They journeyed on in silence. Martin pondered how to broach the subject of her name; Helen pondered him. He was, without doubt, the most attractive man she had ever met. It was not just his physical attributes, though there was no fault to be found with those. Neither could his manners, polished and assured though they were, account for the effect. It was, she decided, something far more fundamental, like the raspy growl of his deep voice and the fire banked like coals in the smoky grey eyes.
‘Do you spend much of your year in the country, fair maid?’
The question jolted Helen back to reality. ‘I often visit at—’ She broke off, then continued smoothly, ‘At friends’ houses.’
‘Ah.’
The quality of the glance that rested fleetingly upon her face confirmed her suspicion. He was trying to learn more of her.
‘So you spend most of your year in London?’
‘Other than my visits.’
Conversation rapidly degenerated to a game of quiz and answer, he trying to glean snippets of information, she trying to avoid revealing any identifying fact while politely answering all his queries.
‘Do you attend the opera?’
‘During the season.’
‘In friends’ boxes?’
Helen threw him a haughty look. ‘I have my own box.’
‘Then no doubt I’ll see you there.’ Martin smiled, pleased to have scored a hit.
Realising her slip, Helen had no choice but to be gracious. She inclined her head. ‘Countess Lieven often joins me. I’m sure she’ll be only too pleased to meet you.’
‘Oh.’ Stymied by the mention of the most censorious of the patronesses of Almack’s, Martin looked suitably chagrined. Then his brow cleared. ‘A capital notion. I can sue for permission to waltz in Almack’s. With you.’
At the thought, Helen had to laugh. The vision of Martin Willesden stalking the hallowed boards, an eagle among the lambs, setting all the mother ewes in a flap, was intensely appealing.
It was Martin’s turn to look haughty. ‘Do you think I won’t?’
Abruptly, Helen found herself drowning in smouldering grey, warmed and shaken to the core. Dragging her eyes from his, she looked ahead. ‘I…hadn’t imagined you would be attracted to the mild entertainments of the Marriage Mart.’
‘I’m not. Only the promise of all manner of earthly pleasures could get me over its threshold.’
Helen was not game to try to cap that. She rapidly became absorbed in the scenery.
A slow smile curved Martin’s lips before he gave his attention to his horses. He could not recall ever enjoying thirty minutes of conversation with a female half as much. In fact, he could not recall any other woman he had ever favoured with half an hour of verbal discourse. Fair Juno was a novelty, her mind quick and adroit. Innocent though the information he had gained was, it confirmed his suspicion that she had attained a position in the ton normally reserved for older matrons. Or widows.
At the thought, he let his eyes roam in leisurely appraisal over the curvaceous form beside him. She felt his gaze and glanced up, a slightly nervous smile hovering on her rosy lips.
Helen saw the predatory gleam in the grey eyes and accurately read their message. Dragging her dignity about her, the only protection she possessed, she arched one brow in spirited defence, perfectly ready to continue their banter. But the reprobate by her side merely smiled in a thoroughly seductive way and gave his attention to his horses. Helen transferred her gaze to the scenery, her lips irrepressively curving in appreciation. Conversing with a rake while free of the normal strictures, protected from any physical consequences by the fact he had both hands full of high-tempered horseflesh, was every bit as scandalously exciting as she had ever, as a green girl, imagined it would be. It was all deliciously dangerous but, in this case, completely safe. She had realised as much some miles back. It was a game that, in this particular instance, she could play with impunity. She was in his care and, instinctively, she knew he would honour that charge. While she remained under his protection, she was safe from him.
Heaven help her later.
But, of course, there would be no later. Helen stifled a sigh as reality intruded, impossible to deny. The future, for them both, was fixed. When he reached London, he would be the focus of the matchmaking mamas—with good reason. He was titled, wealthy and hideously handsome to boot. Their darling daughters would make cakes of themselves trying to catch his grey eyes. And, inevitably, he would choose one of them as his wife. Some well-dowered, biddable miss with an immaculate reputation. A widow, with no pretensions to property, with a murky marriage to a social outcast behind her and nothing more than her connections to recommend her, was a poor bargain.
Inwardly, Helen shook herself. Reality began in London. There was no need to cloud her day of adventure with such dismal forebodings. She tried to force the image of Martin Willesden paying court to a sweet young thing from her mind. In truth, the tableau was somewhat hazy. It was hard to believe that a man of his tastes, as demonstrated by their dalliance of the past half-hour, would settle to marriage with a sweet young thing. Doubtless, he would be the sort who kept a mistress or two on the side. Well, who was she to complain? Her husband had done the same, with her blessing. Not that her blessing would have been forthcoming had Martin Willesden been her husband.
With a determined effort, Helen redirected her thoughts. He wanted to know her name. She could tell him, but her anonymity was a comforting sop to her conscience. Besides which, when he reached London and learned who she was, he would realise such a connection was unsuitable, for no one would ever believe it innocent. If she refused to tell him her name, he would not feel obliged to acknowledge her when he met her again. Then, too, many men felt widows were fair game and she would hate him to consider her a potential candidate for his extramarital vacancy. All in all, she decided, he did not need to know her name.
Martin wondered what thoughts held his goddess so silent. But the peace of the morning was soothing about them and he made no move to interrupt her reverie. Despite not knowing her name, he felt confident of finding her in the capital. London might be the teeming hub of the nation, but its hallowed halls were trod by few. A gold and ivory goddess would be easy to trace.
The road widened then dipped. A ford lay ahead. Engrossed in contemplation of the predictable delights of waltzing with fair Juno, Martin automatically checked his pair, then sent them into the shallow water at a smart trot.
The horses’ hooves clopped on the gravelly surface of the opposite bank; they slowed, then leaned into the traces and strained. The carriage wheels stuck fast, rocking the occupants of the box seat to full awareness of their predicament.
Helen clutched the side of the seat, then turned a wide-eyed look on her rescuer as a muttered expletive was belatedly smothered.
Martin shut his eyes in frustration. He had forgotten that minor fords were often not paved. The heavy rain had washed silt into the ford; his wheels felt as if they were six inches deep.
With a heavy sigh, he opened his eyes. ‘We’re stuck.’
Helen glanced around at the swiftly moving stream. ‘So we are,’ she agreed helpfully.
Martin
