Duke of Thunder (Regency Gods #1)

Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

A s the carriage set off toward the London townhouse they were renting for the Season—George had been very vocal in his disgust that the late Viscount Northton had never gotten around to acquiring a home in Town—Helen’s cousin practically vibrated with glee.

“Tell me, Patricia, darling,” he said, and Helen felt her sister stiffen beside her at the nickname. While it was not perhaps terribly improper for a cousin to address Patricia thusly, there was something about the way George said the term that never failed to put both sisters’ guards up.

Hearing it, Helen always thought, felt quite like stepping into a pond only to feel something slither away against one’s foot.

George, either unaware or uncaring of his cousins’ discomfort, continued. “How did things go between you and the esteemed Duke of Godwin?”

If Helen’s spine had not already been ramrod straight, this little piece of information would have sent her upright with a jolt. Because George’s comment didn’t only reveal the identity of the handsome, smug gentleman—and, really, was it any surprise that he was a duke, considering how pleased with himself he had seemed? Truly, the man might consider playing a little more contrary to type, just to keep things interesting—but also that George had absolutely known where to find Patricia.

And he’d lied about it, right to Helen’s face.

She hadn’t needed any further reminders that her cousin wasn’t to be trusted, but here was one anyway, wrapped up neatly like a gift.

“I, um, talked to him?” Patricia said. Patricia was naturally reserved, bordering on shyness, but with George’s forbidding, looming presence, she became a stammering shadow.

If Helen had been interested in giving any credit to the man whom she now knew to be the Duke of Godwin, it would be that he hadn’t so thoroughly terrified her sister that Patricia couldn’t even speak to him. But Helen had enough grudges to go around; His Grace would have to seek absolution elsewhere.

“Yes, I know that, girl,” George snapped when Patricia failed to offer further information. “But about what? Did he show interest? Christ, you country girls are completely useless at making matches?—”

“I stopped it,” Helen interrupted because that was quite enough of that. “It was entirely inappropriate for a gentleman to be speaking alone with a young lady. His Grace should have known better.”

Patricia squirmed beside her, and Helen laid a reassuring hand on her sister’s knee.

“I don’t blame you, sweetheart,” she said. “You are learning the rules of the ton ; he knows them. You were not in the wrong.”

Patricia seemed still too reserved to speak, but the way she sank gratefully against Helen’s side spoke volumes.

“She was certainly not in the wrong,” George said acidly. “ You were. How stupid can you be, Helen?”

George wanted Helen to react, so she simply refused to do so, even if his insult did sting a bit. It wasn’t that she truly felt that she was stupid…or at least she hadn’t until recently when trying to navigate the churning waters of London Society. She was clever in other ways, of course; she’d all but raised her sister and had taught Patricia (and herself, quite honestly) when there was no governess to be found. She’d managed a house from the time she was a girl. She’d done so even with inconsistent, unpredictable support from her father and his purse. She knew how to do those things that she’d had a lifetime of experience with. The kind of skills required for life on a rural estate in the North.

But, Helen was learning, there was the kind of intelligence that led one to succeed in one’s own home, and there was an entirely different kind of intelligence required to quickly adapt to a completely different environment.

Helen was not yet certain if she possessed this second kind.

No good could come of letting her cousin sense her insecurities, however, so she kept her voice even as she responded.

“A rake like that is not the kind of suitor Patricia needs,” she said firmly. “That is not the kind of gentleman that makes an appropriate match.”

“Oh no?” George’s voice was thick with disdain. He glanced out the window, then paused, shooting the girls a poisonous smile. They rolled a bit further up the crowded street before George pounded on the roof of the conveyance, signaling to the driver that he wished him to stop.

“Come,” George ordered when they’d pulled to the side of the road. “See precisely what it is that you think is not good enough for your precious sister, Helen.”

Helen struggled to look unimpressed as she glanced out the window. George had chosen his visual example extremely well, however, and a person would have to be dead for a year not to admit that this was a very, very nice home.

There were plenty of beautiful houses in Mayfair. Even the townhouse that the Fletchers were renting while George debated which property to make his own was rather grand.

This house put those others to shame.

It wasn’t just the gleaming brightness of the place—which, Helen noticed with a jolt, had its own gas lamp! A private home, lit with gas! It bordered on outrageous.

And it wasn’t just the address on Grosvenor’s Square, the most elite location in all of London—in all of England!

No, it was the sheer, unbelievable perfection of the house that made Helen flicker with doubt. It was hard to put her finger on any one detail because, of course, the facade was freshly painted, and, of course, the porch was scrubbed clean without a brick out of place. It was more…all of it, put together, like even the house wanted to say, look at how important I am, for having such grand people live in me.

When Helen paused, George pressed his advantage.

“Perhaps you do not mind a sister who prevents you from having all this, Patricia,” he said, his attempt at mildness undercut by the seething slyness in his tone. “I might have thought that if Helen loves you as she claims, she would want you to have all the advantages in the world. But perhaps I am wrong. I do not have a sister. Who can say?”

Helen stayed silent. There was no way to look at that house and say, No, sweetness, that place is not for you—but I’m saying this out of love . That was the kind of house that promised a lifetime of security. And for women in their position, that security was the goal of all this folderol in the ton .

And yet Helen’s fundamental position remained unchanged. Patricia was not suited to be the wife of a rake.

The silence stretched agonizingly.

Patricia practically folded into herself.

George, pleased with himself, banged on the roof of the carriage. The driver moved them back into the bustling, late night traffic, and slowly—oh so painfully slowly—the house, the symbol of Helen’s failures, disappeared into the night.

The rest of the ride passed in silence—George’s self-satisfied, Patricia’s anxious, and Helen’s seething.

It was not until they’d gotten home and the girls, still more accustomed to country hours than late city nights, were trudging upstairs that George broke the silence.

“Helen?” he asked. “A word?”

Patricia looked nervously down at her sister, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. “Is everything all right?” she asked, voice scarcely more than a whisper. Helen hated how subdued her sister made herself even in her own home—insofar as this London house was a home, at least.

Helen forced a smile. “Of course, sweet girl,” she said. “Go upstairs. I’ll be along to say goodnight before I go to bed.”

Patricia’s eyes darted between Helen and George for a moment, a flicker of uncertainty crossing her features. After a moment, however, her gaze returned to Helen’s, and she nodded.

“I’ll wait up,” she said quietly.

George watched this exchange with a barely disguised sneer.

“It’s ridiculous, the way you let Patricia clutch at your apron strings,” he complained as he started toward his study, assuming that Helen would follow compliantly. She hated that she did so, that she slunk along behind him as if he’d already won. “Childish. And neither of you are children anymore. You’re practically on the shelf, Helen.”

Helen wanted to snap back at her cousin, but he wasn’t technically wrong . Three and twenty was considered rather old for a gently bred young woman to wed. More often than not, however, Helen wished she was even older—six and twenty, perhaps, or even thirty . No man would look twice at her if she were that old. Then, she might not be facing her cousin’s ridiculous ultimatum.

This ultimatum was, of course, what he wished to discuss. It was what he always wished to discuss. It was just so obvious that he delighted in controlling the Fletcher sisters’ futures. Their whole lives would be changed by the next few months, and yet, George seemed determined to treat it like he was playing a game.

“You know,” he drawled as the study door clicked shut behind them. He did not offer Helen a seat, and she did not move to take one as he poured himself a dram of whisky—again, not offering her anything. Sitting down meant she was staying for longer. She wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible.

“I’m beginning to think you have not been entirely honest with me, cousin dear,” he went on when it became apparent that Helen would not ask what he wanted from her. Petty rebellions were all she had available to her.

“How so?” she asked, keeping her voice as flat as she could manage.

He flashed her a predator’s smile and, curiously, Helen found herself thinking of the rake from earlier—the Duke of Godwin. That kind of look had suited the duke; she could admit that even if she did not condone his decision to present himself thusly. It had put her in mind of a panther she’d once seen when Patricia had dragged her to a traveling show back home, all shadowy, powerful darkness.

It did not suit George, who looked like nothing more than a monkey baring its teeth.

Helen had seen such a creature in that same traveling show. The monkey had subsequently begun flinging its own waste. Helen had beat a hasty retreat at that.

Fortunately, given that Helen could not retreat in this situation, George only flung poisonous words, not anything more distasteful.

“Well, my dear girl,” he said, and truly, his manner of speaking made her wish to vomit. “I am beginning to think that you are actually hoping that I will make good on our little bargain…or perhaps you’ve forgotten it?”

Helen might have laughed at her latter comment—if the former one weren’t so repugnant to her.

“I haven’t forgotten,” she said tersely. “And I am not hoping for anything from you. I am seeking a husband, as is Patricia. As you instructed us to do.”

“Are you?” he asked, examining his fingernails in a great show of being casual. “Because your actions tonight would suggest otherwise.” He paused, his eyes flicking up to hers. “Unless you think you can snare the Duke of Godwin for yourself?”

He made the idea sound laughable.

And it was laughable, of course. A handsome, rakish duke and…a girl from the North who practically still had country mud on her boots? It was absolutely inconceivable. Not that Helen would ever give George the satisfaction of admitting as much.

“No,” she said, gazing off into the middle distance as she always did when forced to discuss her future with her cousin. “I am not. He is not a suitable match for Patricia or for me.”

At twenty-three, Helen had reached her majority. She had a very small stipend that had been bequeathed to her in her father’s estate—not enough to live on in the fashion to which she had become accustomed, but a sufficient amount to let a small cottage somewhere and seek some small employment. She could be an adequate governess, she felt, or a tutor for a local squire’s children. She’d taught Patricia, after all, and she was not above doing hard work. She did not, technically speaking, need anything from George. She could manage on her own, even if it would be challenging.

The problem was that Patricia, at nineteen, was nearly two full years out from reaching her majority—and, until that time, George was her legal guardian. Patricia’s own small stipend was not truly hers until she reached one and twenty, and George had no intention of letting Patricia go for that long without a trip to the altar.

Patricia could not leave George; Helen would not leave Patricia. And that meant that both sisters were well and truly trapped. Their cousin knew as much. He loved the idea.

And, if George had his way, he would execute that power over them for the rest of their lives.

“You know,” he said, still so idle, so indolent. He was a snake in the grass is what he was, Helen thought with annoyance. “I would have said that if you were so eager for our arrangement to come to pass, we could have sped things along.”

Helen was about to insist, yet again, that she would do positively anything to get away from her cousin and his so-called deals, but she paused. He would have said…? He hadn’t misspoken—he was too smug to suspect as much—and this time, she couldn’t resist falling for the bait.

“What does that mean?” she demanded.

His smug smile grew deeper, slimier. He was ever so thrilled to have gotten a reaction from her, even such a small one.

He put down his drink, untouched—for all his flaws, George really wasn’t much of a drinker, which Helen thought could be for good or for ill. Perhaps lubrication would distract him from meddling in her life.

He stalked forward. She held her ground as long as she could, but when he came so close they were nearly touching, she was forced to retreat. She could not bear him touching her. She backed up until she was against the wall and tried not to cringe as she felt George’s breath warming the scant space between them.

Despite herself, she couldn’t help but note the difference between being cornered by George and being cornered by that duke. The Duke of Godwin was obviously an utterly dissipated rake, but he hadn’t made Helen feel like she’d wanted to scrub her skin from her bones due to his mere proximity, not the way George did.

“Well, my dear girl,” he said smoothly after he had apparently decided she’d stewed in her discomfort long enough, “you seem insufficiently motivated by our previous bargain. And, you see, I don’t want just one of you girls married; you both should be wed by now and underfoot somewhere else. So.” His smile was poison, utter poison. “If you and Patricia are not both wed by the end of the Season, I will no longer be marrying you myself.”

Helen allowed herself the barest, scantest second of hope as George removed the sword that had been dangling over her throat for weeks now. She’d not wanted to come to London, hadn’t wanted to have a Season. She had no use for the posturing and the politics and the endless, endless parties.

But compared to the possibility of marrying her miserable cousin, the choice was clear.

George was sly as a fox, however, and someone like him never gave up their advantage unless they had something better to use. And so Helen quashed that ember of hope quickly, snuffing it out before it could spark into something more.

And, indeed, even if she hadn’t, George’s next words would have done so more effectively than an ocean’s worth of water over that single, scant flame.

“If you both aren’t married by the end of the Season, I shall wed Patricia, instead.”