Helen had left the ball.
Because of him. He had hurt her and she had fled, not something she would readily do, having, as he knew, no liking for appearing in on-dits.
An odd numbness had closed about his heart; his mind refused to function at all. As soon as the dance ended, Martin bowed over Serena’s hand and, leaving her standing by the side of the room, paid his respects to his by now curious hostess and left.
From the shadows of a potted palm decorating the side of the room, Damian watched Martin depart and rejoiced. Better and better. After that little scene, there was no chance of his brother and Lady Walford patching things up. Particularly not when the story he had spent the evening seeding into fertile soil took root. It would take a day or so, but after that he would be home and hosed, past the post, safe and sound.
He had decided that, in the circumstances, he would do well to attend a few of the ton assemblies, just until the danger of Lady Walford was past. Clearly, he would not have to suffer such boring gatherings for much longer. Virtually the entire ballroom had noticed the incident. Inwardly, Damian hugged himself. Whatever had possessed Martin to take such drastic action he could not imagine but he had to admit that, when his brother struck, he was effective. Lady Rochester was still standing a little way away, trying to pretend that Martin had truly been interested in her. Not that anyone would believe that. Feeling in unexpected charity with his brother, Damian decided to do him a favour.
He strolled to her ladyship’s side and waited until the ageing roué who was currently bending her ear departed before nodding his greeting. ‘Helpful of you to give Martin a hand.’
Serena scowled. ‘Whatever do you mean, sir?’
Her peevish tone brought out the devil in Damian. ‘Oh, I think you know.’ He watched as Lady Rochester’s face purpled. ‘Who knows?’ he continued smoothly before she could explode. ‘Perhaps Martin might be grateful in a way you’d appreciate, now he’s terminated his relationship with Lady Walford and will no longer be availing himself of her charms.’
Serena’s eyes grew round, and then even rounder as the full implication of what he was saying sank in. ‘You mean…?’ Her voice was an incredulous whisper.
Damian looked surprised. ‘Didn’t you know? I thought everyone did. Ah well.’ He shrugged. ‘Just goes to show, don’t it?’ And with that he moved away, perfectly sure he had warned Lady Rochester off, too. For if Martin could seduce and ruin a woman of Lady Walford’s calibre, it stood to reason that he would make short work of such as Lady Rochester.
Left alone, Serena took a long moment to sort out how what she had just heard could be used to greatest effect. She was perfectly well aware that Martin had only waltzed with her to hurt Helen Walford. The fiend had not so much as glanced properly at her—she was finished with trying to attract his notice. But she could not believe he was finished with the beautiful widow. From where she had stood, it had been blatantly obvious that he was still obsessed with Lady Walford. She had no quarrel with Helen Walford, just as long as she did not marry Martin Willesden. She herself held no illusion that she could ever fill that position—not now. But she drew the line at the thought of Martin enjoying his wife. Better anyone than Lady Walford. The rumour Damian was spreading, true or not, would surely cook Lady Walford’s goose. And, if Martin was truly enamoured of Helen Walford, as Serena had every reason to suspect, then such an outcome would cause him grief.
Coolly, Lady Rochester smiled. None knew better than she that her long-ago claim of rape had been entirely without foundation. None knew better than she how furious Martin Willesden had made her by denying it and then accepting exile rather than marry her. Time had healed some of the wounds, but she saw no reason not to do what she could to spread Damian’s delightful rumour.
Buoyed by a pleasant sense of mischief, she moved into the crowd to see what she could do.
His frown still black, Martin strode into his library. He shut the door with a decided click, then crossed to the sideboard and poured himself a generous quantity of brandy before slumping into the armchair by the fire.
Why? What had possessed him to make such an error of judgement? N
ever before had he made such a wrong-footed move. He had let his temper take control and it had led him off track. His equilibrium was out of kilter—he was dangerously adrift.
If this was what love did to a man, he was not sure he approved.
With a frustrated groan, he placed his glass on the table beside him and ran his hands over his face. He had hurt her. Dammit—all he wanted to do was make the wretched woman happy. Instead, he had succeeded in making them both miserable. The urge to go around to Half Moon Street and knock on her door until she let him in grew.
Reluctantly, Martin quashed the impulse and reached for his glass.
Enough of histrionics—they had landed him in a worse state than he had been in before. He was more than old enough to know better.
And, speaking of knowing better, did he really want to marry a woman who allowed herself to be seduced while having absolutely no intention of marrying her seducer? A difficult question, given that he had been the seducer and he had not married anyone before. Martin grimaced and took a long sip of brandy. Regardless of present appearance, regardless of her words, he knew, as only a rake could, that Helen Walford was not promiscuous. Why then her refusal?
For a long while, he stared at the fire while the long case clock in the corner ticked on. The sheer fury he had felt when he had understood her intention of refusing him again, when he had realised that the woman he wanted to place before his fireplace was the sort who could walk away from intimacy without a second thought, still seethed, scrambling his wits.
He shook his head in frustration. It was no good. He could not think straight with his mind in such turmoil. Best to get away, to get out of it, until his temper died and he could consider the matter more calmly. Right now, he was not even sure what he wanted any more, let alone how best to achieve it. His agent at Merton had written, begging his attendance. The decorators were there, making his dream a reality; he should see how they were progressing. He would go down for a few days. Perhaps the peace of the Hermitage would help him sort things out, decide where he stood, what he wanted to do.
Decision made, Martin rose and drained his glass. For a long moment, he stood stock-still, staring at the embers dying in the grate. Then, deliberately, he flung the glass into the fireplace. With a brittle tinkle, it shattered, sending crystal shards flying.
His jaw set, Martin swung on his heel and left the room.
The first intimation Helen had that anything at all was wrong came two days later, when she finally stirred herself from her lethargy to go driving in the Park with Cecily Fanshawe. It was her first outing since the disaster of the Barham House ball. Thankfully, Cecily had missed the ball through indisposition. As always bubbling with enthusiasm, she prattled on, giving Helen every opportunity to rest her weary mind.
She was worn out—depressed, hurt and heart-weary. The sight of Martin waltzing with Lady Rochester had caused her far more pain than she had been prepared for. She had thought she would be able to weather any such sight, knowing it would come some time. Her nerves had not been up to it that night. His action and her reaction would have caused comment, she knew. Consequently, when she detected the first few whispers, she made nothing of them.
But by the time she and Cecily had gone halfway around the circuit, Helen knew that something more serious was in the wind. There was a coolness in the air. A number of matrons with marriageable daughters drew back from her smile.
It was Ferdie who confirmed her suspicions. He waved to them from the side of the carriageway in the most popular section of the route. When the carriage came to a halt, he opened the door. ‘Want to talk to you,’ he said to Helen. He nodded to Cecily, with whom he was well-acquainted, then climbed into the carriage. ‘Rather think it’s time you dropped Helen home. I need to talk to her alone.’
Cecily frowned. ‘But we’ve only just arrived.’