Free Fair Juno by Stephanie Laurens

groom, having laid eyes on the horses his ostlers had taken in charge, came hurrying to ask Martin’s orders.
    Alone, Helen crossed the threshold, thankful for the cool dimness within. She was feeling unduly warm. The door gave directly on to the taproom, a large chamber, low-ceilinged and cosy with a huge fireplace at one end. Alerted by the noise outside, the landlord was coming forward from his domain on the other side of the room. Seeing her, he stopped. And stared. Helen became aware that all the other occupants of the tap, six in all and all male, were likewise transfixed. Then, to her discomfort, a leering grin suffused the landlord’s face. Faint echoes appeared on his patrons’ faces, too.
    Simultaneously realising what a sight she must present, and the likely conclusion the landlord had drawn, Helen drew herself up, ready to defend her status.
    There was no need. Martin came through the door and stopped by her side. One comprehensive glance was all it took for him to grasp the conclusion the inhabitants of the Frog and Duck had jumped to. He scowled at the landlord. ‘A private parlour, host, where my wife can be at ease.’
    The growled command wiped the leer from the landlord’s face so fast, he had no expression ready to cover the ensuing blankness.
    Helen was not sure whether to laugh or gasp. Wife ? In the end, she covered her left hand with her right and, tipping up her chin, looked down her nose at the landlord, a feat assisted by the fact that she was taller than he. The man shrank as obsequiousness took hold.
    ‘Yes, m’lord! Certainly, m’lord. If madam would step this way?’
    Bowing every two paces, he led them to a neat little parlour. While Martin gave orders for a substantial meal, Helen sank, with a little sigh of thankfulness, into a well-padded armchair by the hearth, carefully avoiding the mirror above the mantelpiece. She had little real idea how bad her state was, but could not imagine knowing would help.
    Martin heard her sigh. He glanced at her, then said to the landlord, ‘We had an accident with our chaise. Our servants are following behind, with our luggage. Perhaps,’ he continued, raising his voice and turning to address a weary Juno, ‘you’d like to refresh yourself above stairs, my dear?’
    Helen blinked, then readily agreed. Led to a small chamber and supplied with warm water, she washed the dust of the road from her face and hands, then steeled herself to examine the damage her adventures had wroughtin her appearance. It was not as bad as she had feared. Her eyes were sparkling clear and the wind had whipped colour into her cheeks. Clearly, driving about the countryside with Martin Willesden agreed with her constitution. In the end, she undid her hair and reformed the mass of curls into a simpler knot. Her dress, the apricot silk marred by a host of creases, was beyond her ability to change. Other than shaking and straightening her skirts, there was little else she could do.
    Returning to the parlour, she found their repast laid out upon the table. Martin rose with a smile and held a chair for her.
    ‘Wine?’
    At her nod, he filled her glass. Then, without more ado, they applied themselves to the task of demolishing the food before them.
    Finally satisfied, Martin sat back in his chair and put aside contemplation of their problems the better to savour his wine while quietly studying fair Juno, absorbed in peeling a plum. His eyes slid over her generous curves— generous, ample—such words came readily to mind. Along with luscious, ripe and other, less acceptable terms. Martin hid a smile behind his goblet. All in all, he had no fault to find in the arrangement of fair Juno’s dispositions.
    ‘We won’t reach London tonight, will we?’
    The question drew Martin’s gaze to her lips, full andrichly curved and presently stained with plum juice. A driving urge to taste them seared through him. Abruptly, he refocused his mind on their problem. He raised his eyes to