‘Gerry, how long has it been since someone told you you talk too much?’ Martin released Helen to allow her to greet their old friend.
Peterborough slanted a shrewd look at Helen’s radiant countenance. ‘Don’t seem to be having much effect in this case.’ To Helen, he said, ‘Aside from all the other dangers, I dare swear he’s trodden all over your toes—been in the colonies for too long. Come and waltz with a man who knows how.’
With a flourish, he presented his arm to Helen. Laughing, she took it, throwing one last smile at Martin before consenting to be led back to the floor.
Free, Martin embarked on a perambulation designed to explore all potential sites for a declaration among the rooms made available to Lady Broxford’s guests.
Helen was glad of the opportunity dancing with her usual court gave her to reassemble her treacherous wits and still the fluttering of her heart. She had lived in anticipation of Martin’s declaration for the past week; a sense of acute expectation now had her in its grip. She laughed and smiled, teetering on the brink of the greatest happiness she had yet known.
After Peterborough, she danced with Alvanley, then Desborough and even trod a measure with Hazelmere, spared to her by a radiant Dorothea.
After the first few figures of the cotillion, Hazelmere raised a languid brow. ‘I take it the pleasures of this Little Season met with your approval?’
Sensing a deeper meaning hidden beneath the urbane drawl, Helen threw him a suspicious glance but answered airily, ‘Why, yes. It’s all been most enjoyable.’ Nothing could keep the sheer happiness from her voice.
Both black brows rose; the hazel eyes watching her were as sharp as ever. ‘I wonder why,’ Hazelmere mused. To Helen’s heartfelt relief, her long-time protector forbore to tease her, although his hazel eyes suggested that her joy was transparently obvious.
As he raised her from her final curtsy, Hazelmere said, ‘I fear I should draw Miss Berry to your notice. She’s been trying to attract your attention for some time.’
Following his gaze to where small, bird-like Miss Berry perched on a sofa at the side of the room, Helen chuckled. ‘Poor dear. I dare say she feels she’s missing out on things, now she’s so deaf.’
Hazelmere’s lips quirked but he refrained from further comment. He escorted Helen across the room, leaving her ensconced on the sofa, lending a sympathetic ear to Miss Berry.
From the opposite side of the ballroom, partially screened by a potted palm, Damian Willesden eyed the voluptuous figure in eau-de-Nil silk. He frowned, chewing his lip in vexation. He had come to the Broxfords’ without an invitation, knowing no hostess would turn him from her door. But doing the pretty by a lot of curst females was hardly his style. He had only come because of what his friend Percy Witherspoon had let fall, of the bets regarding his brother’s impending marriage.
He had refused to believe Percy but the entries in Boodle’s wagers book had been too numerous to ignore. He stared across the room at Lady Walford; disaster stared back at him. Supremely confident that he would eventually inherit the Merton estates together with the sizeable fortune his mother insisted on tying to the title, sublimely sure that Martin would never trade his free-wheeling rake’s existence for one of dull matrimony, he had borrowed until he was ear-deep in debt. Damian swallowed convulsively. It was a wonder the cent percenters were not hounding him already.
No—not yet. They would wait until he was no longer Martin’s heir before they moved. Even then, they would start slowly, expecting him to be able to persuade his brother to fish him out of the River Tick. But when they found out Martin had no intention of rescuing him… Never one to dwell on uncomfortable fact, Damian let that thought fade.
He hugged the shadow of the palm and cogitated on his fate—and how to escape it. Ever fertile in subterfuge, his brain fastened on the essential element of his discomfort. It was all quite simple, really. He would just have to see what he could do to prevent this ill-advised marriage.
Having evaded all Miss Berry’s leading questions, Helen finally rose, leaving the old lady with a fond smile. She looked about the room, but could not spot Martin’s dark head amid the throng. Knowing he would seek her with the Hazelmeres and Fanshawes, in whose company she had come to the ball, she headed in the direction of the chaise on which she had last seen Dorothea.
She had moved but mere feet into the crowd when a hand on her arm halted her.
‘Lady Walford?’
Helen turned to see a youth—no, a man, she revised, acknowledging the unformed features that had led her astray. Pale blue eyes returned her regard. There was something vaguely familiar about the gentleman, something about the set and shape of his head, but she was sure she had never met him before. ‘Sir?’
Damian summoned a smile. ‘I’m Damian Willesden— Martin’s brother.’
‘Oh.’ Helen returned his smile readily. ‘How do you do?’ Did Martin know his brother was here?
Damian bowed over her hand. ‘I haven’t seen Martin yet. Is he here?’ He knew it was imperative that no hint of the distance between Martin and himself should show.
‘I saw him earlier in the evening.’ Helen raised her head to glance around. ‘I’m sure he’s still about, somewhere, but it’s so hard to find anyone in this crush.’
Damian fastened on the comment eagerly. ‘Perhaps we could move to that alcove there.’ He pointed to where a curved niche in the wall held a statuette. ‘I’m most curious as to how Martin’s been faring, getting back into the swim of things.’
Helen took his proffered arm, wondering why he was not addressing such queries to his brother direct.
‘I’ve just returned from the country and haven’t had a chance to speak to Martin yet. But,’ said Damian, striving to infuse his light voice with meaning, ‘I have heard certain rumours, linking my brother’s name with that…of a certain lady.’
Helen blushed. ‘Mr Willesden, I would suggest that rumour is an insubstantial entity and that you might be wise to wait for confirmation before you jump to conclusions.’
Damian looked grave, ‘I can appreciate your feelings, Lady Walford, and if the case were straightforward I would share your reservations. However…’ he paused, frowning ‘…I feel a certain degree of…affection for Martin and would be sorry to see him in difficulties once more.’
‘Difficulties?’ Helen was entirely at sea. What difficulties was Martin’s brother alluding to—and why to her? ‘Sir, I’m afraid you will have to be a great deal more direct if I’m to understand you.’