Fair Juno
From the sparkling ballrooms of Regency London to the wealthy glamour of the country house – let Stephanie Laurens be your guide!Kidnapped in the small hours, Miss Helen Walford had spent the day trussed and trapped in a worn-out chaise. She was rescued by the infamous Martin Willisden – a rakehell who had been banished to the army, now scandalously raised to the rank of Earl of Merton! To add insult to injury, the proper Miss Walford had been forced into a compromising situation with her wicked saviour. Her only defence lay in anonymity.But captured by her beauty and bravery, the Earl of Merton knew that he had to find his mysterious lady. He’d move heaven and earth to track down the woman he knew to be his destiny.‘Laurens’ writing shines’ Publishers Weekly
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Stephanie Laurens lives in a suburb of Melbourne, Australia, with her husband and two daughters. To learn more about Stephanie’s books visit her website at www.stephanielaurens.com.
Also byStephanie Laurens
THE REASONS FOR MARRIAGE
AN UNWILLING CONQUEST A COMFORTABLE WIFE A LADY OF EXPECTATIONS TANGLED REINS FAIR JUNO FOUR IN HAND IMPETUOUS INNOCENT
STEPHANIE LAURENS
Chapter One
Martin Cambden Willesden, fifth Earl of Merton, strode purposefully along the first-floor corridor of the Hermitage, his principal country residence. The scowl marring his striking features would have warned any who knew him that he was in a foul mood. A common saying among the men of the 7th Hussars had been that if any emotion showed on Major Willesden’s face the portents were bad. And, thought ex-Major Willesden savagely, I’ve every right to feel furious.
Recalled from pleasant exile in the Bahamas, forced to leave behind the most satisfying mistress he had ever mounted, he had landed in gloomy London to face an uphill battle to extricate the family fortunes from the appalling state they had, apparently unaided, tumbled into. Matthews, the elder, of Matthews and Sons, his and his family’s man of business, had warned him that the Hermitage was in need of attention and would not, in its present state, meet with his approval. He had thought that was all part of the old man’s attempt to persuade him to return to England without delay. He should have recalled Matthews’ habit of understatement. Martin’s lips thinned. The grim look in his grey eyes deepened. The Hermitage was in even worse case than the investments he had spent the last three weeks reorganising.
As he paced the length of the corridor, the crisp clack of boot-heels penetrated his reverie. In a state bordering on shock, Martin stopped and stared down. There were no runners! Just bare wooden boards and, to his critical eye, they were not even well-polished.
Slowly, his grey gaze lifted to take in the sombre tones of decaying wallpaper framed by faded and musty hangings. A pervasive chill inhabited the gloom.
His frown now black, the Earl of Merton swore—and added yet another item to the catalogue of matters requiring immediate attention. If he was ever to visit the Hermitage again, let alone reside for more than a day, the place would have to be done up. Downstairs was bad enough— but this! Description failed him.
Setting aside his aggravation, Martin resumed his determined progress towards the Dowager Countess’s rooms. Since his arrival eight hours ago, he had postponed the inevitable meeting with his mother on the grounds of dealing with the problems crippling his major estate. The excuse had not been exaggeration. But the critical decisions had been made; the reins were now firmly in his grasp.
Despite such success, his hopes for the coming interview were less than certain. Curiosity brushed shoulders with a lingering wariness he had not thought he still possessed.
His mother, Lady Catherine Willesden, the Dowager Countess of Merton, had terrorised her household for as long as Martin could recall. The only ones apparently immune from her domination had been his father and himself. His father she had excused. He had not been so favoured.
He halted outside the plain wooden door that gave access to the Dowager’s apartments. Despite all that lay between them, she was his mother. A mother he had not seen for thirteen years and whom he remembered as a cold, calculating woman with no room in her heart for him. How much of the blame for the decay of his ancestral acres could be laid at her door? The question puzzled him, for he knew her pride. In fact, he had a good few questions, including how she would deal with him now; the answers lay beyond the door facing him.
Recognising the instinctive squaring of his shoulders as his habit when about to enter his colonel’s domain, Martin’s lips twitched. Without more ado, he raised a fist to the plain panels and knocked. Hearing a clear instruction to enter, he opened the door and complied.
He paused just beyond the threshold, his hand on the doorknob and, with a practised air of languid ease, scanned the room. What he saw answered some of his questions.
The tall, upright figure in the chair before the windows was much as he remembered, more gaunt with hair three shades greyer, perhaps, but still retaining that calm air of determination he so vividly recalled. It was the sight of the gnarled and twisted hands resting, useless, in her lap and the peculiar rigidity of her pose that alerted him to the truth. They had told him she kept to her room, a victim of rheumatism. He had interpreted that as a fashionable response to a relatively minor ailment. Now, reality stared him in the face. His mother was an invalid, bound to her chair.
Pity stabbed him, sharp and fresh. He remembered her as an active woman, riding and dancing with the best of them. Then his eyes locked with hers, chilly grey, haughty as ever—and more defensive than he had ever seen them. Instantly, he knew that pity was the very last thing his mother would accept from him.
