Chapter Seven
Helen regarded the Duke of Roxboro, the brutal cast of his beautiful, chiseled features and the icy glint of his eyes.
There was nothing ducal there, only a predatory cast to his face and form, one that sent a trickle of fear down her spine.
This was not the man who’d so passionately kissed her only moments ago. Or charmed Cerise at the Stout ball.
She took a step back, sliding around the curve of the tree trunk.
A shout, then a roar came from the crowd by the pond. Applause filled the air. Some idiot had won the tiny boat race.
She glanced towards the water. The crowd gathered would soon disperse, and some would wander this way, including Cerise.
Helen could not be seen with the Duke of Roxboro, though considering the way he watched her with such a cold, detached look, he didn’t want to be found in her company either. A lady’s companion. A chaperone.
The knowledge stung.
Wobbling, she backed another step back from him. “I—” Helen averted her gaze. “Beg your pardon. This should not have happened, Your Grace.”
“It appears we agree on the matter, Miss Cosgrove.”
The teasing was gone. The flirtatious manner. The chilly accent was once more firmly in place. She had hoped he might protest. Just a little.
“Then we must also agree,” she lifted her chin. “That while it is true I do not know your situation; I also do not care to.”
“Good.”
No excuses. No apology. No justification for his betrothal to Lord Canterbell’s daughter. No attempt to convince her to become his mistress. Helen had an entire stream of rebuttals for each, but none were required.
“You are about to be wed, Your Grace. And we met while you were attempting to seduce—”
“Not that again.” Roxboro gave her a bored look. “I’m aware of my circumstances, Miss Cosgrove. You do not need to belabor the point, which has been made.” He jerked his chin in the direction of the crowd. “Run back to the cabbage head. You are dismissed.”
Dismissed? Helen’s fingers clenched at her skirts. “You are vile, Your Grace.”
“All true.” He waved his hand in the direction of the crowd. “Go on.”
“I wish you well on your marriage.”
“How lovely. I bid you good day.”
Helen opened her mouth, but no words came out, the shock of having been kissed senseless then dismissed like some…servant had left her speechless. If she had a rock, she would chuck it at his arrogant, condescending head.
“I hope you amused yourself, Your Grace.”
“Why do you think I come to the park, Miss Cosgrove? You aren’t the only little dove floating about.” He winked at her.
Was it possible to die from mortification? Sheer stupidity? Roxboro and his disregard might be worse than Owen calling her devoid of physicality, whatever that meant.
“Run along.” Roxboro moved into the shadows between the trees, a look of complete disinterest on his face.
How perfectly humiliating.
Helen spun about on one heel, so horrified, she could hardly maintain a steady gait she marched away. Roxboro with his charm and blinding looks had seduced Helen with little effort. Had he asked, she might have lifted her skirts without protest.
All of which made her…hate him.
More than a little.
“You loathsome scoundrel,” she bit out over her shoulder, determined to have the last word.
“Far worse than you know,” came his reply, floating over the grass.
Helen stomped down the hill, furious, body still aching for…
him. She cursed Roxboro, wishing his manhood would fall off.
Pitied Canterbell’s daughter at having such a despicable man for a husband.
Castigated herself a thousand times over for secretly wishing—well it didn’t signify.
Roxboro was a terrible, horrible person.
Using others for his own amusement. Taking advantage of Helen’s…
baser instincts which she wasn’t even sure she had until recently.
So immersed in imagining how a powerless lady’s companion might extract revenge on a vile duke, Helen nearly ran headfirst into Cerise.
“Miss Cosgrove.” Cerise acknowledged her though it was hardly a greeting.
Her petulant tone left no doubt she’d been wishing Helen had fallen into the Serpentine or been carried off by bandits.
“You were instructed not to follow me about like a lost Pomeranian.” Cerise glanced up at the stand of trees Helen had just vacated.
“The race is over, my lady,” Helen stated, praying Roxboro was gone or at least, no longer visible.
Cerise was convinced the duke would call upon her.
Since the Stout ball, she’d taken great care to dress exquisitely every day before floating down the stairs to receive callers.
She’d perch on the settee with an open book in her lap—ridiculous because Cerise never read anything except the gossip columns—and gaze hopefully out the window.
Roxboro had no intention of calling upon Cerise. He referred to her as a cabbage and barely recalled her name, only the necklace Cerise had worn the night of the Stout ball. Yet he’d kissed Helen. Twice.
She bit back a grin. At least, there was that.
“Something amuses you, Miss Cosgrove?” Cerise snipped at her.
“No, my lady.”
Cerise gave her a suspicious look, as Lord Lowell and Lady Hester hurried towards her.
Lowell, every polite, gave a short bow to Helen. “Miss Cosgrove.”
“How did your friend fare, my lord?” she asked Lowell, as they started in the direction of Galway’s carriage.
“I believe he won the favor of Lady Hester,” Lowell’s eyes twinkled with a nod at Hester who had taken his elbow.
“Possibly mine as well,” Cerise sent him a sideways look, dropping her gaze to her friend’s fingers. “I should hate for that to be the case, my lord.”
Lowell immediately detached himself from Hester. “Perish the thought, my lady.”
What did Lowell see in Cerise? She was vapid and empty-headed. Mean-spirited. Manipulative. But maybe he only wanted a beautiful, pedigreed wife.
“What a lovely day,” Lady Hester added.
“Yes, and now we must return home,” Helen said, increasing her steps to keep up with Lowell, Cerise, and Hester, all of whom were much more long-limbed than herself. “Lord Galway will be expecting us at home. We must not dally.”
Cerise gave a pained sigh.
“She’s so tedious,” Lady Hester whispered behind her hand, loud enough for Helen to hear.
“Miss Cosgrove is quite right,” Lowell sent Helen a sympathetic look. “Lord Galway’s wishes must be honored. I’ll see you ladies to your carriages and be off myself. But,” he gazed at Cerise. “I shall call upon you soon, my lady.”
Helen appreciated Lowell’s courtesy towards her.
He was a good man, one who was destined for unhappiness if he continued to pursue Cerise.
She’d likely cuckold him immediately after their wedding night.
Helen was torn between wanting to warn Lowell away from Cerise and pushing him towards his eventual fate since their marriage meant her freedom.
“But I wish to walk further in the park,” Cerise implored.
“Not today, I’m afraid,” Helen murmured as they approached the carriage. “Lord Galway was most insistent.”
“Fine.” Cerise dropped Lowell’s arm and came up beside Helen. She pretended to stumble, digging her heel into the hem of Helen’s well-worn skirts, and ground the poor muslin into the grass. The fabric, nearly paper-thin at the hem, tore.
“Oh dear, Miss Cosgrove,” Cerise placed a palm over her mouth in false horror. “Forgive me. I’m so clumsy.”
Helen barely flinched. She didn’t dare chastise Cerise, not with that innocent look pasted on her face. Instead, she looked down at her ruined dress, one she could ill afford to replace with a shrug. “A little needle and thread is all that is needed. No harm done, my lady.”
Hester laughed softly.
Lowell handed Cerise into Galway’s carriage and once she was settled, assisted Helen. “I’ll escort Lady Hester to Miss Amherst.” He doffed his hat. “Lady Cerise. Miss Cosgrove.” Then with a polite bow, he took Hester’s arm and led her away.
“Pity about your dress,” Cerise said in a mild tone.
Helen said nothing as the carriage started to move.
Clasping her hands, she turned to the view outside which was far better than Cerise’s knowing grin.
Lifting her eyes to the stand of trees where Roxboro had been, she searched the dappled sunlight for any sign of him, still feeling the press of his mouth on hers.
But there was nothing at all lingering in the shadows.
Not even a bird.