Page 17

Unfortunately for Helena, the time passed swiftly, and now she was ensconced in one of the duke’s carriages, her entire family in tow.

It was, she supposed, a generous gesture—considering they usually relied on hackneys, as a private carriage was a luxury they could not afford.

The velvet upholstery beneath her was sumptuous, far finer than anything she had ever known, and she could not help but feel a flicker of temptation at the prospect of Carrivick’s wealth.

Though her family was genteel, their means were modest by comparison to the rest of the ton. She had been fortunate to enjoy their support throughout her seasons, and might have accepted the first respectable offer had she not been so thoroughly spoiled by her own romantic ideals.

Now, with every jostle of the carriage, her nerves were further unraveling, her body a tangle of dread and resignation as they sped toward the van Dorn’s—toward the party, the announcement, and her future as the Duchess of Carrivick.

Once safely deposited at the front steps of the van Dorn home, a grand old townhouse near Hyde Park, Helena battled the urge to flee like a cornered mouse in a pantry.

Her parents led the way, Isaac close behind, and Helena linked arms with Felicity—perhaps a bit too tightly, judging by the sidelong glance her sister cast her.

“Smile,” Felicity murmured.

“I’m trying.”

“Do you remember when a bee stung Isaac’s upper lip?” her sister asked suddenly.

Despite herself, Helena managed a soft smile. Years ago, at their home in Lancashire, Isaac had fallen asleep reading under a tree and been rudely awakened by a bee.

“Yes. He was nearly in tears, convinced he’d look like that forever.”

“Our Narcissus,” Felicity said with mock fondness. “If you need help smiling tonight, picture him trying to drink tea with his massively swollen lip.”

“I shall try,” Helena sighed. “But the duke despises me, and I?—”

“He doesn’t despise you,” Felicity cut in. “If he did, he would’ve left you to your fate.”

Helena opened her mouth to argue, but Felicity nudged her just in time. “Hush. We’re about to be announced.”

As expected, curious eyes turned toward Helena when she and her family entered the ballroom.

Even without the cloud of scandal hanging over her, their appearance at the van Dorn residence was rare.

The van Dorns were infamously selective with their invitations, favoring only the crème de la crème of the ton—meaning those from whom they could benefit most.

Helena scanned the crowd for a familiar face, a friend, anyone who might offer some sense of solidarity so that she wouldn’t selfishly monopolize Felicity’s time. But she was met only with scrutinizing stares and pursed lips.

“Welcome,” trilled Mrs. Frederica van Dorn, emerging from somewhere near the refreshment table.

“I am most honored to have the Hargreaves family here tonight.” She gave Josiah and Margaret each a knowing smile and nod before turning her attention to Felicity and Helena.

No doubt she knew exactly what was intended to happen tonight.

“The honor is ours, Mrs. van Dorn,” Helena said quickly, stepping forward before the hostess could ask which sister was which. “My sister Felicity and I are most happy to be in attendance.”

“That’s right, you’ve never been here before,” Mrs. van Dorn clucked.

“I shall have to give you a tour sometime, but for now I simply must introduce you to some of my dear friends.” Her focus was entirely on Helena as she snaked her arm through hers and spirited her away from the rest of the family.

“I have a feeling I’ll be seeing much more of you. ”

Helena stole a glance over her shoulder. Instead of appearing concerned by Mrs. van Dorn’s overt maneuvering, her family looked on with quiet encouragement.

For what felt like an eternity, Helena was paraded around the ballroom, displayed like a prized horse.

The van Dorn guests, stunned by their hostess’s sudden attention to her, exchanged speculative glances with each polite greeting.

Mrs. van Dorn, however, seemed positively invigorated by the power of possessing exclusive knowledge.

Some of the men, emboldened by whispered rumors, let their eyes linger far too long, watching her with open hunger.

One leaned in too close under the guise of a bow, his voice rich with derisive civility. “Didn’t expect to see you here,” he murmured, gaze dropping shamelessly to her breasts. “Miss Helena, you do make for arousing company.”

An older, richly dressed man offered her his arm—though she hadn’t asked—looping it under hers and running his thumb across the inside of her wrist. “You’re looking as lovely as ever,” he drawled, smile oily. “Will you be tonight’s entertainment, Miss Helena?”

Helena flinched but quickly masked it, withdrawing her hand under the pretense of adjusting her glove.

Mrs. van Dorn remained oblivious—or perhaps simply indifferent—to the tone of these exchanges, continuing her lively introductions with no sign of concern.

Though difficult, Helena kept her expression pleasant, even as a flush of shame crept into her chest. She felt on display in every sense—each comment, each leer disguised as charm, stripping her of dignity thread by thread.

As the hostess prattled on, Helena’s attention drifted toward the entrance. The hour was growing late—the dinner bell would ring soon—yet the duke had not appeared.

She hated that she wished he was here. She hated that she needed his protection.

“Fear not, my dear,” Mrs. van Dorn interjected quietly from beside her. “He always arrives promptly at half past eleven.”

Helena nodded. Only fifteen more minutes, then.

Her stomach lurched, as if it had shot up to her throat, and she swallowed hard against the nausea. “If you’ll excuse me, I wish to make use of the retiring room.”

“Why, of course. Allow me to escort you.”

Dutifully following the hostess, Helena sauntered past a sea of nonplussed partygoers as she was led out of the ballroom to a private retiring room just down the hall.

It resembled many she had seen before: furnished with sumptuous chairs and sofas.

On one wall, ornate tapestries hung between lit sconces, while the chandelier above cast a gauzy glow, providing the room with a warm, calm light.

The other wall proved more utilitarian, hosting a floor-to-ceiling mirror with a washstand nearby.

Blessedly empty, Mrs. van Dorn excused Helena to her privacy. Having no real use for the necessities provided, Helena merely examined herself in the mirror, ensuring she didn’t look as sickly as she felt. Aside from peaky cheeks and a dry mouth, she appeared entirely normal.

Entirely miserable.

Her mind drifted to the men—their eyes, their hands, their words, slick with derision and desire.

They had peeled away her clothing, piece by imagined piece, until all that remained was skin to be appraised.

It didn’t matter what she wore, how she smiled, or whether she’d done anything at all—she would always be the woman they whispered about.

The one they pawed at without consequence.

And perhaps what stung most of all was knowing that no one would come to her defense. Not even the hostess. Especially not the hostess.

Helena was alone.

With enough time wasted, she turned toward the door. But before her hand touched the knob, a shrill, keening laugh penetrated the walls. Curious, Helena paused and pressed her ear to the door.

“The embarrassment! Why ever is she here?” a familiar voice asked. It resembled Lady Babbage’s, Charlotte’s mother, though Helena couldn’t say for certain.

“… couldn’t withdraw the invite.” It was Mrs. van Dorn who answered, cool and composed. “She’s a disaster though…”

“The little whore… to steal him from under Charlotte’s nose…”

“A tart, spilling out of her gown… We try to tolerate her…”

“How can I? She’ll scandalize the entire assembly.”

Mrs. van Dorn merely laughed.

Carefully stepping away from the door, Helena turned back to the washstand as tears threatened to escape.

It was as she expected—yet she was not so hard-hearted that it didn’t hurt.

Using a clean cloth, she dabbed at the underside of her eyes, gathering the moisture quickly before any wanderers could intrude.

She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream. But this was neither the time nor the place.

Her hand found her chest as she tried to steady her breathing. The air in her lungs felt thick—impossible. Still, she forced it in. Forced it out.

And when she was sure her face betrayed none of the truth, Helena prepared to face the ball once more.

“There you are, darling. Feeling refreshed?” Mrs. van Dorn asked brightly as Helena exited the room.

Lady Babbage—or whoever the other woman had been—was gone.

Just as well. Helena wasn’t certain she could keep the hateful thoughts from twisting her face.

She was barely containing the urge to snatch Mrs. van Dorn’s very obvious wig.

“Yes, thank you,” Helena replied, tight-lipped.

They reentered the ballroom just as a booming voice announced, “HIS GRACE, THE DUKE OF CARRIVICK!”

The musicians faltered slightly. Conversations dulled. A ripple of attention spread through the room. Helena felt it—dozens of eyes turning to her.

She was prepared to cower but Mrs. van Dorn seized Helena’s arm with renewed purpose and led her straight toward him.

Like a scene from scripture, the crowd parted before them.

Helena’s steps felt leaden, her mind a whirl of nerves and dread.

She scanned the crowd for her family—hoping, just for a moment, to find a familiar, loving face—but Mrs. van Dorn moved too quickly.

In an instant, Helena stood before the Duke.

Carrivick wore a dark blue tailcoat with a matching waistcoat and breeches. No pins or baubles, as usual. But the embroidery on his cuffs and hems—white swirls curling like sea foam—suggested he’d made some effort.

“Your Grace,” Mrs. van Dorn cooed, dripping deference. “You honor us with your presence tonight.”

Carrivick barely acknowledged her. His sharp grey gaze was fixed on Helena.

“A pleasure, Mrs. van Dorn,” he answered dismissively. “Is your dance card full, Miss Helena?”

For once in her life, it wasn’t. Helena was certain it was the effect of the newfound scandal surrounding her.

“No, Your Grace,” she said, her cheeks burning as she handed him the card, its blank spaces glaringly obvious.

“Which is your favorite?”

“The minuet.”

His brow creased. “That’s not one of the dances scheduled after dinner.”

“You asked for my favorite,” she replied, lifting her chin. “Had you arrived when the ball began, perhaps we could’ve danced it.”

It wasn’t her favorite, not really. She just wanted to chastise him.

“I can arrange another minuet!” Mrs. van Dorn offered, voice lilting with panic. “I’ll inform the Master of Ceremonies at once?—”

“Unnecessary, Mrs. van Dorn,” Carrivick said, holding up a hand. His eyes didn’t leave Helena. “Miss Hargreaves is merely teasing.”

“Oh,” the hostess chuckled awkwardly as though she were caught in a game she was not a part of.

Carrivick considered her card for a moment, then signed his name with swift, certain strokes. He had claimed the reel.

Her favorite.

Had he known? Or had it simply been luck?

“I do so look forward to our dance, Miss Helena,” he said, with a smile that was almost gentle.

Though his courteous demeanor was likely for show, Helena’s heart could not be helped—it drummed a little faster.

Under the dazzling lights of the ballroom, Carrivick’s features seemed less austere, his presence less intimidating.

His skin, lightly lined yet smooth, was kissed by a touch of sun.

His eyes, not flat and dark like stone as she'd first thought, but silver—like polished teaspoons—gleamed against his ebony hair.

To Helena, he suddenly looked like a different man.

Nearly forgetting herself, she curtsied. “As do I, Your Grace.”

“If you’ll excuse me, I must make my rounds,” he said politely, then vanished into the throng of guests.

“Marvelous!” Mrs. van Dorn exclaimed, seizing Helena’s hands as though it were her triumph alone.

“Certainly,” Helena replied, pulling away with a false smile.

She was spared further performance; her family had found her at last. With their presence came relief, and she gravitated instinctively toward Felicity.

“Quite a wonderful assembly, Mrs. van Dorn,” Josiah said diplomatically, while Margaret nodded in agreement.

“Why, thank you,” the hostess replied. “It will be the most memorable yet.”

As their parents exchanged pleasantries with Mrs. van Dorn, Felicity leaned in and, keeping her voice low, asked, “What did he say?”

“We are dancing the reel,” Helena whispered.

Felicity blinked. “An excitable choice—for a man who avoids dancing.”

“I can’t recall ever seeing him take to the floor,” Helena murmured. If memory served, Carrivick had abstained at every assembly they had both attended.

“Well, I’m quite looking forward to this,” Felicity grinned. “From what we know of His Grace, I highly doubt he would allow himself to be anything less than proficient on the dance floor.”

“We shall see.”

The nausea that had shadowed Helena all evening subsided, just a little. She had danced with men across the spectrum—from wonderfully capable to utterly hopeless—but Carrivick did not strike her as someone who allowed himself to falter in any endeavor.

At least for a moment, dancing her favorite dance, she might forget why she was really here.