Damian sobered and gave the matter due thought. He could not imagine why a man such as his brother would marry a woman he could have as his mistress but the unpalatable truth was, such things had been known to occur. All too often. Particularly with unmarried peers.
The front door opened and shut. Lady Walford was gone.
But he was not yet safe. Damian frowned and drummed his fingers on his knee. He could not believe that Martin would want to marry the lady now, particularly after that abrupt dismissal, but that did not mean she might not try to entrap him later. Adrift in social straits he normally eschewed with a vengeance, Damian pondered deeply. In the end, he concluded that it would quite obviously be better all round, for Martin as well as for himself, if Lady Walford were not in a position to demand that Martin marry her.
And she could not do that if her reputation was already in shreds.
Aside from anything else, the Dowager would not stand for it. Damian had immense confidence in his mother. And her money.
With a smug smile, Damian rose and sauntered down the stairs. It would be easy, so easy, to ensure his peace of mind. He called for his hat and cane and, once supplied with these necessary items, issued forth from the house of his fathers, determined to make sure that it would one day be his. He turned his footsteps in the direction of St James.
Chapter Nine
The Barham House ball was to be held that night. Wearily, Helen acknowledged that it was impossible for her to miss the event—the Barhams had stood her friends for years. Hopefully, Martin, not so constrained, would not go.
With a dismal sniff, she hauled herself out of the comforting softness of her bed and gave her eyes one last pat with her sodden handkerchief. Janet would have to find some cucumber to take the swelling down. Her bout of tears had done no more than ease her immediate hurt; the deeper pain would linger, undimmed by any show of misery. With an effort, Helen stood and crossed the room to tug the bell-pull. Then she ventured to her wardrobe.
Black was what she felt like wearing, but in the circumstances, dark blue would have to do. The heavy silk was edged with gold ribbons; more ribbon cinched the high waist. In it, she knew she looked austere and a little remote. Perfect for tonight. With any luck, the solid colour would help disguise her paleness.
A bath restored some semblance of vitality. Janet fussed and fretted and coaxed her to eat some lightly broiled chicken. Her cook had tried, but the food might as well have been ashes.
And then she was in her carriage, bowling along to Barham House. What would she do if Martin did attend? Helen drew a long breath and buried that thought deep. In her present state, it was far too unnerving to contemplate.
The Barhams greeted her warmly. In the ballroom, she found Dorothea and Lady Merion already present. In the comfort of her familiar circle, she relaxed, allowed a mask of calm unconcern to cloak her bruised heart.
Midway through the evening, her mask slipped alarmingly. She was waltzing with Viscount Alvanley when she became aware that Martin had indeed attended the ball. He was standing by the side of the ballroom, powerful shoulders propped against the wall, a look of brooding intensity darkening his features. His gaze was fixed unwaveringly upon her.
Even Alvanley, genial chatterer that he was, noticed her start. ‘What’s up?’ he asked, peering at her over the folds of his monstrous neckcloth.
‘Er—nothing. What were you saying about Lady Havelock?’
Alvanley frowned at her. ‘Not Havelock,’ he said, piqued. ‘Hatcham.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Helen, praying that he would resume whatever anecdote he had been pouring into her ears. She kept her eyes on the Viscount’s face, inwardly struggling to calm her panicky breathing and the erratic pounding of her heart. To her relief, Alvanley happily took up his tale.
Helen tried to ignore the grey gaze from across the room, tried to keep her mind engaged with all manner of distractions, afraid that if she allowed herself to meet Martin’s eyes her fragile control would break. She could not let that happen—not in the middle of the Barhams’ ballroom. Aside from anything else, Martin in his present mood was perfectly capable of taking advantage of such weakness to force her either to explain, or, if she was truly overcome, to accept his suit. Irrelevantly, Helen belatedly recalled Ferdie’s warning. Her old friend ha
d been right—rakes were dangerous in any circumstances.
Despite the sea of fashionable heads separating them, Martin’s senses, finely tuned where Helen was concerned, detected her unease. Through the veils of rage that still clouded his reason, he realised she did not wish him to approach her. He was tempted to ignore her wishes and claim her for a waltz. Only his uncertainty over what might happen if he did, an unnerving occurrence in itself, kept him from doing so. He was not even sure why he was here, other than that there had been nothing else he had wanted to do. Seeing Helen every evening had become a habit—a habit he was damned if he could break—a habit he had no wish to break. The events of the afternoon had left him more than confused. Anger still rode him, a potent influence, effectively countering all efforts at rational thought. From experience, he knew his mind would not function properly until he had worked it out of his system. How to achieve that laudable goal had him presently at a loss.
He knew his continued staring at Helen was causing comment but he could not stop. His mind was totally consumed by her; his eyes simply followed his thoughts. He saw Hedley Swayne and spared a moment to scowl at him. The fop took fright and disappeared into the crowd.
‘Martin! How pleasant to see you again.’
Martin looked down as a hand touched his arm. Seeing Serena Monckton—no, she was Lady Rochester now— smiling up at him, he repressed the urge to shake off her hand. He nodded casually and came away from the wall. ‘Serena.’
Lady Rochester preened. It was the first time since he had reappeared as the Earl of Merton that she had managed to get Martin to use her first name. Perhaps there was hope for her yet?
Martin saw her reaction and inwardly cursed. He had studiously kept Serena at a distance, knowing how cloying her attention could be. He also trusted her not at all, a fact he felt was excusable. With his mind engrossed with Helen, he had forgotten to keep his defences up. Now he would have to repair the damage.
‘I do love waltzing.’ Coquettishly, Lady Rochester smiled up at him. ‘So few of the men these days know how to do it properly. But you were with Wellington at Waterloo, weren’t you?’
Stifling a curse, Martin reflected that no moss grew on Serena Monckton. She was shameless, propositioning him in such a way. Particularly him. He opened his mouth to put her in her place, when it suddenly occurred to him that perhaps here was an opportunity to demonstrate to another shameless woman just what it felt like to be rejected. The very same shameless woman who had spent the afternoon on his daybed and then rejected him. A single glance over the crowd showed that Helen was sitting out the dance, seated on a chaise by Dorothea’s side. Martin’s eyes dropped to Serena’s eager face, his lips curved in a practised smile. ‘I do believe that’s a waltz starting up now. Shall we?’
He did not have to ask twice. But, immediately his feet started to circle, Martin wished he had thought twice. Dancing with Serena felt all wrong; she was not the woman he wanted in his arms. Gripped by a sudden sense of foreboding, Martin glanced over the heads of the dancers. Helen had not seen them yet. But many others had. He had made a habit of dancing with Helen Walford alone; his sudden appearance on the dance-floor with another woman in his arms, Serena Monckton at that, while Helen was in the room and unengaged, was, Martin belatedly realised, a somewhat obvious insult. The full enormity of his mistake hit him when he again looked Helen’s way. They were much closer now. She had seen them; the expression in her large green eyes cut him to the core. Abruptly, she looked down and away, saying something to distract Dorothea, who was staring at him in undisguised fury.
Martin felt chilled. He waltzed automatically, paying no attention at all to Serena’s chatter. When their revolutions took them past the chaise where Helen had been, he saw that it was empty. The third time around, and Dorothea was back, alone, staring daggers at him.