Chapter One #2
She’d loved Mrs. Hendricks, so it had been a terrible blow, in addition to losing the only home she’d had for a decade, to also realize she hadn’t been loved in return. Only considered…useful. On evenings such as these, when chasing around that spoiled brat—
Lady Cerise. My charge. The daughter of a marquess who I should be honored to chaperone.
Helen was reminded of Mrs. Hendricks and her false affection. But such bitterness would not serve her well tonight, or any other. So she pulled every ounce of ill feeling and hurt back inside, to be tucked away and looked at later, when she wasn’t chasing Cerise.
There, strolling behind a row of footmen all holding trays of champagne.
Cerise had her head thrown back, dark curls dangling in a fetching manner as she arched in blatant invitation to the gentleman standing before her.
Good Lord.
Trailing her fingers over the emerald pendant around her neck, Cerise batted her lashes, while looking up at the man before her. Helen could just make out her throaty, seductive laughter, far more appropriate for a courtesan than the unwed daughter of a marquess.
Cerise, Helen had surmised, would eventually become a trollop, albeit a titled one.
Quickening her pace, hopping up in the air every so often to keep Cerise in her sights, Helen deftly avoided the stray elbow to her side.
Or a foot stepping on her own. Cursing her small stature, an inconvenience at times such as these, she ducked beneath the arm of a matron decked out in bright green striped silk and hurried towards Cerise before something insurmountable could occur.
Lady Stout’s ballroom, indeed, her entire home, was rife with an extraordinary number of alcoves, niches, corners and nooks.
Far too many intimate parlors which dotted the halls stretching away from the ballroom.
The lighting seemed intentionally muted.
Few servants were stationed once one left the ballroom.
Perfect for assignations.
Helen didn’t care at all for Cerise, who she considered a prime example of what happens when you have far too much breeding, beauty and wealth but lack common sense.
Had she been able to hurry the girl before a vicar with a suitable gentleman, she would have.
Galway had become intolerable with his thinly veiled hints at seduction, not to mention his arrogance in general.
Helen wanted out from beneath his roof with a desperation that grew every day.
Galway had mentioned, more than once, that when Cerise married, Helen might wish to consider a position as a housekeeper at one of his estates.
“Housekeeper,” she muttered to herself, searching between the line of footmen for any sign of Cerise. “Bed-warmer more likely.”
She might be only the poor relation, but Helen wasn’t stupid. He and his brazen daughter could go hang.
Patience, Helen.
Finally she reached the area she’d spotted Cerise’s rose-colored gown, lips puckering in frustration at finding the space now empty.
Helen stepped behind the line of footmen, who all shot her looks of annoyance and peered into the dim recesses of the hall.
Marching past one of the footmen, she stated primly, “Light a lamp or a candle. Anything.”
A giggle sounded, followed by the playful slap at a gentleman’s arm.
Cerise.
Helen could recite every action of her charges “practiced” seduction after chaperoning her for so long. Cerise rarely varied. She had little imagination.
The rose gown flashed in the periphery of Helen’s vision, pulled along as the gentleman led Cerise behind the fronds of what had to be one of the largest ferns Helen in existence. Squinting, she could make out the barest outline of an arch or some sort of alcove behind the fern.
Damn and blast. What was wrong with Lady Stout? Did she want every girl in London to be ruined?
Fuming, Helen scooted under the waving strands of fern, glancing over her shoulder to be sure she wouldn’t be seen, especially by Lord Galway.
Lady’s companions were often overlooked or completely ignored and with her small stature, Helen was assured of her invisibility.
Her petite form had served her well over the years, after all, no one cared to see the unwanted orphan sitting in the corner chair across the room.
Helen came to a halt. The arch she’d noted earlier was in actuality a niche meant to display art or a Grecian urn which explained the oddly shaped, poorly formed vase it contained. Helen could have created something more tasteful from a pile of mud and ash while blindfolded.
Wealth did not equate to taste.
Another soft giggle lit the air.
Please don’t let me be too late.
Cerise’s companion—who Helen would fight off with her reticule if she must—had his back to her and thus Helen could not immediately identify him.
Dark formal wear, the same as every other man in attendance, though his coat wasn’t cut properly.
The width of his shoulders pulled awkwardly at the seams when he moved his arms. A proper tailor would have fixed the error.
Hair the color of coffee spilled over the edge of his collar.
Possibly Lord Nance.
Nance had dark hair and money problems. Ruining Cerise would be an excellent solution to his lack of funds.
Adoration suffused Cherise’s lovely features, clearly discernable in what little light struck the alcove. Obviously smitten.
Helen made out the low, masculine rasp of the man’s voice though she couldn’t make out the words that had Cerise swooning.
She tried to recall what Nance sounded like and could not.
Nor whether the viscount was so tall, but realistically to Helen, everyone was of a height greater than her own.
Even Cerise stood several inches above her.
But though tall, there was a…bulkiness to this gentleman which spoke of a greater physicality than Nance or many of the other gentlemen swirling about Cerise.
Cerise let out a languorous sigh as a large hand traced the outline of her collarbone, then ran along the edge of the pendant to circle the enormous emerald. Leaning closer, he was mere inches from Cerise’s lips.
“Stop.” Helen choked out, beating back the fern, which kept swatting her in the face. “Unhand her,” she insisted sternly. “This instant.”
Good lord, she sounded ridiculous. But Cerise was seconds from ruination.
The gentleman turned in Helen’s direction, shoulders lifting in annoyance at the interruption. His handsome—far more than handsome…godlike—features showed surprise and a great deal of amusement.
Oh. No. Not him.
Arrogant slash of cheekbone. A jaw cut more perfectly than Cerise’s stupid emerald.
Nose aristocratic and stamped with centuries of sniffing disdainfully at the lower classes.
And while she couldn’t see them clearly from where she stood, Helen was certain there was nothing but mockery in those distinctive green eyes shot through with silver.
She’d never actually seen his eyes up close, but the gossips were rarely wrong. Not about him.
“I beg your pardon?” he drawled, voice as magnificent as the rest of him.
A prickle went up and down the length of Helen’s arms, pulling at the skin, lifting the tiny hairs along her forearms. No wonder Cerise wanted to be ruined by him.
Half the women in London did regardless of his reputation, including the daughter of Lord Canterbell, who according to the papers, he was betrothed to wed.
Which meant he was a cad. A rather glorious one.
“Your Grace.” Helen dipped into a perfect curtsey. Notorious or not, the man before her was still the Duke of Roxboro.
“Well,” Roxboro’s tone was deceptively soft and filled with a great deal of annoyance. “What have we here?”
Helen straightened, daring to look into those eyes once more, now that his head was tilted towards the light. Shimmering green, like summer grass, with silver streaks that flashed in the muted light. Rather…startling. No one had eyes like Roxboro in all of London. Or was a bigger sot and libertine.
But her body wasn’t interested in Helen’s opinion of Roxboro. A hum of awareness slid over her, despite the inner voice urging retreat. She was nothing but a small mouse trapped under the paw of a lion, too enthralled with the great beast to seek safety.
Roxboro was absolutely blinding, with an allure that drew women to him like bees to honey.
Impossible to ignore. Despite his list of depravities.
His falling of horses in Hyde Park. The courtesans that were said to flock to his house for nightly entertainment.
There was also something about sheep and—
“Oh, that’s just Miss Cosgrove,” Cerise’s petulant tone interrupted Helen’s assessment of the duke. “Bat her away as you would an insect, Your Grace. A gnat, perhaps.”
“Well, she is the size of one, isn’t she?” Roxboro returned in a mocking tone, those startling eyes never once leaving Helen.
The hum inside her grew louder, making the blood beneath Helen’s skin pulse in an alarming manner.
“I am not an insect,” she declared in a firm, authoritative tone. “I am Miss Cosgrove. Lady Cerise’s companion and chaperone. Unhand her immediately.”
“Unhand—” Roxboro chuckled. “Do you have a sword tucked in your skirts to defend her honor? What a ferocious little gnat you are.”
The cadence of Roxboro’s speech was…wrong. There was a coarseness that mimicked the tradesmen who often came to Galway’s back door. Perhaps on purpose.
More mockery.
Helen lifted her chin a notch. She would not be deterred. “Gnat or not, if you do not step aside, I will be forced to summon Lord Galway.”
Roxboro’s brow furrowed for a moment before smoothing out once more. A lazy, indolent smile tugged at his lips. “Oh, no.” He gave an exaggerated shiver. “We can’t have that, can we?”
There was that…strange rhythm to his speech again. But, Helen reasoned, Roxboro was rumored to be a sot. Possibly too much brandy was the culprit. The gossips insisted he swilled spirits day and night. She took a tentative sniff of the air.