Fair Juno by Stephanie Laurens Page B

room in Somerset, and his younger brother Damian remained. And God knew where Damian was, nor yet how long he was likely to remain. Martin’s expression hardened, then he shrugged aside all thought of his younger brother. Damian could take care of himself.
    Sinking into a newly upholstered chair, a glass of the finest French brandy in his hand, Martin considered his house. It was empty—indubitably empty. He needed to fill it—with life, with laughter. That was what was still missing. He had rectified the damp and the decay and had cast forth the unscrupulous. The structure was now sound. It was time to turn his mind, and energies, to rebuilding a family—his family.
    Hazelmere’s transparent pride in his wife and son had impressed him. He knew Marc, and a few hours had sufficed to assure him that the bonds of similarity that had drawn them to each other in earlier years still persisted.
    Perhaps that was why fate had thrown fair Juno at his head?
    Martin’s lips twisted in a self-deprecatory smile. Why could he not just admit that he was besotted with the woman? There was no need to invoke fate or any such infernal agency. Juno was very real and, to him, wholly desirable. And, for the first time in his life, he was not contemplating a temporary relationship, limited by his interest. He was quite sure his interest in Juno would never die.
    With a grin, Martin raised his glass in a silent toast. To his goddess. He tossed off the brandy, then, laying down the glass, left the room.
       
    Thursday evening was mild and clear. Martin walked the few blocks to Cavendish Square. He was admitted to Hazelmere House by the butler, Mytton, whom he recognised and who, to his amazement, recognised him.
    ‘Welcome back, my lord.’
    ‘Er—thank you, Mytton.’
    Hazelmere strolled into the hall. ‘Thought it was you.’
    Martin shook hands but his eyes were drawn to the woman who had followed his host into the hall. Fair-skinned and slender, a wealth of auburn hair crowned a classically featured face. Martin glanced at Hazelmere, his brows lifting in question.
    The smile on the Marquis’s face was answer enough. ‘Permit me to introduce you to my wife. Dorothea, Marchioness of Hazelmere—Martin Willesden, Earl of Merton.’
    Martin bowed over the slim hand that was bestowed on him; Dorothea curtsied, then, rising, looked up at him frankly, green eyes twinkling. ‘Welcome, my lord. We’ve heard so much about you. You see me positively preening, such is the cachet of being the first hostess to entertain you.’
    The low voice invited him to laugh with her at society’s vagaries. Martin smiled. ‘The pleasure is entirely mine, my lady.’ She was, he thought, entirely enchanting, just right for Hazelmere. His gaze shifted to his friend’s face. Hazel-mere was watching his wife, the proprietorial gleam in his hazel eyes pronounced.
    ‘But do come in and meet the others.’ Dorothea took his arm and led him towards the drawing-room.
    Hazelmere fell in on his other side. ‘You have to exclaim over the heir, too,’ he murmured, hazel eyes dancing with laughter.
    They paused on the threshold of the large drawing-room. A babble of gay voices, unaffected by polite restraint, filledthe air. Martin scanned those present, noting Fanshawe, with a pretty blonde chit at his side, talking to an older woman whom he recognised as Marc’s mother, the Dowager Marchioness. Martin remembered her with affection; she was one of the few who had not condemned him over the Monckton affair. By her side was an even older woman in a purple turban. She looked vaguely familiar but he could not place her.
    His gaze travelled on to a group before the fireplace— And froze. A woman stood before the hearth, a baby balanced on one hip, cradled in one curvaceous arm. The light from the wall sconce glittered over her golden curls. Her ample charms were exquisitely sheathed in topaz silk; pearls sheened about her throat. She was taller than the dandy she had