Forbearing to point out that her lack of a shawl was entirely his fault, Helen happily permitted him to escort her within doors. He led her upstairs, picking up a candelabra from the table in the hall to light their way. In the long gallery, he showed her the portraits of past Willesdens, hanging between the long velvet-curtained windows.
Picking the most scandalous of the family’s tales of yore as the most suitable for his purpose, Martin had Helen in stitches as they moved on through the long corridor that led to the west wing. Embellishing freely, he ensured that she was completely enthralled long enough for them to reach the door at the end of the wing.
It was only then that Helen, catching a sudden gleam in Martin’s mesmerising grey eyes, looked about her and realised she was lost—in company with a thoroughly untrustworthy host. Far from feeling threatened, she revelled in the delicious anticipation that stirred in her breast. She looked at the door before her—a very large, well-polished oak door— and then looked at Martin, one brow rising in question.
All he did was smile, successfully scattering her wits, then leaned forward to set the door wide.
Feeling very much as if she was taking some irretrievable step, Helen crossed the threshold. The room was huge—and so was the four-poster bed that stood against the wall, long windows flanking it open to the balcony, their fine lace curtains streaming in with the freshening breeze. She watched as Martin closed the shutters. The only light came from the candelabra, which he had placed on a table by the bed. The glow centred on the bed, drawing Helen’s awareness with it. A heavy silk counterpane, embossed with what she recognised as the Willesden arms, covered the expanse in deep blue-grey. Silken tassels of the same colour hung from the cord holding the bed curtains back. The oak headboard was heavily carved, again incorporating the family arms, meshed within twining vine leaves.
Nervousness crept up on her, but then Martin was there, drawing her firmly into his arms. Before he could kiss her, and render her witless, Helen placed her hands on his shoulders and smiled up into the stormy grey eyes. ‘Is this where I say yes?’ she asked, and was surprised at the husky quality of her own voice.
Martin smiled slowly, so slowly that Helen had plenty of time to feel her heart somersault and her stomach contract.
‘Actually,’ he said, ‘given the difficulty you seem to have with that word, I’ve decided some practice would not go astray.’
His tone feathered over her stretched senses, teasing and tantalising. Helen opened her eyes wide. ‘Practice?’ she asked in as innocent a voice as she could muster.
‘Mmm,’ Martin murmured, bending his head to brush his lips across hers. ‘I’d rather thought to make you say it a great…many…times.’ His last words were punctuated by light kisses, firm enough to whet her appetite, insubstantial enough to leave her hungry.
Helen felt her will slowly seep from her but she retained sufficient curiosity to ask. ‘How will you make me do that?’
Martin did not answer.
Instead, he showed her.
Much later, Martin reached out with one hand and snuffed the candles by the bed. His other arm was occupied, cradling Helen’s warm body by his side. She was asleep, thoroughly exhausted, having said the word he had wanted to hear a great many times indeed. Martin smiled into the dark. She still needed more practice—he was quite certain he would be able to convince her of that later. With her hea
d once more on his shoulder, her soft curls like silk at his throat, he listened to the storm passing overhead. Wind lashed the trees in the Home Wood, rain pelted down on the gravel walks. Helen had not even noticed the tempest without, being too much caught up in the tempest they had created within.
With a deep sigh, Martin closed his eyes. Contentment coursed his veins like a drug, bringing peace and satisfaction in its wake. His house was in order, fair Juno safe by his side. Tonight, with any luck, he would get some sleep. Maybe not much, but some. And, unlike the last stormy night he had spent with fair Juno, the torture between times would be much more to his taste. He closed his hand over one full breast. And fell asleep.
Helen awoke to rub her nose, then realised that the curly black hair tickling it was attached to Martin’s chest. She stifled a giggle and pushed it aside, then glanced up to find lazy eyes watching her, a suspicious twinkle in their depths.
With a smile, Helen stretched, cat-like, and watched the twinkle intensify to a satisfying gleam. As she felt the arm about her tighten, she pressed her hands against his chest. Heavens! She needed at least two minutes to think! ‘What is your latest dream, my lord?’ she purred, hoping to distract him and appease her curiosity in one stroke.
Martin relaxed and laughed, the warmth in his eyes spreading like a languorous flame over her skin. ‘Should I tell you?’ he asked rhetorically. Then, ‘Perhaps I should.’ His eyes held hers, mock-serious. ‘I don’t think it’ll be too hard for you to handle.’ His smile grew. ‘Well within your capacity, so to speak.’
Feeling the rumble of his laughter, Helen scowled. ‘Martin!’
‘Ah—yes. Well, having had an opportunity to assess your abilities, my love, and having ascertained that you really do enjoy our recent activities for their own delight, as it were, I feel secure in the knowledge that, once you hear of my dream, you’ll not be called on to sacrifice any feelings of your own in its accomplishment.’
Helen glared at him. ‘Martin! What is it?’
Martin eyed her a little warily. ‘Promise not to laugh?’
Puzzled, Helen’s glare turned to a stare. ‘Why should I laugh?’ she asked. When he said nothing further, she grimaced. ‘All right. I promise not to laugh. Now, what is this dream of yours?’
‘I have this vision of you standing before the mantelpiece— I think the one in the library at Merton House…’ Martin paused, then went on in a rush, ‘With my son balanced on your hip.’
Helen blinked. ‘Oh,’ she said, her voice non-committal. But she could not stop the smile that curved her lips, then deepened to light her eyes. Gazing deep into the grey eyes that held hers, and seeing the hesitant expression that lingered there, Helen decided that she had clearly reached the end of her rainbow and found her pot of gold. Rapidly blinking to clear her eyes of the tears of happiness that threatened, she swallowed and said, ‘Oh, Martin!’ before throwing her arms about his neck and burying her face in his shoulder.
His arms came up to close about her, holding her close. ‘I take it that means you approve?’
A mumble which was clearly an assent answered him. Martin grinned and hugged her more tightly, conscious of the dampness of tears on his shoulder.
Once she had regained her composure, Helen could not resist asking, ‘Is that a typical dream for a rake?’
‘I assure you it’s this rake’s dream.’ Martin moved to glance down at her. He smiled slowly. ‘Now come and do your bit to make it real.’