Helen’s eyes flew wide. She blushed furiously.
Martin laughed, raising one finger to caress her cheek. ‘Say you’ll marry me and we can enjoy such delights every day—or at least every night.’ His second proposal, he reflected, but in circumstances much more to his taste. He smiled confidently and waited for fair Juno’s assent.
Helen could not meet his eyes. As the silence stretched, she felt Martin tense. Feeling a chill creep over her skin, she tried to ease from his hold. He let her go, his hands falling from her as she stood and moved to the fireplace before turning to face him.
Steeling herself, she raised her eyes to his. Cold grey stone would have held more warmth than the grey gaze steadily regarding her. His features were impassive, set like granite; his hands were fisted on his thighs. The light from the dying fire gilded the heavy musculature of his bare chest. He looked very powerful—and deeply angry.
‘Martin, I cannot marry you.’ Helen forced herself to enunciate the words clearly, calmly. Inside, she felt dead.
‘I see.’ The words came like a whiplash. Helen hung her head. ‘You’ll willingly share my bed but you won’t marry me.’ During the pause that ensued, she kept her eyes down, too frightened that she would weaken if she looked up and saw his disillusion.
‘Why?’
The confusion and hurt in that single word nearly overset her. She pressed her palms together and forced her head up. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t explain.’
‘Sorry?’ Abruptly, Martin surged to his feet.
Startled, Helen glanced awa
y, colour flaring in her pale cheeks. With a strangled curse, Martin stalked to where a silk robe had been left lying over the back of a chair. He shrugged into it, struggling to bring order to the chaotic and violent emotions seething through his brain. ‘Let me just get one point clear,’ he ground out, savagely yanking the sash tight. ‘You were willing, were you not?’
‘Yes.’ Helen brought her head up, relieved to see him decently garbed. Her admission should have sunk her beyond reproach, shaken her to the core. Yet it was the truth; she admitted it without a blink, all her energies concentrated on the difficult task of persuading him to let her go. ‘But that alters nothing. It is simply not possible for me to marry you.’
‘Why?’
This time, the question held more demand. Martin stalked back and forth before her, a wounded beast. Helen stifled the instinctive urge to offer him comfort. She had to hold firm. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t explain.’
Eyes narrowed to steely slits, Martin stopped directly in front of her. ‘Can’t explain why you’d make a high-class harlot of yourself rather than marry me? I’m hardly surprised, madam!’
Inwardly flinching, Helen held herself proudly, refusing to quail under the glittering grey gaze. She felt sick. He was not impassive now; hurt pride was clearly etched in his forbidding features. But she could not regret their afternoon of delight; she did not intend to feel guilty over the greatest joy she had ever known.
Martin held her gaze, willing her to back down. When the clear green gaze remained steady, unwavering, he growled and flung away. He felt violent. He wanted to shake her—to take her back to the bed and reduce her to a state where she would do, and say, anything he wished. But that was no real solution. He threw a furious glance her way. She was still standing, with a calm he knew was assumed, before his fireplace—where he wanted to see her, but without the mantle he wished to place on her shoulders. He could push her to become his mistress, and she might just give way. But he wanted her as his wife.
With a growl of frustration, Martin turned and stalked back to her. ‘If my honest proposal is repugnant to you, my lady, I would suggest you leave. Before my baser instincts drive me to make you a far more insulting offer.’
Helen’s eyes widened. Martin’s fingers closed, vice-like, about her arm. Stifling a gasp, she allowed him to march her, unresisting, to the door. It was better this way. If she had to depart of her own accord, leaving him hurt, wounded and without explanation, she might waver and fail. His furious rejection might break her heart but it might also save his.
In a muddled, befuddled fury, Martin strode into his hall, dragging Helen with him. ‘Hillthorpe!’
Instantly, his butler emerged from behind the green baize door. At sight of them, his demeanour underwent a subtle change.
Martin ignored the evidence of Hillthorpe’s surprise. ‘Lady Walford is leaving. Get a hackney for her ladyship.’ He released Helen and, with the curtest of nods, turned on his heel and strode back to the parlour.
When the door slammed behind him, Helen drew a ragged breath. She felt as if her world had crashed about her very ears. Her head was spinning; she felt queasy inside. But there was nothing to do but face the disaster with as much dignity as she could. Her hair was still down, but her pins were irretrievable; she would have to make the best of it. She refused to permit herself to break down and cry, much as she wished to, until she was safe in her chamber. Reaching that sanctuary with all possible haste was her immediate goal.
One glance at Martin’s butler showed he was as stunned as she at Martin’s rudeness but, unlike her, had no idea from where the uncharacteristic reaction sprang. ‘If you would get my hat and coat?’
Her quiet question jolted Hillthorpe out of his state of shock. ‘Yes, of course, my lady.’ Never in his extensive experience of Mr Martin had Hillthorpe seen him in such a temper. Which, he thought, as he bowed to Lady Walford and hurried to do her bidding, was a damned shame. The servants had been particularly pleased when Mr Martin had inherited. Of the four sons of the house, he had always been their favourite. He was a hard but fair master; they were relieved that the estate was once more in capable hands. Not since the late master, his father, had they felt so secure. And, as servants did, they had kept abreast of his endeavours to secure his Countess. The news that he had chosen Lady Walford for the position had been greeted with considerable relief. Many were the instances when men such as his lordship married youthful misses who led everyone a dance and set the household by the ears. But Lady Walford was well spoken of, kind and generous, a lady in truth.
As he held her ladyship’s coat for her, Hillthorpe frowned. She was upset, as she had no doubt every right to be. What was the master thinking of? A hackney? He would summon the unmarked carriage instead. As she turned to face him, buttoning up her coat, he bowed low. ‘If you’ll just take a seat in the drawing-room, ma’am, I’ll summon the carriage directly.’
Grateful for the man’s smooth handling of the matter, Helen followed him, battening down her emotions until it was safe to set them free.
From the bend in the spiral staircase two floors above, Damian Willesden watched her disappear down the hall. His eyes widened in surprise. Slowly, he slumped on to the stairs, the better to consider the implications of what he had just seen.
So—Martin had run true to form and seduced the beautiful Lady Walford? That thought pleased Damian no end. With a little crow of delight, he gave thanks for Martin’s rakish tendencies. Lady Walford might be his brother’s mistress but she would not be his wife. Her ladyship could be crossed off the list of potential candidates for the position of the Countess of Merton.
Or could she?