Her gaze locked with the grey eyes across the table, Helen felt all her strength drain. Frowning, she dragged her eyes from Martin’s and, automatically, put up her hand to push back her curls. Both men moved to stop her. Startled, she remembered the state of her hands and, just in time, used her wrist instead. ‘Give me a moment to think,’ she pleaded.
Her tone twisted through Martin. He frowned. What the devil did she have to think about? He loved her, she loved him—there was no reason to cogitate. She looked so weary, he was tempted to pick her up and put her to bed—to sleep. Which said a great deal about the state to which love had reduced him. Right now, all he wanted was a yes to his proposal, and after that Helen badly needed looking after— all else took second place. The presence of Hedley Swayne was a bonus. He knew Helen’s instinctive dislike of the man—nothing overly strong but simply the natural antipathy of a beautiful woman for a man who had no use for beautiful women. It was, he suspected, just the situation to break down her barriers. He needed her to say yes—after that, he was prepared to devote his life to ensuring that she never regretted it—in fact, to ensuring that she enjoyed her second marriage as completely as she had disliked her first. He waited for her answer, supremely confident as to what it would be.
Helen wished the ground would open up and swallow her, that Janet would arrive and break the deadlock, anything at all to get out of making her choice. She did not want to marry Hedley Swayne. But, with every passing minute, that fate took firmer shape.
She had not expected to see Martin again, not after his brutal dismissal of her and his slap in the face at the Barhams’ ball. That had all been reaction, of course, natural, no doubt, in a man of his temperament. But she had imagined that that would be the end of it; why, then, was he here? The answer was staring her in the face, stated plainly in his words. Her heart contracted painfully. He had come because of the scandal.
How could she have forgotten? Agonised as she imagined what his feelings must be, finding himself once more forced to make an offer by the weight of the ton’s displeasure, she pressed her hands tightly together inside her dough. He was now the Earl of Merton and would be expected to play by society’s rules. Thus, he would be expected to offer for her. But if she accepted, his mother would, she felt sure, have no compunction in disinheriting him. He would lose his dream. She could save him from both fates—social ignominy and maternal retribution—by the simple expedient of marrying Hedley Swayne. If she were already engaged to marry Hedley, Martin would be absolved from offering her his name in place of her reputation. He would then be free to marry a lady of whom his mother approved, and thus gain his most desired objective.
Martin shifted his weight. Helen noticed; her time was running out. She glanced up and met his gaze. Something of her decision must have shown in her eyes, for, as she watched, his brows descended and his eyes grew stormy.
‘I’ve made up my mind,’ she announced, afraid that if she did not get it out quickly her courage would fail her. Her eyes remained on Martin’s face an instant longer before she turned to Hedley Swayne. ‘Mr Swayne, I accept your proposal.’
Hedley Swayne gawked at her. ‘Oh. I mean—yes, of course! Delighted, m’dear.’
The silence from across the table was awful. Helen forced herself to look. Stunned astonishment held Martin’s features immobile for a fleeting moment, then the hurt she had expected showed for the briefest of instants before a mask of impassivity put an end to all revelations. With dreadful civility, he bowed, his natural grace so much more polished than Hedley’s flamboyant rendition.
‘You’ve made your choice—I wish you happy, my dear.’ He glanced up and met her gaze. His eyes were cold and stony, grey upon grey, his face a mask. ‘I pray you’ll not regret the bargain you’ve made this day.’
His eyes held hers for one last, agonised minute, then he turned on his heel and left.
Helen stood by the table, slowly extricating her hands from the mess of her dough. She was deaf to Hedley’s garrulous self-congratulations, her ears straining to catch the sound of Martin’s retreating carriage. When the rumble had finally died in the distance, she moved slowly to the chair by the end of the table and sank into it. Then, as the full measure of what she had lost, of what she had committed herself to, became clear, she leaned her arms on the table and, laying her forehead upon them, gave way to her tears.
The crackle of flames came from behind him but, although he felt chilled to the bone, Martin made no move to turn his chair to the fire. If he did, he would see the mantelpiece. Which in turn would remind him of the woman he had left to her fate that morning in Cornwall.
He could not believe she had accepted Hedley Swayne over him. His frown turned to a scowl. He took a long swig of the amber fluid in his glass. The most damning thought of all was the certain knowledge that by forcing his unholy ultimatum upon her he had driven her into Hedley Swayne’s arms. That thought threatened to drive him mad. He felt like howling with rage. Instead, he drained his glass and reached for the decanter on the small table
at his elbow.
Outside the uncurtained windows, the stars shone in a black sky. It had been full dark before he had reached the Hermitage, even driving in a frenzy as he had been. Joshua had been silent the entire way, a sure sign of dire disapproval. How long he had sat in the darkened library, drowning his sorrows in the time-honoured way, he did not know. Pentley, his new butler, had entered to suggest dinner but he had ordered him out. All he wanted to do was wallow in his misery—and drink himself into a stupor sufficiently deep to let him sleep.
He had lost her—irretrievably; nothing else mattered any more.
The doors to the hall opened. Martin glowered through the dark, preparing an acid rebuke for whoever had dared to disturb his despair. His eyes, adjusted to the gloom, detected no one until, awkwardly, a chair came hesitantly into the room. It stopped just inside the doors, then they shut behind it.
Stifling a curse, Martin rose to his feet. His mother had come down to him. Who the hell had told her he had arrived?
Drawing on considerable experience, he summoned the skills required to cross the long room to his mother’s side. He kissed her hand, then her cheek. ‘Mama. There was no need for you to come down—I would have called on you at a more fitting hour tomorrow.’
‘Yes, I dare say you would prefer me to leave you in peace to drink yourself into oblivion, but, before you’ve entirely lost your wits, there’s something I have to tell you.’
Through the dark, Martin frowned. ‘I’m not in the mood to listen to homilies or any such, ma’am.’
Catherine Willesden’s lips twisted. ‘This is more in the nature of information. Information I think you would wish to hear sooner rather than later.’ When her aggravating son made no effort to move, she grimaced. ‘Do come to, Martin! You can’t be that addled yet. Light a candle for goodness’ sake; I’m not particularly fond of the dark. And, if you please, you can push me nearer the fire.’
With a deep sigh, Martin accepted the inevitable and did as he was told. He could not imagine what she had to tell him, but in his present befuddled state, he was not up to arguing with her. But once he had lighted a single candle and placed the candlestick on a table beside her chair, drawn up before the fire as requested, he retreated to his own chair, still engulfed in shadows, moving it back so that he could see his mother but still be largely screened from the mantelpiece.
As he sat, he noticed that her face was more drawn and pinched than he recalled. ‘Have you been well?’
With a little start, she raised her eyes to his face. ‘Oh, yes. Quite well. But,’ she temporised, ‘I’ve had rather a lot on my mind, of late.’
‘Such as?’
She threw him a darkling glance. ‘For a start, I suppose I should tell you that, as far as the question of Serena Monckton goes, I’ve known for some considerable time that her charge was without foundation.’
Silence stretched, then, ‘Did my father know?’
Catherine Willesden shook her head. ‘No, I only learned the truth from Damian some years after John died. But I gather most people now suspect the truth.’