she smiled and gave due attention to his question. Considering the matter dispassionately was a decidedly tall order. Eventually, know
ing he was waiting on her answer, she ventured, ‘I fear, my lord, that there are some who see your “exemplary behaviour” as merely the wool beneath which a wolf is disguised.’