Stephanie Laurens: Fair Juno

Observing the unmistakable signs of ire investing his mother’s austere features, Martin resisted the temptation to remind her of his title. He had not expected to enjoy this discussion, but, somehow, his mother no longer seemed as remote nor as truly hostile as he recalled. Perhaps it was her infirmity that made her appear more human? ‘Suffice it to say that the Merton affairs were in a somewhat deeper tangle than I had understood.’ Placing one booted foot on the brass fender, Martin braced an arm against the heavily carved mantel and, with unimpaired calm, regarded his mother. ‘However, now that I have managed to spare you some time away from the damnable business of setting this estate to rights, perhaps you could tell me what it is you wish to see me about?’

By the conscious exercise of considerable will-power, Lady Catherine kept surprise from her face. It wasn’t his words that shook her, but his voice. Gone entirely were the light, charming tones of youth. In their place, there was depth containing a great deal of hardness, harshness, with the undertones of command barely concealed beneath the fashionable drawl.

Inwardly, she shook herself. The idea of being cowed by this scapegrace son was ludicrous. He had always been impudent—but never stupid. Such languid insolence would be a thing of the past, once she made his position clear. Wrapping herself in haughty dignity, Lady Catherine embarked on her son’s education. ‘I have much to say concerning how you should go on.’

Exuding an attitude of polite attention, Martin settled his shoulders against the mantelpiece, elegantly crossing his long legs before him, and fixed his mother with a steady regard.

Frowning, Lady Catherine nodded towards a chair. ‘Sit down.’

Martin’s lips twisted in a slow smile. ‘I’m quite comfortable. What are these facts you needs must inform me of?’

Lady Catherine decided not to glare. His very ease was disconcerting. Much better not to let on how disturbing she found it. She forced herself to meet his unwavering gaze. ‘Firstly, I consider it imperative that you marry as soon as possible. To this end, I’ve arranged a match with a Miss Faith Wendover.’

One of Martin’s mobile brows rose.

Seeing it, the Dowager hurried on. ‘Given that the title now resides with the third of my four sons, you can hardly be surprised if, in my estimation, securing the succession is a major concern.’

Her eldest son George had married to please his family but Melissa, dull, plain Melissa, had failed lamentably in satisfying expectations. Her second son Edward had died some years previously, part of the force which had successfully repelled The Monster’s invasion. George had succumbed to the fever a year ago. Until then, it had never dawned on the Dowager that her impossible third son could inherit. If she had thought of it at all, she would have expected him to die, somewhere, on one of his outlandish adventures, leaving Damian, her favourite, as the next Earl.

But Martin was now the Earl; it was up to her to ensure that he toed the line.

Determined to brook no opposition, Lady Catherine fixed her son with a commanding eye. ‘Miss Wendover is an heiress and passably pretty. She’ll make an unexceptionable Countess of Merton. Her family is well-respected and she’ll bring considerable land as her dower. Now you are here and the settlements can be signed, the marriage can take place in three months’ time.’

Prepared to defend her arrangements against a storm of protest, Lady Catherine tilted her chin at an imperious angle and regarded the lean figure propped by the fireplace with keen anticipation. Once again, she was struck by the changes, enveloped by a unnerving sense of dealing with a stranger who was yet no stranger. He was looking down, his expression guarded. Unexpectedly curious, Lady Catherine studied her son. Her last memories of Martin were of a twenty-two-year-old, already steeped in every form of fashionable vice—drinking, gambling and, of course, women. It was his propensity for dabbling with the opposite sex that had brought his tempestuous career to a sudden halt. Serena Monckton. The beauty had claimed Martin had seduced her. He had denied it but no one, least of all his family, had believed him. But he had steadfastly resisted all attempts to coerce him into marrying the chit. In a fury, her husband had bought off the girl’s family and banished his third son to a distant relative in the colonies. John had regretted that action bitterly, regretted it to his dying day, quite literally; Martin had always been his favourite and he had died without seeing him again.

Intent on finding evidence that the son of her memories had not in truth changed, Lady Catherine acknowledged the broad shoulders and long, lean limbs with an inward snort. He still possessed the figure of Adonis, hard and well-muscled through addiction to outdoor pursuits. His long-boned hands were clean and manicured; the gold signet his father had given him on his twenty-first birthday glowed on his right hand. The hair that curled about his clear brow was as black as a raven’s wing. All that she remembered. What she could not recall was the strength engraved in the chiselled features, the aura of confidence which went further than mere arrogance, the graceful movements that created an impression of harnessed power. Those she could not remember at all.

Unease growing, she waited for some show of resistance. None came.

‘Have you nothing to say?’

Startled from his reverie, induced by memories of the last time his mother had insisted he marry, Martin lifted his gaze to the Dowager’s face. His brows rose. ‘On the contrary. But I would like to hear all your plans first. Surely that’s not the sum of them?’

‘By no means.’ Lady Catherine threw him a glance that would have wilted lesser men and wished he would sit down. Towering over her, he seemed far too powerful to intimidate. But she was determined to do her duty. ‘My second point concerns the family estates and businesses. You say you’ve been acquainting yourself with them. I wish you to leave all such matters in the hands of those retainers George hired. They’re doubtless better managers than you could ever be. After all, you can have no experience of running estates of such size.’

A muscle at the corner of Martin’s mouth quivered. He stilled it.

Lady Catherine, absorbed in ordering her arguments, missed the warning. ‘Lastly, once you and Miss Wendover are married, you will reside here throughout the year.’ She paused to eye Martin speculatively. ‘You may not yet realise, but it is my money that keeps the Merton estates afloat. Remember, I wasn’t a nobody before I married your father. I’ve allowed what passed back to me through settlements on your father’s death to be drawn upon for living expenses as the estates are unable to pay well enough.’

Martin remained silent.

Confident of victory despite his impassivity, Lady Catherine advanced her trump card. ‘Unless you agree to my conditions, I’ll withdraw my funds from the estate, which will leave you destitute.’ On the word, her eyes flickered over the long frame still negligently propped against the mantelpiece. The subtle hand of a master showed in the cut of his dark blue coat; the pristine state of his small clothes was beyond reproach. Gleaming Hessians completed the picture. Martin, his mother reflected, had never been cheap.

The object of her scrutiny was examining the toe of one boot.

Undeterred, the Dowager added a clincher. ‘Should you choose to flout my wishes, I’ll see you damned and will settle my fortune on Damian.’

As she made this final, all-encompassing threat, Lady Catherine smiled and settled back in her chair. Martin had always disliked Damian, jealous of the fact that the younger boy was her favourite. Knowing the battle won, she glanced up at her son.