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More familiar faces emerged from the darkness: Helena’s parents, her brother Isaac, and her twin, Felicity. They shuffled closer, uncertain of their footing.

"Helena?" Mrs. Hargreaves approached them, her attention first on her daughter before recognizing Lowen. "What is the meaning of this? What are you doing here with him?"

It had been many years since Lowen had last felt like a mischievous schoolboy. In fact, he had rarely caused trouble growing up, and unaccustomed to wrongdoing, he found himself in unfamiliar territory.

"I was trying to escort your daughter back to the ballroom," he answered evenly.

Though Mrs. Hargreaves had yet to voice any accusations, he sensed an unspoken suspicion as she scrutinized the situation. Mr. Hargreaves and Isaac approached Lowen threateningly, as if awaiting orders from their formidable matriarch.

“Are you injured?” Isaac asked, his voice tight, just as Mrs. Hargreaves reached for her daughter's disheveled hair.

"Darling, what happened?”

"Nothing untoward happened, I swear it," Helena blurted, positioning herself towards Lady Charlotte. "I merely came outside for a breath of air, and His Grace was here. I spilled my ratafia on his coat, and we exchanged some choice words?—"

"The fault is entirely mine," Lowen interrupted, cutting off her rambling.

"The lanterns aren’t lit, and your daughter had the misfortune of colliding with me on the stairwell.

She fell, but thankfully, the only damage is to my coat as she managed to spill her ratafia on me in the process.

I should've returned her to you immediately. "

They all exchanged glances, communicating wordlessly.

Under their scrutiny, Lowen became irritated by his own contriteness.

There was no reason for him to be subjected to suspicion—not when his night had been ruined by a willful woman who couldn't follow simple rules.

While Helena certainly looked a mess, by her own doing, she was certainly not ruined.

At least not by him.

“It is strange how you managed to find yourselves so far from the ball,” Lady Charlotte remarked pointedly. Lowen had already forgotten she was still present. "I believe this is yours, Your Grace,” she said, marching toward him with purpose and handing him his coat.

She curtsied before sharply turning on her heel.

“Charlotte, wait!” Helena called, thoughtlessly running after her. “Please! I can explain!”

Charlotte, considerably taller than Helena, was determined to exit the scene with haste, nearly running down the path from whence she came.

“I’ll go after her,” volunteered Isaac without hesitation. “Come, Felicity.”

The siblings quickly disappeared as well.

Mrs. Hargreaves heaved a great sigh and fixed her husband with a look Lowen couldn’t possibly interpret before following her wayward children.

It was then that Mr. Hargreaves heaved his own sigh. “I believe you and I must have a little chat about what really transpired here,” he said, not unpleasantly.

Judging by the hard glint in Josiah Hargreaves’ eyes, Lowen surmised the older man was not so easily intimidated. When Lowen began to repeat what he had told him and his wife earlier, Josiah interrupted with a humorless laugh. His mockery baffled Lowen, as if the man wanted to irritate him.

Lowen raised a brow. “Do you believe I ravished your daughter?”

Josiah thought for a moment. It was difficult to read his face in the darkness, but after a few seconds, the older man finally answered. “No. I don’t think you did, Your Grace. But others will think it.”

“Others are of no consequence to me.”

“What a shame, then. I was led to believe that the nobility upheld the belief of honor and decency.”

“I am an honorable man, but your daughter had no business wandering out here unchaperoned.”

“An honest mistake,” Josiah asserted. “One that should not leave her punished to a life of an outcast.”

“And what does that have to do with me?”

Josiah hesitated, just long enough to make Lowen bristle. “You could ensure a different outcome.”

Lowen’s fingers curled into his palms. The implication was clear, but he refused to give Josiah the satisfaction of voicing it first. “And how, precisely, do you suggest I do that?”

Josiah’s gaze was unyielding. “By offering her your name, Your Grace.”

Lowen’s pulse quickened, though not for the reasons Josiah might think. The suggestion stirred something in him—desire and revulsion, intertwined. The very idea of binding himself to her was preposterous, considering her soiled reputation… it would be an embarrassment.

Helena Hargreaves is an embarrassment.

“What incentive do I have to marry your daughter?” he demanded.

But Helena Hargreaves is beautiful…honey-colored hair, eyes the shade of a darkened sea, and a full-figured body that resembled Aphrodite’s own.

Josiah hummed, tilting his head as if weighing his words carefully. “A quiet conscience, Your Grace. You said yourself that you’re an honorable man.”

Hah! If only old Hargreaves could peer into Lowen’s thoughts, he wouldn’t toss that word around so carelessly.

Though, neither should Lowen.

“You think I’m going to marry her out of some misplaced sense of duty?” Lowen scoffed. “I’m no fool. Your daughter has made her own bed. She can lie in it.”

Josiah didn’t flinch. If anything, he looked almost amused, as if he’d expected that very response. “She will. But the question is—will you?”

Lowen stared at him expectantly.

Josiah clasped his hands behind his back, exhaling as though exhausted.

“I am well aware of the whispers about my daughter, as exaggerated and cruel as they may be. I know them to be false. But the ton ? The gossipmongers?” He shook his head.

“They’ll twist it into something far worse.

And you, Your Grace, will not be spared.

You might weather the rumors, but they will always linger, always follow.

You will always be the man who was alone in the dark with my daughter and did nothing to set it right. ”

“And why should that matter to me?”

Josiah smiled faintly. “Because you could have done something noble. And yet, you didn’t.”

Lowen clenched his jaw. He hated being cornered into a decision that would leave him questioning himself no matter what he chose. And he hated how Josiah’s words needled something deep inside him—something he was already burdened with.

Something dangerously close to guilt.

“I truly do believe you’re the honorable man you say you are, Your Grace,” Josiah continued. “You’re not hypocrite.”

Christ, the man was effective.

Lowen huffed a short laugh, raking a hand down his face. “I should have never said such a thing. It’s becoming evident to me that I am not who I think I am.”

Josiah considered him for a moment. “Perhaps you think to harshly of yourself. I never had the pleasure of meeting your father, but your brother—now, he was the very model of chivalry, was he not?”

Lowen went still. “My brother was… different.”

Benjamin would’ve wed Helena this very night if he’d been caught alone with her. Though, Lowen thought, he never would’ve been in this predicament. He never would’ve done what Lowen did to her, never would’ve treated her in such a manner, or spoken to her in such a manner.

The shame resurfaced, a slow burn deep in his stomach.

“Different, perhaps,” Josiah agreed. “But you admired him. And if the late Marquess had found himself in such a predicament, I imagine he would have done the right thing without hesitation.”

“Yes, well. I am not my brother.”

“No,” Josiah said simply, eyes knowing. “You are not.”

“Were you attempting to use his memory to sway me to marriage?” Lowen asked, curiously.

“Forgive me, Your Grace, if it appears that way. That is not my intention.” He studied Lowen for a moment before adding, “My intent is merely to remind you of your own virtues, which you admired in him. You’re equally as upstanding as he was.”

Lowen doubted that very much, but he said nothing.

“Well,” Josiah murmured, more to himself than Lowen. “I see, then.” He nodded, slow and thoughtful, as if coming to terms with the silence. “I suppose I’ll have to make peace with whatever happens to her.”

He turned as if to leave.

Lowen’s fingers twitched at his sides, he heard his heart pounding in his head.

He could let the man go. He could let Helena ruin herself. He could live with that.

Couldn’t he?

Josiah had barely taken a step when Lowen’s voice cut through the quiet.

“I will give you my answer in three days’ time.”

Josiah paused, turning just enough to glance over his shoulder. “I don’t think I can wait three days, Your Grace.”

Lowen straightened his cufflinks, remembering how Helena, the little hellcat, had nearly torn them off. “You will wait three days.”

Josiah only smiled, as if he already knew the answer. “Then I look forward to hearing from you, Your Grace.”

And as the older man walked away, Lowen exhaled a tired breath.

Tomorrow, he would return to London and begin preparing for the wedding.

A special license would be in order, and a ring.

How could he explain this—to the ton , to himself?

Earlier this day, he had sat amongst men who spoke of Helena Hargreaves in the foulest of terms, their words dripping with lechery and cruel speculation.

And he—he had listened. Had let their jests churn in his mind, entertained the same lurid notions, thought the very same things

And now? Now he would be the one to marry her.

The realization struck him hard, and left a bittersweet taste on his tongue.

With no desire to return to the ball, he decided to walk down the garden path where he and Helena had argued earlier.

There, on the ground, bits of fabric lay crumpled—Helena’s gloves, small and soft, with the letters H.H.

sewn in gold thread. Carefully, he folded them and tucked them into his pocket before continuing onward.

Helena hiked her skirts above her ankles as she chased after Charlotte.