With an exasperated snort, Martin halted before the mantelpiece. His raving about his plans for the Hermitage and Merton House had doubtless played their part—he had gone out of his way to share his dreams with her, to make her see she was part of his life. Couldn’t she see that his dreams would not be complete without her, here, where she belonged, in front of his hearth? How could she have believed he would value a house more than her—more than their love? Clearly, fair Juno required intense instruction on the whys and wherefores of a love match.
Glancing up, Martin noticed his mother’s grey eyes, watching him in open concern. He smiled, for the first time that day. Going to her, he turned her chair from the fire. ‘Thank you for your information, Mama. I’ll take you to your rooms.’
‘And then?’ His mother twisted her head to look up at him.
‘And then I’m for bed. At first light, I’m heading for Cornwall.’
‘Cornwall?’
‘Cornwall. I’ve a goddess to rescue from a fate worse than death.’
When his mother looked her question, Martin added, ‘Being married to a fop.’
Chapter Twelve
Wisps of fog wreathed outside the leaded panes of Helen’s bedchamber window. She stood before it, listlessly brushing her hair, at one with the dismal chill of early morning. If she had had any sense, she would have stayed in bed. But she could not sleep; there had been no point in lying there, imagining what might have been. Trying to block out the future.
There was no escape. By her own choice, she had cast the die. Now she had to pay the price. She just had not
expected the account to be presented quite so soon.
Hedley had a special licence. The man was a bundle of contradictions but could, apparently, organise himself well enough when sufficiently moved. And he had certainly been moved last night.
Helen bit her lip, her eyes fixed, unseeing, on the gloom outside. She had indulged in a rare exhibition of tears after Martin had left, sobbing for what had seemed like hours. Janet had returned and held her, rocking her like a child, soothing her with comforting nonsenses until, finally, she had been numb enough inside to stop. Only then had she become aware that Hedley Swayne was still there.
When he had explained the arrangements he had made, she had realised that he had left, but had returned to tell her of their wedding. The next day.
Today. This morning, in fact.
With a deep sigh, Helen moved listlessly to the window-seat and sank on to the simple cushions. She had spent half an hour arguing with Hedley, why she could not now recall. Martin was gone; it did not really matter when she married Hedley. In fact, for her purposes, perhaps sooner was best, as he had said? Once the knot was tied, Martin would be forever safe.
Again, Helen sighed. She could barely summon the energy to stand, let alone think. Thinking was too painful. If permitted to roam, her errant thoughts showed a depressing tendency to dwell on the bounty she would have reaped as Martin’s wife, throwing into stark contrast the dismal prospect of marriage to Hedley. He had made it plain, in a burst of quite remarkable candour, that he considered theirs to be a marriage of convenience, nothing more. She was coming to understand that he was truly indifferent to her but, for some unfathomable reason, was equally steadfast in his desire to marry her.
Shaking her head, she raised her brush once more to her tresses, which were tangling about her shoulders. Hedley was beyond her understanding. More definitely within her grasp was the realisation that, in just a few hours, she would say the words which would condemn her to purgatory a second time around. Like a wet grey cloak, despair sat her shoulders, dragging her down. She would have to put on a brave face at the church, although she doubted there would be many there. Janet, of course, and Hedley’s servants, but she did not know anyone else in the village. She did not even know the vicar.
Her brush stilled. Tears filled her eyes, then slowly welled over to course down her cheeks and fall, unheeded, into her lap.
Minutes ticked by and the fog lifted, yet still the cloud of cold despair shrouded her heart.
Eventually, Janet came to her rescue. The maid fussed and prodded and poked and cajoled and at last she was ready—or as ready as she would ever be. Her bronze silk dress was the only one she had brought with her that was halfway suitable for the occasion, and even that was stretching tolerance a bit far. The low neckline and clinging skirts were intended for ton parties, not religious ceremonies. She had no bouquet but chose a small beaded purse to clutch. Her curls were set in the simple knot she preferred; she waved away the rouge pot, dismissing Janet’s criticisms of her wan complexion.
Hedley had sent a carriage. Resigned to her fate, Helen allowed herself to be helped aboard.
The short journey to the village was accomplished far too fast. Descending before the lych-gate, Helen was surprised to find a small crowd gathered, country folk all, eager to view the unexpected happenings. She plastered a smile to her lips. As things were shaping, these people might well be her neighbours for the rest of her life.
Buxom farmers’ wives bobbed their round faces in smiling greeting; their husbands, broad and brawny, grinned. Between the adults, children swarmed in a continuous stream. Suddenly, a freckle-faced miss bobbed up in Helen’s path. Bright eyes, glowing with delight, looked up into Helen’s face. A small hand held out a tightly packed bunch of flowers—daisies, lilies and assorted hedgerow blooms.
For an instant, Helen’s determination faltered. She swayed slightly, but the necessity of taking the offering and suitably thanking the child took her past the dangerous moment. She would not think of what might have been— she could not afford his dreams and hers, too.
Relief swept through her when the cool dimness of the church porch engulfed her. Dragging in a deep breath, Helen saw that the tiny church was packed with locals, most likely Hedley’s people from Creachley Manor, for they did not have the look of farmers, like those outside. Everyone had noticed her arrival. As she stood, frozen, at the entrance to the short nave, all heads turned slowly to view her.
With a last, desperate breath, Helen raised her head and walked forward.
Martin cracked his whip above the bays’ ears, more to relieve his frustrations than to exhort his cattle to move faster. They were already rocketing along, the well-sprung curricle swaying dangerously. Joshua had been silent ever since they had passed out of the gates of the Hermitage just before sunrise.
Squinting against the glare, Martin took a blind curve at full speed. Six hours of sleep had cleared his head; the brandy he had consumed the evening before had been enough to ensure his slumber free from worry. But immediately the effects had worn off, he had woken—to a full realisation of the potential for disaster. Just because he now knew Helen’s reasons for refusing him, it did not mean that he could afford to sit back in comfort and plan how to best reassure her of his wealth and the lack of necessity for her sacrifice. Not when he had left her primed to make that sacrifice. Doubtless if he had been less experienced in the ways of the world, he would accept the wisdom that, having got Helen’s agreement to marriage, Hedley Swayne was unlikely to rush her to the altar. But he had not amassed a sizeable fortune in commodities by taking unnecessary risks—why should he take risks with his future?
Aside from anything else, a species of sheer terror rode him. What if he had misjudged Hedley Swayne? What if the fop really did desire Helen. What if he forced her to marry him forthwith? What if, given she was promised to him, the blackguard sought a down payment on his husbandly rights?