She failed. Martin pushed her on to the drawing-room, a smile of satisfaction on his face.
He took her through all the main rooms, explaining how those yet unfinished were to be decorated. To his surprise, she made no demur at any of his choices, going so far as to add some suggestions of her own. At five o’clock, totally in charity one with the other, they parted to dress for dinner.
The meal was the first they had shared in over thirteen years. Despite that fact, there was no constraint, beyond that provided by Melissa, who sat, dumb, throughout. Martin tried to include her in their conversation; in the end, his mother grimaced at him and shook her head.
But at the end of the evening, after tea taken in the comfort of the fashionable blue and white drawing-room, his mother declined his offer to carry her upstairs.
‘Melissa can go,’ she said, waving her ineffectual daughter-in-law away. She turned to look at Martin. ‘Are you going to sit in the library?’
Martin eyed her suspiciously. ‘Yes.’
‘Good! You can wheel me in there. I want to talk to you.’
Reflecting that his mother had not changed all that much in thirteen years, Martin complied, a rueful smile hovering about his lips.
The library had been the first room rendered habitable by the efforts of his decorators. It had always been the room in which his father had sat. Simple but elegant furniture in the classic style Martin favoured was scattered in a deceptively ad hoc manner throughout the long room; warm wooden bookshelves, ceiling high, were packed with leather-bound tomes. Martin dutifully wheeled his mother in, wondering just what she had on her mind. But, when he had settled her before the fireplace, she did not seem to know where to begin.
The Dowager Countess tried to remind herself she was just that, and the mother of the gentleman lounging at his ease in the latest style of wing chair opposite her. She eyed the elegant figure, clad in a simple yet exquisitely tailored blue coat and black knee-breeches, with some hesitation. What she felt she had to say was sensitive—or at least likely to be, given her relationship with this unpredictable son. She drew a careful breath and began. ‘As you know, I have always been kept informed of happenings in town by my friends. They write to me, telling me all the latest news and on-dits.’
Martin suppressed the impulse to put an immediate halt to the conversation. Instead, he raised one brow coldly. ‘Indeed?’
The Dowager stiffened. ‘You needn’t be so defensive,’ she said. Really, he was his father all over again. One only had to mention something he did not want to discuss and he withdrew. ‘I merely wished to tell you,’ she went on before he had a chance to hinder her, ‘that it has come to my notice that you appear to have a great interest in Helen Walford. To wit, everyone expects you to offer for her. As you never were witless, I assume that means you do intend to marry her. My only aim in mentioning the matter is to assure you that I will not raise any objection—even though I’m perfectly aware you wouldn’t pay any attention if I did,’ she added ascerbically. ‘I recall Lady Walford’s story and was a little acquainted with her parents. From everything I’ve heard, she’s eminently suitable to be your countess.’
To Martin’s astonishment, Lady Catherine paused, frowning, then added, ‘I must say, I couldn’t imagine you taking a bright little deb to wife—you’d probably strangle her before the honeymoon was over. Or, more likely, dump her on me.’
The Dowager raised her eyes to her son’s, and beheld the amusement therein. Her eyes narrowed. ‘Which brings me to my point. I don’t know what state the Dower House is in, but if you would make arrangements to have it refurbished by this firm you’re dealing with I’d be obliged.’
When Martin made no immediate comment, she added, ‘I’ll stand the nonsense, naturally.’
‘Naturally be damned.’ Martin put his glass of port down on a table beside his chair and leaned forward so that his mother could see his face clearly. ‘You’ve lived in those rooms above stairs for…oh, yes—the past ten years. You’ve lived in this house for close on fifty. Neither I nor my wife would wish to see you leave.’
For a moment, his mother stared at him, wanting to accept his decree yet unwilling to be suffered out of pity.
‘Don’t be daft,’ the Dowager eventually returned, although the phrase lacked strength. ‘Your wife will hardly want me and Melissa cluttering up her house.’
Martin laughed and leaned back in his chair. ‘I’d forgotten Melissa,’ he admitted, his eyes twinkling. ‘Who knows?’ he said, his smile twisting. ‘Perhaps Fair Juno will be able to get her to speak.’
‘Who?’
With a quick smile for his parent’s confusion, he brushed the question aside. ‘Regardless of all else, I can assure you Helen will expect you to continue here. I suspect you’ll deal famously. Aside from anything else, I imagine I’ll be facing an unholy alliance every time I want to do anything the least unconventional. You never know, she might need your support.’ When the Dowager still looked unconvinced, he added pensively, ‘And then there’s always the children to be looked after.’
‘Children?’ His mother’s stunned expression suggested she had leaped rather further than he had intended.
Martin grinned. ‘Not yet. Rake though I am, I suspect that they had better come after we are wed.’
His mother looked decidedly relieved.
‘And now, if I’ve put all your worries to rest, I’ll take you upstair
s.’ Martin rose. He scooped his mother, thoughtful and silent, into his arms. They were on the stairs when she asked, ‘So you are going to marry Helen Walford?’
‘Indubitably,’ Martin replied. ‘As the sun rises in the east, as one day follows another—you may count on it.’
Later, when he had returned to the library and his port, his words echoed in his mind. He had spoken the truth. The only question remaining was how to get his prospective bride to agree.
He lounged in his chair, stretching his long legs before him. Why she insisted on refusing his suit was still a mystery. But he felt certain, now, that he had misunderstood the nature of the hurdle which stood in his path. It was clearly not physical—which was something of a relief. Her reticence had to stem from some more simple problem— possibly a reluctance to place any faith in a man’s avowed devotion? Martin raised his brows. Given her first husband’s reputation, that was not hard to believe. Whatever the problem, he was confident of finding the answer. His anger at her apparent promiscuity had receded, draining away even as his need for her grew more acute. Rational thought now prevailed; he knew she was not promiscuous; her acts were driven by some deeper motive. He still faced a problem but it was not insurmountable. But he needed to solve it soon. With every passing day, he missed her more. There was nothing—nothing—that was more important to him.
With a gesture of decision, Martin drained his glass. There were no objections to be considered, no ramifications to be weighed. Tomorrow, he would return to town and see her.