Chapter 5
The library at Lady Harbury’s townhouse was a refuge for the idle mind, with walls lined with books, their spines dulled by centuries of use.
A thick carpet muffled footsteps, and armchairs beckoned for relaxation.
In the late afternoon light, filtered through diamond panes, the room felt more suited for confession than scholarship.
From the crowded salon beyond came music, the flick of fans, lorgnettes clicking, and gossip buzzing.
Helena had slipped away moments before, drawn to the library’s silence.
William arrived at the threshold, his indifference faltering as he took in the scene.
Helena stood by the hearth, arms folded, her silk dress catching the firelight.
Her hair, darker than usual and pinned low, framed her face, while her pale gloves accentuated the elegant line of her neck.
It had scarcely been forty-eight hours since he’d last seen her, and yet, he barley controlled the urge to pull her into his arms and burry himself deep inside of her.
“Your Grace.” She didn’t look up as she spoke, tracing a finger along the marble, her eyes fixed on the glowing embers. The title in her voice dripped with provocation.
He cleared his throat and closed the door behind him, feeling the silence envelop him. “Helena.” He offered a bow. “You summon me with an urgency that nearly flatters.”
“Does it?” She turned, arching an eyebrow. “I intended only clarity.”
“Clarity,” he repeated, stepping further into the room, “is a quality I greatly admire.” He sensed a shift, an unsettling feeling creeping in, as if he were trapped.
Helena’s gaze flicked past him to the door, then back to his face. “Good,” she said. “Because I intend to be perfectly clear.”
She crossed the carpet, her steps silent, stopping midway between the fire and the door. “You are everywhere I go,” she noted.
“I am nothing if not consistent.”
She smiled, and the temperature of the room seemed to rise. “Consistency is overrated.”
Reaching past him, she caught the key from its porcelain hook and, with one swift motion, locked the door. She returned the key to her pocket without flourish.
“Now,” she said, “we are unlikely to be disturbed.”
William's mouth went dry. “Should I be alarmed?”
Helena's eyes softened for a moment. “Only if you dislike being taught.”
He hesitated, aware that any answer would be a trap, and let her close the distance between them.
She stood so close he could feel her breath against his throat.
The scent of her was not the sugary vanilla of most women’s pomade but something sharp, clean, and slightly bitter.
Citrus, perhaps, or the green snap of verbena.
Her hand rose slowly to rest at his collar. “You are always so careful, William,” she said, emphasizing his name. “Too careful.”
He raised a brow, but she ignored the challenge, her fingers sliding down his neck to the first button of his waistcoat. She undid it, then the next, her movements precise. “Did you know,” she murmured, “that when you touch me, you do it as if you’re handling explosives?”
“I have been given cause for caution,” he replied, his tone only half-joking.
Helena's eyes sparkled with amusement. “Then let us proceed with due diligence.”
She took his hands and guided them to her shoulders. The fabric of her dress felt cool, but the skin beneath was warm. As he pressed his palms against her collarbone, he sensed the tremor that ran through her.
“Do you feel that?” she whispered.
He nodded, unsure whether the shiver came from him or her.
“Good. Now,” she slid his right hand lower to where her dress gathered at the top of her breast, “don’t stop until I tell you.” She drew a steady breath—one, two—choosing it.
He felt, not for the first time in her company, that he teetered on the edge of something uncertain.
But he could not stop, trailing his fingertips along her flushed skin, noting her texture, the subtle play of sinew and bone beneath the surface.
Helena's eyes never left his face, as if she were judging his progress against some private standard.
“Slower,” she said, her tone more invitation than command.
He complied, mapping her shoulder blade, the hollow at the base of her throat, the faint pulse beneath her jaw.
Each time he paused, she corrected him with a murmur or a tilt of her chin, always demanding more.
Which only served to make him pause more.
It was a thrilling game and he could not indulge enough.
“Your hands,” she said at last, “are very beautiful, but they’re too…” She searched for a word, “controlled. It’s as if you fear what they might do if you let them.”
He swallowed hard. “Perhaps I do.”
She smiled, then intertwined their fingers, pressing their hands to her breast. “I do not.”
Helena’s breasts were soft yet firm, her nipples hard against the thin silk as he took his fill.
Her breath caught, and she squeezed his hand tighter, as if reassuring herself he wouldn’t withdraw.
She released his right hand, letting it roam free. “Explore,” she said, the word nearly undoing him.
He ventured lower, fingertips skimming the valley between her breasts, the heat of her skin intensifying with each inch. She inhaled sharply when he found the tiny hollow beneath her sternum, noting this as another point in the new science of pleasing Lady Fairfax.
“Better,” she whispered, her voice a touch rougher. “I want the rogue.”
He drew lazy circles on her skin, then, flicked his thumb across her hard nipple.
Helena exhaled, and for a moment, he thought she might lose her composure.
But instead, she surprised him. She slid his hand beneath the silk, guiding his fingers to the edge of her corset, then under, to where her skin was softest and most forbidden.
“Do you know what I like most about you?” she said, her lips almost brushing his ear. “You learn quickly.”
He flushed, desire and pride swelling within him.
She pressed closer, molding her body to his, running her tongue along the seam of his jaw. “Now,” she said, “I want you to remember what you just did. And do it again, slower.”
He obliged, savoring the friction and the way her skin yielded beneath his touch. He circled her nipple with his palm, feeling it stiffen, then risked a gentle pinch. Helena gasped, her head falling back and exposing her throat.
He couldn't resist. He bent and kissed the exposed flesh. She rewarded him with a stifled moan, her hands clutching his back. He pressed harder, encouraged by her response, and soon they were both panting, their bodies locked in a rhythm older than either cared to admit.
She drew back, her eyes glistening. “You see?” she said, her voice low. “You don’t need to be careful with me. I’m not made of glass.”
He cupped her face, brushing a stray hair from her cheek. “I’m not accustomed to—”
“To being taught?” she finished for him.
He considered for a moment, then smiled, a rare, genuine expression breaking across his face. “No. But I enjoy it.”
Helena laughed softly. “As do I.”
Stepping away, she straightened her dress. At the threshold, she let his fingers graze her wrist—innocent to others but electric to them. With quick motions, she restored her hair and turned to face him, her eyes bright with satisfaction and mischief.
“Very good,” she said, as if grading a pupil. “But there’s more to learn.”
For a moment, he felt an irrational resentment that the lesson was over. He wanted to pull her back, to finish what she had started, to bury his hands in her hair and his mouth on her skin. But he knew she would only give as much as she wished and no more.
Helena unlocked the door, then paused at the threshold, looking back over her shoulder. “Next time,” she said, “I expect progress.”
He bowed, unable to suppress his smile. “I shall revise.”
She left him in the afterglow, his hands tingling and his heart pounding. He watched the door close behind her and realized, with a start, that he was already counting the minutes until their next rendezvous.
That night the Atteberry family dining room displayed old money and older grievances.
At the long table, the shine of silver and crystal was amplified by an excess of candelabras, their flames flickering with every passing servant.
The walls, adorned with generations of stern ancestors, offered neither warmth nor forgiveness.
Even the soup arrived with an air of condescension, as if it pitied the modern palate.
William entered two minutes before the hour, his cravat crisp and his boots reflecting the efforts of two valets and one nervous footman.
His mother, the dowager duchess, was already seated at the head, her posture so correct it seemed almost unnatural.
At her left, his uncle George, Lord Engle, stirred the potage with the resigned aggression of a man who resented every aspect of his diet, his station, and possibly his nephew.
William slid into his seat, smoothing his cuffs.
He could still feel the warmth of Helena’s skin, the taste of her laughter, and the way she had disrupted his self-control with a whispered correction.
Her touch lingered just beneath the surface, even as his face displayed the expected blandness of an Atteberry at supper.
“William.” His mother’s voice cut through the air, sharp and precise. “I trust your afternoon was productive.”
He inclined his head. “As ever, Mother.”
“We heard you were at Lady Harbury’s musicale,” Uncle George interjected, raising an eyebrow. “Reading, was it? Or something more exciting?”
William smiled, a slight upturn, more defensive than welcoming. “I find that reading often suffices, Uncle.”
“Pity.” Uncle George set down his spoon with finality. “There are those who believe you would benefit from a broader range of stimulation.”
“Your concern for my welfare is noted,” William replied, his tone polished.
The first course was cleared, and the room filled with the rich scent of roasted pheasant. The footmen moved with nervous precision, each step a careful dance to avoid mistakes that could lead to immediate dismissal.
Mother waited until the plates had been served before continuing. “I received a letter from Lady Harrington this morning. She wonders if you are well, having not called these past two weeks.”
William carved a piece of pheasant with focused attention. “I have been otherwise occupied.”
“She mentioned,” his mother continued, “that her daughter, Penelope, has returned from Bath. She is much improved by the sea air, I gather.”
“I am delighted to hear it,” William said, taking a bite.
Uncle George snorted. “The Harringtons own half the land from here to Market Bosworth, William. The girl is not brilliant, but she is promising. The chit would make you a fine duchess.”
William sipped his wine, masking his irritation. “There are other considerations beyond geography and potential, Uncle.”
Mother’s lips thinned, her disapproval palpable. “A proper match this season would resolve many issues. The late dukes demands, for instance. If the inheritance is to be secured—”
He set his fork down, the clink against the plate slicing through the air. “We are not in want, Mother.”
She glared, the candlelight reflecting in her eyes like a warning. “Want is never the measure. Duty is.”
William felt the familiar tension rising in his chest, the tightness that signaled either confrontation or submission. He chose neither, allowing the silence to grow heavy, a tangible weight pressing down on the table.
Uncle George pressed on. “You’re not a child, William. You must know that the family’s future is not merely a matter of preference.”
William considered this, then turned to his uncle, his voice steady. “If the family’s future relies on my ability to marry into the Harringtons, I suggest you start planning our demise for I will not marry Lady Penelope.”
His mother gasped, a practiced sound, and Uncle George allowed himself a tight, satisfied smile.
The meal dragged on, each course an opportunity for passive aggression.
Mother listed eligible women as if reading from a directory, each one more tiresome than the last. William responded with polite noises, but his mind wandered to the library at Holburne, to Helena’s palm on his throat, to the lesson she had administered with precision.
He wondered if she would laugh to see him here, all dignity and diplomatic deflection, enduring the slow torture of inheritance. He doubted she would pity him. He suspected she would mock him for being so easily cornered.
Unable to tolerate much more he said, “I appreciate your concern for the family’s interests, but I must follow my own judgment in this matter.”
His mother’s frown deepened, becoming something structural, like a crack in marble. “And what, precisely, is your judgment?”
He paused, savoring the moment. “That I will not be bullied into matrimony, nor will I entertain any arrangement that offends my sense of—how did you put it, Mother—duty.”
Lord George shook his head, but William caught the glint of respect in his uncle's eyes. “Suit yourself,” he said, raising his glass. “But don’t expect sympathy when the estate is divided up like a roast at Christmas.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” William replied, lifting his own glass in a mock toast.
Dessert arrived. A confection of spun sugar.
William declined it, rising from the table with an excuse about correspondence requiring his attention.
His mother remained seated, her hands white-knuckled on the tablecloth.
Uncle George watched William go, eyes narrowed, as if already plotting the next campaign.
In the corridor, William paused to steady himself. He inhaled the cold air, then exhaled slowly, releasing the tension inside him.
He did not go to his study. Instead, he wandered through the maze of darkened parlors and closed doors, each step taking him further from his family’s expectations and closer to a life governed by his own desires.
Eventually, he paused outside the library, the weight of the world on his shoulders. He pushed the door open and locked it behind him, the click breaking the stillness. Flames danced in the hearth as he settled into a worn armchair, surrounded by the scent of aged paper and leather.
Helena again invade his thoughts. Her playful challenge lingered, the memory of her scent wrapping around him. Her laughter echoed in his ears, and the heat of her presence ignited something within him.
He let the longing swell, filling the quiet space with a warmth that buzzed softly, like a candle flickering in the dark.