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The morning did not fare better.

The Hargreaves had risen at the crack of dawn to avoid the other guests, who typically rested well into the afternoon, recovering from the previous night’s merrymaking.

As they waited in the foyer for their borrowed carriage to be brought around the circular drive, a smirking Lady Babbage—Charlotte’s mother—sauntered over.

Lady Babbage was unapologetically and persistently nosy, often priding herself on knowing the freshest details in any salacious rumor.

She stopped just before Helena. “Leaving so early? Why, it’s not even seven!”

Since they were nearly the same height, Helena could see the sallowness beneath the woman’s eyes and wondered if she had even made it to bed.

Her father, always in good cheer—even if feigned—gently stepped in to shield her from Lady Babbage’s rapacious curiosity. “This was a most splendid assemblage, but we have another urgent engagement awaiting us in London.”

“’Tis a pity,” clucked Lady Babbage. “The Duke of Carrivick left earlier, stating he also had pressing business in London.”

The implication was none too subtle.

Helena’s mother chimed in with her usual crispness. “Yes, ’tis the season.”

Lady Babbage remained undeterred. “Though the city feels so small at times, with everyone practically knowing everything about one another. Talk spreads fast—talk of scandals, engagements, assignations. Why, it’s so terribly hard to keep a secret.

” She passed Helena a knowing look, her lips peeled back in a sly grin, teeth bared.

“We all deserve our privacy, my lady,” her father said evenly. “And we do not partake in spreading such hearsay, for we do not have small minds with nothing better to do.”

It was only then that the woman’s self-satisfied facade faltered.

“Of course, Mr. Hargreaves.” She retreated slowly as a footman arrived to inform them that their carriage was ready.

“No time for scurrilous chatter—not when you have a dire engagement awaiting you. Au revoir. ” With that final jibe, she turned her back and disappeared down the corridor.

In the safety of the carriage, sitting directly across from Helena and Felicity, their mother seethed. “Goodness, Lady Babbage enjoyed that all too much.”

“I’m sure as soon as she’s back in London, she’ll tell anyone who’ll listen what happened here—lords, ladies, servants,” Helena said glumly. “Street urchins, even.”

“People like her always get their comeuppance,” Margaret assured her, with a note more cheerful than she’d had last night. “All in due time, darling.”

Helena considered her with suspicion. “What did Father say when you spoke to him?”

Josiah and Isaac rode their horses alongside the carriage, deep in their own conversation.

“Nothing that I didn’t say last night,” her mother answered with a wave of her hand.

“So, you’ve decided to send me away?”

“Ah—possibly.”

“When do you expect to send her off?” asked Felicity, clearly aware of the strange shift in their mother’s tone. She exchanged glances with Helena.

“You know your father doesn’t wish to send you away. So, at this time, we’re uncertain.”

Helena felt the relief expel from her very bones.

Once they were home, she felt confident she could somehow sway her father in her favor and secure permission to stay.

If what Isaac had said was true—that her parents intended to choose her suitor—Helena would now gladly agree to a match.

At least it might mitigate some of the scandal—and certainly help her avoid being banished for an unforeseeable amount of time.

She was certain the duke would never offer for her; his disdain was plain.

And there were still plenty of decent bachelors who might accept her, even after all this.

It pained her to relinquish the dream of a true love match, but some small hope remained: a future full of children, and, at the very least, mutual respect.

Whoever her parents chose, he would be scores better than the Duke of Carrivick.

Lowen had scarcely slept a wink, oscillating between outright denial and a grim sense of duty.

He paced his study, staring at a blank sheet of paper—arguing with himself over whether to pen his agreement to Mr. Hargreaves, or his refusal.

The wedding license had been procured easily enough, and the ring had required hardly a thought—he’d asked for the most splendid diamond the jeweler had. Both now lay beside the more difficult task.

Can he marry Helena?

Though it wasn’t a question of can. It was a question of want.

Even that proved difficult. Her damned father had been insistent—though Lowen couldn’t entirely blame him. He’d likely do the same, if he had a daughter.

Truthfully, he’d rather just keep Helena as a mistress. A more fitting arrangement for someone like her.

It was an indecent thought to have about a woman who would soon be his wife. But really, how different could a mistress and a wife be? The only change was that he’d be expected to be seen with her.

Helena—one of the most beautiful women he’d ever laid eyes on.

Lowen would be both the envy and the laughingstock among the men.

With a heavy sigh, he finally sat at his desk. First, he would pen a missive to Josiah Hargreaves, then one to his sister, Thomasin, in Cornwall, to inform her of his impending nuptials. She would want to attend the wedding—she’d said as much the last time he’d spoken of marriage.

Thomasin was still a child, but just old enough to no longer be under his care.

It was partly one of the reasons that now, at eight-and-twenty, he was finally ready to find an appropriate bride.

She had only been a baby when she was left orphaned.

After Benjamin passed, their father followed two months later, and then, several months after that, their mother too.

It was odd, as misfortune goes—but Lowen had come to believe that once something terrible strikes a person, it happens consecutively.

As if some lesson must be dealt.

He still didn’t know what lesson he was meant to learn at fifteen—at least, not one so harsh.

It wasn’t as if Lowen’s childhood had been a happy one. Nor could it be called truly miserable—at least, not in the way some children suffered. His mother and father had rarely troubled themselves with him, and Benjamin, try as he might, could seldom spare the time either.

Still, at least Benjamin tried .

Now, rubbing a hand over his weary eyes, he completed the task—sealing the letter to Josiah Hargreaves with the Carrivick crest.

The old man would be overjoyed.

Meanwhile, Lowen would summon the appropriate enthusiasm for his visit to the Hargreaves household in two days’ time.

He was behaving dramatically, of course, pretending as if his skin didn’t ignite at the thought of Helena.

Her honey-streaked hair, her lush breasts, and those plush lips—that was what he had wanted when he first laid eyes on her.

He didn’t deserve her, yet a man of his rank ought to possess the unattainable.

But that was the trouble—Helena was already wanted by everyone.

Men whispered about her in clubs, watched her walk past with glazed stares and indecent remarks.

Lowen prided himself on being above such juvenile lust, but he’d wanted her too—from the very first moment.

He just hadn’t expected to be forced into making good on it.

However, the scandal had done what he never would’ve dared on his own: made her his.

And damn him, the inevitability of it thrilled him more than he cared to admit.