Page 14

Three days after the incident , Lowen stopped his horse outside the Hargreaves’ townhome in Bloomsbury.

Rows of terraced houses stood uniform and perfect, like soldiers on parade.

The neighborhood was developing quickly, drawing in families of modest gentry—like Helena’s—and prosperous merchants alike.

Respectable, and conveniently close to both Covent Garden and Lowen’s own residence in St. James’s Square.

A footman appeared at once to take Perseus to the stables.

Another servant relieved Lowen of his hat and frock coat, then guided him to the drawing room to await Josiah Hargreaves and the solicitors.

Their meeting was set for two o’clock, but Lowen had arrived ten minutes early.

In business, he believed, to be on time was to be late—a principle well known to those who worked with him.

Still, as the guest, he had no choice but to wait.

He settled on a blue brocade settee, its swirling gold and silver pattern echoed in the powdery wallpaper.

The entire room followed the same palette: silver drapes over arched windows, a gold-trimmed mantel framing white stone.

The rest was minimal—porcelain figurines on side tables, bright hothouse flowers in delicate vases. Simple. Sophisticated.

As he glanced around, his eyes caught on something beside him: a forgotten embroidery hoop.

He picked it up, intrigued. A bird had been stitched onto a square of cloth no larger than a handkerchief, rendered with startling precision.

The plumage burst with color and depth, lifelike in a way that demanded closer study.

He touched the threads lightly, marveling at the minuscule stitches that gave form to the feathers around its eye and beak.

“What are you doing here?” The snide question snapped Lowen to attention.

Helena stood in the doorway, arms crossed over a modest white gown. His heart leapt—traitorously—at the sight of her.

Damn her.

He was here doing her a favor.

“Still no manners, I see.” He stayed seated. If she would not offer him a proper greeting, he saw no reason to rise and return one.

“Why are you here, Your Grace ?” she asked, only slightly more cordial.

“I’m here on a personal matter,” Lowen replied, carefully. If she didn’t know, then Josiah hadn’t told her.

“What personal matter?” Her gaze flicked to the needlework in his hands.

“Is this yours?” he asked, lifting the embroidery hoop slightly—like one might offer food to a wary animal.

“Yes.” She hesitated before stepping forward to take it from him. “I came to retrieve it.”

In the brightness of the room, Lowen noticed the strands of burnished gold in her brown hair and the flush of pink at her cheeks. She looked fresh and full of promise—like the first day of spring.

“Pretty,” he murmured. The word slipped out before he could stop it, but thankfully she seemed to assume he meant the needlepoint.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Helena said stiffly as she stepped back, putting the small table between them. “It’s a gift for my father.”

“Who I am here to see today.”

With that answer, Lowen saw the realization dawn on Helena. Her brows lifted; she blinked once, slowly, then stared at him as though he were about to confess it was all some ridiculous jest.

“This personal matter,” she said at last. “It’s about me?”

“Yes.”

Her mouth parted. “Are you going to offer for me?”

“No,” Lowen clipped, growing impatient. “There is no offer. It’s already been arranged—we’re to be married. Did he truly not tell you? ”

“No. He didn’t.” Her voice trembled with fury. A flush climbed her neck, and her fingers clenched around the edge of her embroidery. “He hasn’t said much of anything to me. This was all decided without me?”

“So it would seem.”

She stared at him, incredulous. “Did no one think to ask me if—if I was even willing to accept your suit?”

Lowen almost laughed. “After everything that’s happened, you still believe you have a say?”

Her gasp was sharp.

“Whether or not you were agreeable was hardly the concern,” he went on coolly. “And frankly, we both know you wouldn’t be.”

“I would’ve at least liked the choice!” she cried.

“The choice to decline me? Scandal or not, it’s your second season, and most of the girls you debuted with have popped out a few babes by now. So what exactly do you want?”

“A love match,” she pouted, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “As does every woman.”

“Only the poor have the luxury of marrying for love. Most women of the ton are seeking something with a bit more longevity than love can offer.”

“That’s not true. My parents are a love match. So are my sister and Sir Axford.”

Lowen shrugged. “There’s always an exception. Nonetheless, I don’t think your reputation can survive another scandal.”

At least with the protection of his name and title, she could weather the coming storm of gossip. Without it, she’d have no hope of thriving in society. But truly, whether or not she was agreeable made no difference. The decision had already been made.

“I won’t be forced into a marriage to save my reputation when I’ve done nothing wrong,” Helena said hotly. “You needn’t save me.”

“I’m doing you and your family a favor,” Lowen snapped. It was far more than she deserved—but he bit back the cruel thought.

“Otherwise, prepare to live as an outcast, with even less chance of finding a love match. The only offers you’ll receive will be to become a man’s mistress.”

The image of her in such a position made his skin prickle with heat, though he knew she’d never stoop to being someone’s kept woman, no matter the desperation. Still, he needed to shake her. Needed her to feel the urgency.

Helena swallowed hard. “And what favor is owed to you?”

“A wife.”

Her face twisted into something inscrutable—he couldn’t tell if she was about to cry or leap across the table and drive her embroidery hoop through his skull.

Neither would have surprised him. She was temperamental, he’d learned that quickly enough.

Another deficit in her character—but one he assumed could be improved.

Her chest rose with a shaky breath. “I don’t want to marry you,” she said.

“But you will.”

“Why?” she demanded, her voice cracking. “Why are you doing this? You said yourself—no one would presume you held any affection for me. You were supposed to marry Lady Charlotte!”

As much as he wanted to believe his decision was driven solely by honor, there was something darker lurking beneath the surface of his propriety.

The idea of taming Helena had become an obsession—one he couldn’t seem to shake.

Since the prospect of marrying her had first come into play, though framed as a means of saving her reputation, he couldn’t get the thought out of his mind.

He needn’t admit that saving her reputation was the only way a man of his position could justify marrying someone like her.

She was utterly wrong for him—an impractical match, a scandal waiting to happen.

And yet, the thought of her, the prospect of having her, excited him in ways that a marriage to Lady Charlotte never could.

“I’m merely doing my duty to you. I have dishonored you and without my making it right you will take the brunt of the scorn and be made a pariah,” At least it wasn’t all a lie. Lowen could find comfort in that.

A look of consideration passed over Helena's face but whatever she was about to say was cut abruptly by the swift steps of her father entering the room.

Lowen stood to greet the older gentleman.

“Your Grace,” Josiah Hargreaves’ forehead was lined with concern. “I do sincerely apologize for the delay. I was—Helena, you were supposed to be paying calls with your mother and sister.”

“I wasn’t feeling well,” she answered, turning to her father with a cool glare.

“Oh, well.” Josiah cast a quick glance at the doorway. “Would you be a dear and give His Grace and me some privacy?”

Helena did not budge.

“You’re trying to excuse me now?” she asked, in disbelief. “You arranged a marriage behind my back, and still you would say nothing to me beforehand?”

Lowen resisted the urge to speak. It was not his place to correct her—yet. That duty fell to her father. Still, the impudence grated.

“Helena, I’m sorry,” Josiah said, his tone frayed with fatigue. “We did what needed to be done. You must see that.”

“No—I don’t see that! You all acted as if I were some parcel to be passed off without so much as my knowing,” she replied. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out? Were you going to wait until the wedding day? Were you planning to trick me into it, or shove me to the altar with a knife to my throat?”

Lowen frowned. She was behaving as though she’d been sold to a butcher, rather than offered a dukedom.

“Of course not,” Josiah barked. “We were going to tell you—we just didn’t know how.”

“Try the truth!” she snapped. “It’s a place to start.”

Josiah ran a hand down his face. “This is ridiculous.”

“Honesty isn’t ridiculous,” Helena said with a sniff. She looked to be on the verge of tears, and she turned her head away from Lowen’s view.

Josiah stepped toward her, his voice now grim and low. “Do not make this harder than it needs to be. This situation touches more than just you. Felicity’s future depends on this—do you understand that?”

For a moment, she stood still, then nodded meekly.

“Her engagement isn’t solid,” he pressed. “Axford’s family is watching closely. If this scandal casts a long shadow, you will be the reason it all falls apart.”

“You’ve already endangered your reputation,” Josiah continued. “We are trying to protect what is left—for all our sakes. His Grace is doing the honorable thing by offering you his name.”

It was more than honorable. No other man would make such a concession for a woman who’s been caught alone, unsupervised, and with a temper as ill as hers.

She ought to be grateful.

Helena stiffened. “I didn’t ask him to.”