Duke of Thunder (Regency Gods #1)

Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

“ I still don’t truly understand the purpose of a promenade,” Helen said, mainly to annoy George. She knew it was a foolish instinct, one that she would no doubt be forced to repay in spades, but her manufactured headache had bloomed into a real headache (which was due either to divine retribution for her sins or the terrible London air, who could say) and she was feeling peevish.

“It is to see other people in the ton . And to be seen,” George snapped at her, which was disorienting, as he did so without letting the sycophantic smile slip an inch.

“But only briefly, as we are to maintain perpetual motion,” Helen commented. “Though not with any purpose.”

“We are permitted to stop,” George said. His smile was looking more like clenched teeth with every word.

“But then it wouldn’t be promenading,” Patricia offered. “It would just be standing.”

Helen shot her sister an approving look. It was so rare that Patricia helped Helen pester George that it was always such a delight when she played along.

“We could stand around at home,” Helen added as though this were something reasonable to say.

“We also stand at balls, sometimes, when there isn’t any dancing,” Patricia added.

“Sometimes at musicales, if they’re crowded or the hostess hasn’t rented enough chairs,” Helen mused.

“The world is really full of opportunities for standing about,” Patricia said as though the information was a wonder.

It was a rare moment of simple pleasure with her sister. These opportunities used to be constant, so frequent that Helen didn’t even really notice them. But now, there was always George to worry about.

This time, however, George merely stalked several feet ahead of them so that he couldn’t hear their conversation—which had been, of course, what Helen had desired in the first place. She looped her arm through her sister’s…and then nearly yanked poor Patricia’s arm directly out of her socket when she stopped dead in her tracks.

Although, Helen thought nearly hysterically, she also saved Patricia from careening directly into George, who stopped as well, though he punctuated his halt with a theatrical (and highly undignified) gasp.

He whirled on them, looking the happiest Helen had ever seen him look. It was highly disturbing.

“Girls,” he ordered in a bizarre whisper-shriek combination. “Act properly!”

“What?” Patricia asked. “What’s happening? What’s going on?”

Helen, for her part, was frozen in place, which meant that she was unable to dodge when George lunged for their linked arms and—with an admittedly impressive show of strength, one that nobody could have seen coming from the milquetoast Viscount Northton—dragged them across a patch of damp grass and over to another path.

Until they were standing directly in front of the Duke of Godwin, as well as three other people with identical blue eyes.

Blast , Helen thought.

To her relief—or possibly horror; it was a truly difficult call between them—the duke was not looking at her but instead at George, a highly skeptical expression on his face.

“Your Grace!” George said, sweeping a bow that frankly would have been a bit much if presented to the king, or, say, God himself. “I am ever so thrilled to see you here today along with your esteemed family.”

The quartet all looked rather taken aback by this show of exuberance, though the elder two reacted less obviously than the younger two, even though this latter pair looked as though they were trying especially hard not to let these reactions show.

“What is happening?” the younger gentleman asked the younger lady in a low voice that Helen could only just make out. The younger Lightholder sister shook her head minutely as if trying to avoid attracting notice.

If George noted this exchange, it was not reflected in his wide smile.

“Please do permit me to introduce myself, Your Grace, my lord, my ladies, though I am sure that I needn’t do so, not after you spent so much time in company with my esteemed cousin at last night’s ball.”

The younger brother shot a curious sidelong glance at the duke, whose expression revealed nothing.

Still, none of the Lightholders answered. Still, George was undeterred.

George reached behind him and—again, with impressive accuracy—grabbed Patricia and pulled her to stand behind him, which she did with a squeak of surprise.

Helen was unfortunately again unable to help her sister—some hero she was turning out to be—because that was the moment when the Duke of Godwin looked at her, let his lips twitch?—

And then looked directly away. As if nothing had even happened.

“Alas, I’m afraid I haven’t had the…pleasure,” the duke said, pausing just long enough that George could not mistake the insult. Had it been anyone else—truly, anyone—Helen would have felt bad for them to be put down so expertly. As it was George, she felt rather entertained. She would have been more entertained if she wasn’t about to drop dead of embarrassment, though.

“Oh, of course, of course not,” George said like the utter toady he was. “Viscount Northton, at your service, Your Grace, at your service. And this is my cousin, Miss Patricia Fletcher, recently of Northton Estate. She and her sister—” He rushed over the addition as if by drawing as little attention as possible to Helen, she might vanish entirely. “—were dreadfully neglected in their Society education by my predecessor, so I have taken it upon myself to teach them the ways of the ton , as it is high time that they secure marriages. But with two younger sisters of your own, I’m sure you’re quite familiar with this sort of dilemma.”

Helen assumed that this sounded rather better in George’s head than it did out loud, as out loud it sounded as though he were trying to scrape off two country leeches wherever he could, all while insulting a kinsman to a near stranger. The whole thing wasn’t entirely inaccurate—particularly if one held that leeches could be useful in circumstances like reducing bruising and the like—but it was not precisely the kind of tact that George was always urging them to deploy around the London social set. And that was before he’d implied that the duke didn’t know how to manage his own family properly.

It was, therefore, positively hilarious when the duke executed another excruciating pause and then said solemnly, “I see.”

The younger brother looked like he was in physical pain, holding back a laugh. The younger sister looked as though she wished for death. The elder sister looked mildly disapproving in that fashionable sort of way that only the very well-bred ever managed.

And the duke looked directly at Helen.

Really? That look asked. This is the man you’re desperately fleeing?

As if that didn’t make her feel utterly pathetic. Yes, George was absurd. Yes, he was obnoxious. And, yes, Helen’s life rested solidly in the palm of his hand.

Wasn’t she lucky?

George, useful for once in his misbegotten life, spared her from trying to send back any silent communique of her own.

"And truly, Your Grace, you must let me apologize for the rudeness of my dear Cousin Helen at the ball yesterday evening. You see, she is so protective of her younger sister, which one would not find such a tiresome quality if not for the fact that she was raised entirely in the country and is therefore much better equipped to protect Patricia from rampaging sheep than social impropriety.”

“Um,” Patricia ventured. “Sheep really don’t, ah, rampage, cousin. They’re rather docile. They’re quite famous for it.”

The elegant elder sister’s eyebrows rose until they very nearly met her hairline. The younger brother was struck by a sudden fit of coughing that could not have convinced anyone except perhaps George.

“Shush, Patricia,” George said without sparing her so much as a glance. “I’m speaking to His Grace.”

His Grace was not speaking back, however. Instead, he was once again looking very pointedly at Helen. She tried to plead with her eyes.

Stop looking at me before someone realizes we know one another.

He either ignored or didn’t understand her. Hard to say which.

Since the duke proved as ungovernable as ever—this might only be their third acquaintance, but she had the distinct suspicion that stubbornness was his natural state—she tried her cousin instead.

“Let us continue our promenade, George,” she said as sweetly as she could. “We’ve paid our respects to His Grace and his family; we should now let them be on their way. I’m sure they have plenty to occupy their hours today.”

“Oh, stop it, Helen,” George said, much more snappishly than the way he’d spoken to Patricia. “You don’t know anything about social mores, and you’ll only embarrass yourself trying. You’re far better served by silence.”

Of course, it was now that the duke spoke.

“Careful, Northton,” he cautioned. “You would do well to listen when such a beautiful woman speaks. I’ve found that it always behooves me to do so.”

And then the utter scoundrel gave her a wink .

It took everything in Helen not to let out an incoherent shriek of frustration. Would she never be spared from impossible men?

Even the shy little sister was looking at Helen with marked interest now. Splendid. Well, wasn’t this just bloody splendid?

The elder sister—and God, but George was twelve kinds of idiot if he didn’t realize the significance of the marked absence of introductions, as even Helen had enough social savvy to recognize the slight—either grew tired of this whole situation or took pity on Helen.

“Come, Xander,” she said, looping her arm with her brother’s. “I see one of Ariadne’s friends; I nearly forgot that we’re meant to meet up with them. Come, Ariadne, Jason. Good day, Viscount Northton, Miss Fletcher, Miss Patricia.”

She bobbed an utterly correct curtsey and then moved elegantly around them on the path, her two younger siblings following after her, the brother reluctant, Lady Ariadne clearly relieved.

Which left, for one moment longer, only the duke, who wore an unmistakably amused expression.

“Mind my advice, Northton,” he said mildly, then tipped his hat. “Good day, ladies.”

Then he, too, swept past them, leaving a stammering George in his wake.

“Oh, yes, Your Grace!” George called after him, voice far too loud. “Thank you, Your Grace! I shall indeed! I do hope we will meet again!”

He kept this up all the way until the four Lightholder siblings had all but disappeared out of sight. As various members of the ton passed nearby, they looked at George as though they were watching some sort of curious creature from a far-off land.

The very instant the duke and his family could no longer be considered “nearby,” no matter how dramatically one stretched the word, George rounded on the Fletcher sisters.

“That was mortifying!” he exclaimed.

Helen agreed, but as George had never shown signs of being particularly self-aware, she assumed they felt this for different reasons.

Sure enough, he confirmed her assumptions by saying, merely a moment later, “Really, Helen, must you bring shame to this family at every turn? If you’re going to make yourself utterly pathetic, you might consider doing so in front of someone other than the Duke of Godwin, who is very likely the single most powerful man in this country, excepting the royal family. Whatever must he think of you now?”

Helen almost laughed at the question. Oh, the Duke of Godwin had seen her in a far more pathetic state than trying to wrangle an unpleasant relation. No, he’d seen her come to him, hat in hand, begging for his assistance and willing to trade her body for his aid—before he had so much as known her name .

This really did pale in comparison.

Though, she thought as George continued his tirade, quite happy to complain at length without any input from either Helen or Patricia, the duke’s snide little comment about her being a beautiful woman had gone a bit far. She knew she was no great beauty—she’d admitted as much to him! Did he think to test the limits of her pride by throwing that back in her face?

If so, he was destined to find that pride did not rank, not compared to Patricia’s happiness. It wasn’t as though she expected this little bargain of theirs to go well. It was more like… Like getting an inoculation. Nobody liked variolation, but one liked dying of smallpox significantly less, so one submitted accordingly.

This whole mess with the Duke of Godwin would be her period of variolation, in which she submitted to his ridiculous request in order to inoculate herself against a lifetime of misery with her cousin as her husband—for herself or for her sister.

It would be worth it. It had to be.

While George continued his litany of complaints—he really never seemed to run out of air to discuss the ways he’d been wronged—Patricia pitched her voice low to ask Helen, “Are you sure the duke did not say or do anything to you that was improper last night?”

“No, of course not,” Helen replied, the words feeling truer the more she said them. She did not like what it said about her that she was becoming so quickly accustomed to lying to her little sister.

“Very well,” Patricia said. “It’s just… Well, he winked at you.”

Ah, lovely. Just as Helen had feared, someone had noticed the strange way the duke had been looking at her. For now, it was only Patricia, but his siblings had surely noticed, too, and what if one of them made an offhand comment, and suddenly someone else realized it, as well? And then the gossip would spread, as gossip did, and suddenly half of London would be laughing at unfashionable Miss Helen Fletcher, who threw herself at a duke, never mind that he had been the one to proposition her!

And then she’d be labeled a trollop, and her reputation would be in tatters, and then nobody else would want to marry Patricia, for fear of Helen’s taint rubbing off on them, and then Patricia would have to marry George, and?—

“I’m sure he was just recalling that I called him a rake to his face,” Helen replied, forcing her frantic thoughts into the background. “I daresay not many people are bold enough to tell him so outright.”

She tried to laugh about it. It came out wrong.

“Oh,” said Patricia. “Oh, yes, I suppose that’s very possible.”

Though her sister was satisfied, Helen was not. She fretted through the afternoon. What if someone had seen something? What if this was enough to push the duke to call off their arrangement? Who else would she turn to for help? If this went wrong, she’d be in worse circumstances than her current ones—and she’d be entirely without recourse.

“Ah, miss?” Helen’s head jerked up to see one of the parlor maids standing at the doorway to the music room, a scrap of foolscap in her hand. “I… Some sort of urchin left this for you.”

The maid sounded extremely suspicious that a so-called urchin could possibly have any business with Helen. This was one point in favor of her reputation, Helen supposed.

Helen Fletcher: more highly ranked than a street child.

Really, things were just getting better and better.

“I can throw it in the fire, if you like,” the maid offered when Helen hesitated. She looked at the paper as though she feared it might attack her.

Helen shook her head, as much to refuse the offer as to clear her mind. “No, no, let me see it,” she said. “I’m sure it’s nothing, but I may as well check.”

“Very well, miss,” the maid said. Her expression suggested that aristocrats were mad at a man, but who was she to argue with the people who paid the bills? Helen, who had started to feel rather mad, could not argue with this.

When the maid had departed, Helen opened the scrap of paper.

Meet me in my garden at midnight , it said. That was all. No signature, no please . Just a terse, unsigned order. She wanted to refuse on principle. She wanted to pretend she didn’t know who had sent it. But she couldn’t. He knew she couldn’t.

Helen crumpled the note in her fist. It had been one day and she already was sick of this mad arrangement.

“Fine,” she muttered at the ceiling as if conceding in some argument with herself. “Fine. I’ll do it. But it had better work.”