Chapter 2
William stood before the oval mirror in his dressing room, razor in hand, his face absurdly striped with lather.
The other half—jaw, chin, upper lip—remained shadowed and unfinished, an affront to both symmetry and dignity.
He stared at his reflection, wondering if he had gone mad overnight.
His valet, Fellows, held the towel with saintly patience.
After a prolonged silence, William wiped the blade clean and set it down.
“That will do,” he said.
The valet offered the towel, and William took it, smearing the lather with enough force that it spattered his dressing gown. He neither apologized nor corrected the stain. A barely visible twitch of the valet’s eyebrow served as a silent commentary on the proceedings.
Powis House lay silent at this hour, its wide corridors echoing.
William strode to his study, the one room allowed to deviate from the decorum of the rest. Books lined the shelves, every title chosen for its utility in distraction, and ledgers and correspondence fanned across the desk.
Here, amid the detritus of responsibility, he usually felt most himself.
But not today.
The ledger awaited his attention, columns of figures precisely inscribed, all the details of the dukedom rendered into rows and sums. William took up his pen, intending to lose himself in arithmetic, but his hand refused to cooperate.
Instead, it drummed an irregular rhythm along the edge of the desk, reminiscent of the waltz from last night.
He pressed his palm flat, willing it to stillness.
With infuriating clarity, he recalled the sensation of her hand in his warm, gloved, resistant at first and then yielding with a flicker of pressure that was neither trust nor surrender.
His pulse miscounted. The fox mask had left a faint indentation on her temple, an oval of pale skin that seemed, in memory, indecently intimate.
Her scent, crisp and citrusy, still clung to his coat, a taunt and a reminder.
He reached for the quill, and knocked over the inkwell. Black spread across the ledger, obliterating a fortnight of perfectly balanced accounts. William stared at the stain as it expanded. For the first time in his life, it felt fitting.
He stood, chair scraping against the rug, and crossed to the window.
Powis House backed onto a private garden, a pocket of wilderness resisting every effort at cultivation.
He watched the gardeners, small and purposeful in their green livery, waging their endless war against the bramble and hawthorn.
It was a metaphor he would have dismissed under normal circumstances, but today it felt uncomfortably apt.
He heard a subtle cough before he saw the butler, a man who moved with the certainty of a chess piece.
“Your tea, Your Grace,” the butler intoned, setting the tray precisely at the edge of the chaos.
The cup was bone china, thin enough to reveal the blue veins of William’s hand as he gripped it. The tea was over-steeped and cold.
He drank it anyway, savoring the bitterness.
William wondered if this was how it felt to unravel, not in some grand fit of madness, but in small concessions to disorder. A stained sleeve, a blotted ledger, a teacup ignored until its contents turned to sludge. He considered writing to the doctors at Bedlam, proposing a case study.
But the true source of his distraction, the fixed point around which every errant thought orbited, was Lady Helena Fairfax. He repeated her name aloud, once, as if the syllables might dissipate her presence. They did not. If anything, they thickened the air.
She was, in every sense, his equal. Intelligent, immune to charm, and utterly indifferent to his opinion.
Last night’s encounter had been nothing more than the collision of two planets, bound to leave craters.
Yet he could not shake the memory of her laughter, the sting of her repartee, the way she had looked at him when the masks came off.
It had been as though she’d known all along and simply wanted to see how far he would go.
William paced the length of the study, ignoring the mounting debris of his morning. He was not, by nature, a man given to romance or passion. He preferred his vices predictable, his pleasures private, his affections measured. But Helena inspired in him a chaos that felt like exhilaration.
He stopped before the fireplace, its grate cold and empty, and stared at the painting that dominated the mantle.
Edmund, his late cousin, regarded him with a blend of hauteur and mischief that had been the man’s calling card in life.
The artist had captured the precise cant of Edmund’s head, the curve of the smile that bordered on insolence.
William studied the portrait, wondering if his own face would one day be immortalized with such accuracy.
He doubted it. His father’s portrait hung in the main hall, eyes fixed above the heads of all living creatures, a study in remoteness, the Atteberry legacy in oil and canvas. He imagined his would be much the same.
He addressed the painted Edmund, as he often did when the family's gaze felt heaviest. “You could not have made this easier, could you?” he muttered. “Not even in death.”
The silence provided no answer.
He knew what was expected of him. He was to keep the name unsullied, to guard Helena’s reputation, and keep his distance. He had done so for two years with a discipline bordering on asceticism. Now, with one waltz and a stolen kiss, he had risked it all on a whim.
The urge to laugh rose up, and he let out a single dry bark that startled even him.
He returned to his desk, abandoning the ruined ledger, and reached instead for a sheet of unblemished stationery.
The note he composed was brief and precise.
A polite request for Lady Fairfax’s company at her convenience—an invitation rather than a summons.
He signed it, sealed it with the Atteberry crest, and rang for the butler.
“See that this is delivered with discretion,” he said.
The butler took the note without a blink. “Of course, Your Grace.”
As the door closed, William looked again at the state of his study. The spilled ink, the stained sleeve, the half-shaven face reflected in the darkened window, and felt, for the first time since childhood, a thrill of anticipation.
He would see her today. He would not risk her name. But he would risk everything else.
He dressed with more haste than care, selecting a black coat and blue waistcoat, and allowed the valet to smooth his hair into a semblance of order. He ignored the raised brow this time and left the house at a pace just short of undignified.
Consequences loomed large in his mind, but for once, the prospect did not fill him with dread.
Helena had never considered herself a creature of habit, but today her need for control was absolute. She arrived at Gunter’s tea rooms a quarter hour early, ensuring that the private alcove would be properly prepared and that she, too, would be composed.
The room was as she preferred with whitewashed walls, modest gilt, and none of the excessive ornamentation that afflicted so many London parlors.
Sunlight filtered through the mullioned window, warming the linens and illuminating the silver.
Helena took her seat, arranged her gloves precisely at the edge of the table, and surveyed the array of cups, tongs, and spoons with a general's eye for formation. The order calmed her.
It was impossible to forget the memory of last night—the vivid colors, the rapid beating of her heart. Worse was the clarity with which she recalled the Duke of Powis, the set of his jaw beneath the mask, the pressure of his hand at the small of her back, the velvet in his voice.
She had expected regret, or at least a sharp embarrassment. Instead, excitement swelled dangerously close to hope as she awaited his arrival.
At precisely eleven, William entered—cravat askew, hair rakishly tousled. When his eyes found hers, they narrowed—not with censure, but with a predatory focus that left her breathless.
He bowed, more perfunctory than courtly, and took the chair opposite her. The table between them felt like a borderland, its expanse no wider than a truce.
“Lady Fairfax,” he said, his voice low enough to belong in a confessional.
She inclined her head, refusing the invitation to speak.
The silence stretched, measured in heartbeats and the tick of the Staffordshire clock above the mantel. At last, he cleared his throat. “I apologize for the abruptness of my note.”
She folded her hands. “If I found it objectionable, I would not have come.”
He nodded, a small muscle ticking at the corner of his jaw. “I value your judgment…and your honesty.”
Helena took up the teapot, steady as a surgeon, and poured for them both. “Will you take sugar?”
He glanced at the bowl, then at her, and for a moment she thought he might refuse. “One,” he said.
She gave him two. It was petty, but the act soothed her. He noticed and a ghost of a smile tugged at his lips.
He sipped, eyes never leaving hers. “I am aware that last night was a deviation from what either of us intended.”
Helena snorted, an unbecoming noise but an honest one. “Intended? I assure you, Your Grace, if I had intended anything, it would have been far less interesting.” She watched his reaction, noting a brief flare of color at his cheekbones, quickly controlled.
He set his cup down. “I find myself at a disadvantage.”
“That is a novel sensation for you, I imagine.”
His smile was faint, almost apologetic. “More than you know.”
A shadow fell across the table as the waiter entered, an intrusion both welcomed and resented. The man set down a plate of almond biscuits and retreated with the urgency of one who knows he is not wanted.
William waited until the door closed behind him.
“Helena.” He used her name, and it hung between them like a weight.
“There is no precedent for this. I am tied to your household as the law sets me near your affairs. As my late cousin’s wife, I am sworn to protect you, not ruin you.
” He trailed off, unable or unwilling to finish.
“Not ruin me?” she supplied, with just enough bite to sting. “I’m not so delicate, Powis. I have survived worse than a little indiscretion.”
He winced, and she wondered whether she should pity him or herself. “The world is not kind to women who defy its conventions.”
“I am already what the world makes of me,” she said, the words sharper than intended. “I would rather be damned on my own terms. And I will name them.”
He considered this, fingers tracing a line along the rim of his cup. “And what terms would those be?”
She met his gaze, all pretense of civility evaporating.
“Absolute honesty. No promises. No jealousy. No names in public. I choose when and where. No lies. I do not want a protector. I want…” She hesitated, surprised by her own boldness, then pressed on.
“I want the freedom to choose my own disaster, and I want passion.”
A silence fell, heavy with possibility.
William reached for the plate of biscuits, selecting one and breaking it in half. He offered her the larger portion, a peace offering so transparent that she nearly laughed.
Helena took it, her fingers brushing his. The contact was electric, a crackle that threatened to ignite every nerve.
He said, “Very well. I accept your terms, provided you accept one of mine.”
She arched an eyebrow, more curious than skeptical. “And what is that?”
“No public risk to your name. If we are to be damned, let it be quietly.”
Helena considered this, weighing it against her own desire for autonomy. She decided even a discreet damnation was better than living in obscurity.
“Agreed,” she said, allowing herself a small smile. “I must admit, Your Grace, I did not expect you to be so accommodating.”
He shrugged, the gesture oddly vulnerable. “I have always believed in playing to one’s strengths.”
She finished her tea in a single swallow. “Then we have an understanding.”
“Indeed.” He stood, the movement abrupt. “Shall I escort you to your carriage?”
“Only if you promise not to lecture me on propriety,” she replied, gathering her gloves.
“Never,” he said, and she believed him.
They walked side by side through the foyer, her hand resting on his arm. The air outside was fresh, the city’s noise held at bay by the clarity of the morning. Helena felt the tension drain from her shoulders, replaced by a sense of anticipation she had not known in years.
She turned to him as they reached the waiting carriage. “Tomorrow. Two o’clock. The Holborn Reading Room.”
He bowed lower this time, and the gleam in his eye told her he was already imagining what ‘next time’ might entail.
As the carriage drew away, Helena allowed herself to close her eyes and savor the possibilities. The rules were set, the field leveled. She was no longer prey to fate but an architect of her own ruin. Passion without promises—by choice.
It was, she decided, a far better bargain then holiness or marriage.