Chapter Fourteen
“You look beautiful tonight.”
Helena met Edmund’s eyes in the glass, her hands pausing on the clasp of his grandmother’s pearls.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice carefully neutral. “Madame Delacroix has outdone herself.”
The gown was exquisite, ivory silk overlaid with delicate gold embroidery that caught the candlelight like captured stars.
It was the most magnificent gown Helena had ever put on, and she felt like an impostor in every thread of it.
Edmund stepped into her dressing room, his reflection joining hers in the glass.
He was dressed for the evening as well, dark evening clothes that made him look every inch the Duke he was.
Composed, elegant, and devastatingly handsome in a way she had tried very hard not to notice and failed utterly.
“It is not the gown,” he said quietly. “It is you.”
Helena’s breath caught. She did not know how to respond, did not know how to navigate the fragile ground upon which their mutual affections rested since that night in the library.
They had not spoken of it. Had not acknowledged the charged moment, the offer he had made, the retreat she had chosen.
They continued as before, unfailingly civil, exceedingly guarded, circling one another like set dancers bewildered by the music.
“We should go,” she said instead. “The carriage is waiting.”
Edmund nodded, a fleeting shadow dimmed his eyes, disappointment, perhaps, or quiet resignation. He offered his arm with the practiced courtesy she had come to depend upon, and together they descended to face the evening.
***
The Marchioness of Thornbury’s spring ball was the event of the Season, the kind of crush that determined social standing for the year to come. Everyone who mattered would be there. Everyone who wanted to matter would be watching.
Helena had been preparing for this night for weeks.
Had practiced her expressions in glasses, rehearsed her responses to potential slights, armoured herself in composure so complete it had become natural.
She knew how to enter a ballroom now, how to hold herself, how to speak, and how to deflect the barbs that would inevitably come.
She was ready.
She was terrified.
The ballroom was a blaze of candlelight and crystal.
Helena moved through the entrance on Edmund’s arm, acutely aware of every eye that turned toward them.
The whispers began immediately, they always did, but she had learned to let them wash over her like water over stone.
She smiled, and nodded to acquaintances.
She performed the role of Duchess with a precision that would have made Madame Delacroix proud.
I am magnificent, she told herself. I have learned how to walk into a room. I have earned my place here.
Underneath, she was a wound held together by good posture.
The scene within the library returned to her thoughts again and again, refusing to be quieted. Edmund’s voice, gentle and offering: We can be whatever we choose to be. Her own response, cold and retreating: Goodnight, Your Grace. The hope fading in his eyes.
She had chosen safety. She had chosen walls. And now she had to live with that choice while standing beside him in a ballroom full of people who wanted to see her fail.
Lady Clarissa Beaumont was among them.
Helena spotted her within minutes of their arrival, with her golden hair meticulously arranged, her porcelain complexion flawless, and her sharp eyes tracking Helena’s every movement across the crowded assembly.
Clarissa was holding court near the refreshment table, surrounded by admirers, but her attention kept drifting toward the Duke and Duchess of Westmere with an intensity that made Helena’s skin prickle.
She is planning something, Helena thought. I can see it in her face.
She was right.
The attack came an hour into the evening, when Helena had begun to relax slightly.
She had danced twice, once with Edmund, once with an elderly viscount who spent the entire set discussing his prize-winning roses, and had navigated several conversations without incident.
She was beginning to think she might survive the evening unscathed.
Then Clarissa appeared at her elbow.
“Your Grace.” The words dripped with false warmth. “What a lovely gown. Is it new? I seem to recognise the style from several seasons ago. How clever of you to revive it.”
Helena smiled politely. “Lady Clarissa. How kind of you to notice.”
“I notice everything.” Clarissa’s eyes glittered. “It is a habit of mine. For instance, I noticed that your sister has been receiving particular attention from Lord Markham this evening. Such a sweet girl. It must be gratifying to see her doing so well, considering…”
She let the sentence trail off, inviting Helena to fill the silence.
“Considering what, Lady Clarissa?”
“Oh, nothing at all.” Clarissa’s smile widened. “I simply mean that it must be such a relief for her. After everything your family has been through. The reduced circumstances. The uncertainty. I imagine she was quite worried about her prospects before your matrimony solved so many problems.”
The words were pitched to carry. Helena could see heads turning, ears straining to catch the exchange. Clarissa had chosen her moment perfectly, a lull in the music, a gap in the crowd, maximum audience for maximum effect.
“My sister’s prospects,” Helena said evenly, “were never in doubt. She is accomplished, kind, and greatly cherished by everyone who knows her.”
“Of course she is. And now she has a dowry of ten thousand pounds to recommend her as well.” Clarissa’s voice carried clearly across the nearby guests.
“How fortunate that you were able to secure such generous terms in your arrangement. Though I suppose desperate circumstances do tend to produce creative solutions.”
The insinuation was unmistakable. Helena felt it land, felt the ripple of reaction through the watching crowd, felt the weight of judgement in dozens of eyes.
She is saying I sold myself, Helena realised. That I entered into matrimony with Edmund for his money, that our matrimony is nothing but a transaction, that I am exactly the mercenary fortune hunter they have always suspected.
She should respond. Should find some devastating rejoinder that would turn the attack back on its source. She had done it before, had faced down Mrs Dawkins at the assembly, had handled Mr Gibbs at the musicale. She was good at this. She had made herself good at it.
But Clarissa had found the one wound Helena could not armour over. The fear that it was true. That she had wedded Edmund for practical reasons, that she had taken his money and his name and his quiet devotion, and that she had given him nothing real in return.
For a terrible moment, her composure cracked.
It was only an instant, a flicker of genuine pain across her features before the mask slammed back down. But it was enough. Enough for Clarissa to see. Enough for the watching crowd to notice.
Enough for Edmund, standing twenty feet away, to catch.
Helena opened her mouth to respond, but before she could speak, Edmund was there.
He did not rush. Did not push through the crowd or create a scene. He simply appeared at her side as though he had been there all along, his presence solid and steady and somehow larger than it had any right to be.
“Lady Clarissa.” His voice was pleasant, courteous, entirely unremarkable. “How delightful to see you. I believe Lady Worthington was asking for you, something about her daughter’s upcoming musicale. She seemed quite eager to speak with you.”
It was a dismissal. Perfectly polite, and utterly unmistakable. Go away, his tone said. You are no longer welcome in this conversation.
Clarissa’s smile faltered. She glanced between Edmund and Helena, calculating her next move, but Edmund did not give her the opportunity.
“If you will excuse us,” he said, “I believe my wife promised me this dance.”
He offered Helena his arm. His expression was calm, controlled, revealing nothing, but his eyes, when they met hers, burned with something that made her breath catch.
She took his arm.
He led her across the ballroom, past the watching eyes and the whispered speculation, toward the tall glass doors that opened onto the terrace. The cool night air hit her face like a blessing as they stepped outside, and Helena felt something in her chest loosen.
They were alone.
The terrace was empty, the spring night still carried a chill that discouraged lingering outdoors.
Moonlight spilled across the stone balustrade, and somewhere in the garden below, a fountain murmured softly.
It was quiet, and private there. A world away from the glittering battlefield they had just escaped.
Helena released Edmund’s arm and moved to the balustrade, gripping the cold stone with hands that trembled slightly.
“You did not have to do that,” she said, not looking at him. “I can manage Lady Clarissa.”
“I know you can.” His voice came from behind her, quiet and steady. “That is not why I intervened.”
“Then why?”
“Because you should not have to.” She heard him move closer, felt the warmth of his presence at her back, solid and reassuring. “You manage everything, Helena. Every crisis, every attack, every cruelty. You face it all with perfect composure, and you never let anyone see what it costs you.”
She closed her eyes. Her throat was tight.
“I saw,” he said softly. “Just now. Before you put the mask back on. I saw.”
Of course you did, she thought. You see everything. You always have.
“It was nothing.” Her voice was steady. She was proud of that, given how unsteady everything else felt. “A moment of weakness. It won’t happen again.”
“It was not weakness.” Edmund’s voice had sharpened slightly. “It was pain. There is a difference.”
Helena turned to face him. He was closer than she had realised, close enough that she could see the intensity in his dark eyes, the tension in his jaw, and the controlled frustration in every line of his body.