‘Believe me when I say that it is I who am most thoroughly pleased to see you, my dear.’ The Dowager threw a meaningful look at her son before, with an effort, she raised her hands to grasp Helen’s cold fingers.
Realising the Dowager’s difficulty, Helen immediately took hold of the frail claws and readily bent to place a kiss on the older woman’s lined cheek.
From then on, it was fair weather and plain sailing between the Dowager and the soon-to-be Countess. Pleased with their ready acceptance of each other and not a little entertained, Martin drew back, leaving the two women to find their own way about each other. But when, after they had left the dining-table for the comfort of the drawing-room, and spent half an hour discussing the details of the wedding and planning the week-long house party, they turned their attention to the wedding feast, he had had enough.
‘Mama, it’s late. I’ll take you upstairs.’
His mother’s eyes widened. She opened her mouth to protest, then, catching his eye, closed it again. ‘Very well,’ she agreed. She turned to Helen, holding out one frail hand. ‘Sleep well, my child.’
Martin wheeled his mother out before she could think of any more witticisms. He returned from the Dowager’s rooms to find Helen wandering the hall, examining the landscapes on the wall.
‘Come for a stroll. The light’s not yet gone.’
Helen smiled and calmly placed her hand on his proffered sleeve. Inside, she felt anything but calm. Her heart was leaping about, turning cartwheels and somersaults with sheer happiness. The Dowager was no dragon and clearly well- disposed. The house—Martin’s home—pleased her beyond her wildest dreams. She already felt drawn to it, at home within its spell, though whether the feeling owed anything to the house itself, rather than being a reflection of her all- encompassing love for Martin, she could not have said.
As they stepped from the terrace to stroll, arm in arm, along a gravelled path into a landscaped shrubbery, she felt contentment such as she had never known lay its hand upon her.
‘We can send letters to the Hazelmeres and the rest tomorrow.’
Martin’s murmur wafted the curls by her ear. Helen turned to smile her acquiescence, then, fleetingly, pressed her temple against his shoulder. With no need for words, they wended their way about the low clipped hedges of a miniature maze, to stand by the small fountain at its centre. Smoothly, Martin drew her around, so that the back of her shoulders brushed his chest. His arms slipped about her waist, steel bands holding her against him. He bent his head and his lips grazed her bare shoulder. Helen felt a giggle bubble in her throat. Only a very accomplished rake, she felt sure, would choose the middle of a maze to play at seduction. However, she was not in the mood to deny him. Obligingly, she tilted her head away, giving him access to the long column of her throat. She did not try to stifle the shiver of pure delight that ran through her at the intimate caress.
A crackling twig brought Martin’s head up. His eyes scanned the bushes, then
the grassed path leading around to the stables. Just discernible in the gloom was the figure of a man, temporarily immobile. With an oath, Martin released Helen and gave chase, leaping over the low hedges, making directly for the man who, after an instant’s hesitation, had taken to his heels.
Martin’s long legs gave him a telling advantage. He caught up with Damian before he had reached the wood. Catching hold of one padded shoulder, Martin spun his brother about before sending him to grass with a punishing right cross.
For an instant, Damian simply lay, eyes closed, stretched out on the turf. Then he groaned. Perfectly certain that he had not hit his brother with sufficient force to do permanent injury, Martin stood over him, hands on hips, and waited for him to get up. When it became clear that Damian was not going to get up without assistance, Martin’s jaw hardened. He was reaching for his brother’s coat when Helen erupted out of the darkness behind him and caught hold of his arm.
One glance at Damian, cringing on the ground, confirmed Helen’s guess. ‘Don’t kill him,’ she pleaded, gasping to catch her breath. Abruptly deserted by the fountain, she had spent no more than a minute staring in amazement. Then she had followed. But her escape from the maze had been a great deal slower than Martin’s. She could not leap over the low hedges in her gown and, without Martin’s assistance, she had not known how to get out of the maze. In the end, glancing about through the gathering gloom and deciding that the gardeners would long since have gone home, she had hiked her skirts to her thighs and clambered over the bushes.
Now, finding Martin looking as if he was preparing to thrash the life out of his brother, her only thought was to stop him.
To her relief, Martin promptly drew back, his hands coming to hold hers, his eyes searching her face in the last of the twilight, a curious expression in their grey depths. ‘I wasn’t about to,’ he replied mildly. ‘But I shouldn’t have thought that, in the circumstances, you would mind.’
Still out of breath, Helen shook her head. She had learned the full sum of Damian’s iniquity from the Dowager. ‘If it were that simple, you could have at him with my goodwill. But if you kill him, you’ll be tried for murder and where would that leave my rainbow?’
‘Your what?’ Martin’s smile gleamed white in the dark.
Helen felt her cheeks burn with embarrassment.
Still smiling, Martin patted her hand. ‘Never mind. You can explain it to me later.’ He slipped an arm about his bride-to-be’s waist and drew her to his side. Then he looked down at his brother, still sprawled at his feet. He shook his head. ‘For God’s sake, get up! I’m not going to hit you again, though, as God is my witness, you deserve to be horse-whipped.’
Damian half rose, but at the strengthening of his brother’s tone he froze.
Martin looked down at him in exasperation. ‘You may thank your soon-to-be sister-in-law for deliverance from any punishment I might otherwise have been inclined to mete out.’ When Damian said nothing but simply stared, Martin snorted in disgust and turned away. ‘Get to your room. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
Drawing Helen with him, Martin started back towards the house, then bethought himself of one last warning. He turned to find Damian weaving on his feet. ‘In case you’re planning a sudden departure, I should warn you I’ve already given orders that, once here, you are not to be permitted to leave again. Not until tomorrow, when you’ll depart under escort for Plymouth.’
‘Plymouth?’ Damian all but shuddered. ‘I won’t go,’ he said, but to Helen his tone lacked strength.
‘I rather think you will.’ Martin’s tone, on the other hand, radiated strength. ‘Mama and I have decided a sojourn in the Indies might well be of as much benefit to you as it was to me.’ He paused, then added in a more pensive tone, ‘I rather think you’ll find it a tad difficult, living in London, once it becomes known that both Mama and I have withdrawn our support.’
Even in the dim light, Helen could see how Damian paled. Obviously, Martin’s threat was well-aimed. Martin did not wait to see how his brother reacted. He turned once more in the direction of the house, tucking her hand into the crook of his arm. Obediently, Helen paced by his side.
There was a storm brewing. Large ruffled clouds of deepest grey were blowing up from the west. After a few minutes, Helen glanced up to find that Martin’s forbidding expression had disappeared. In its place was a pensive look she rather thought she should distrust.
‘Now, where were we?’ he murmured, before flashing her a devilish smile. ‘Wherever, I rather think we had better go indoors. The evening grows cold and you’re without a shawl.’