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If it weren’t for Lord Babbage’s rather comical attempts to catch his eye, Lowen might have offered Helena his arm for a stroll around the ballroom—he wished to speak with her before dinner.

But the older man’s increasingly bulbous eyes and flaring nostrils were too absurd to ignore. The man looked halfway to apoplexy.

This was the lordling’s last, desperate bid, having failed for three days to trap Lowen into a private moment.

Lowen had been far too occupied—petitioning the Archbishop of Canterbury for a special license, preparing his home for Helena and Thomasin. The last thing he wished to sit through was a meeting with Lord Babbage and his muckraking wife.

“Lord Babbage,” he greeted, approaching at last.

The older man immediately beckoned him toward a more secluded corner. “Your Grace, it has proven quite challenging to find a moment alone with you these past few days.”

Lowen said nothing. He knew the man was sniffing for either an excuse or an apology, and he would receive neither.

Flustered by the silence, Babbage pressed on. “It was my understanding that you were to match with my daughter, Charlotte.”

“On what basis did you come to that conclusion?”

“ Erhm —it was my understanding.”

“It was not mine.”

Babbage fidgeted with his cravat, tugging it away from his increasingly red neck. “We were hoping for an engagement, Your Grace.”

“Lady Charlotte is quite pretty. There is still hope for an engagement yet.”

Just not with him.

At this, Babbage brightened. “Excellent. You see, we were concerned—rumor had spread that you were consorting with that Hargreaves chit. I noticed you exchanging pleasantries with her just now, but it's of little concern now that you’ve assured me of your interest in Charlotte. My daughter is far superior to that little trollop—pardon my language, Your Grace. It was disappointing that Charlotte even entertained such a friendship—people had begun to talk, and Charlotte’s name didn’t shine quite so bright for it.

Frankly, the friendship did her no favors.

My wife warned her, but girls can be so sentimental about lost causes. ”

Lowen remained silent, curious what else the man might foolishly confess.

Silence had always been a useful tactic; it unraveled Lord Babbage’s nerves.

And his only solution, invariably, was to chatter himself into ruin.

Every voluble thought spilled forth until Lowen had all the information he needed.

“A father like me is right to worry. I only want the best for my daughter. As you know, Your Grace, there have been whispers of an attachment between you and Miss Hargreaves. Some even suspected a sordid affair. But of course, I dismissed such tales! You would never associate with someone of her… reputation.”

Lowen resisted the urge to laugh. If Babbage had any sense, he’d keep Helena’s name off his tongue entirely.

“Preposterous, truly,” Babbage prattled on. “And that’s why I felt it prudent to remind you of my dear Charlotte. A lady of impeccable standing—a far more suitable match than… well, you understand.”

“I see,” Lowen replied blandly.

Now that Helena was his to protect, Babbage’s insults pinched a different nerve.

Lowen didn’t care for the man’s opinions, nor did he pretend Helena was some blameless angel—but she was his .

Babbage had no right to speak of her with such contempt, no matter how true or false the rumors.

Still, Lowen decided he’d rather watch the fool hang himself with his own smugness. Let the man believe he’d won.

The reckoning would be sweeter when it arrived.

He offered a curt farewell and turned away, leaving Lord Babbage steeping in his own triumph—ignorant of how quickly it would sour.

Surrounded by the usual flock of eager matrons parading their eligible daughters and a few clingy parliamentary devotees, Lowen scanned the room discreetly, eyes skimming the crowd in search of Helena. He was curious to see how she fared this evening—how she held herself under scrutiny.

She’d been ushered toward him earlier, or rather, dragged by Mrs. van Dorn the moment he arrived. He’d caught the pinched look on Helena’s face even then.

He’d instructed Mrs. van Dorn to treat Helena as a guest of honor and to keep the impending announcement quiet—for now.

He knew she would obey. More importantly, he knew she would relish the secrecy.

There was no doubt van Dorn would soon be parading the tale through every parlor in London, each retelling sharpened with new flourishes, tailored to her audience.

If the embellishments helped sell the idea of a love match, all the better.

After failing to spot Helena in the crowd, Lowen proceeded as usual—circulating, exchanging pleasantries, enduring the idle boasts and matrimonial schemes of half the room—until the dinner bell rang.

As the highest rank in the room, he was seated to the hostess’s right, with a clear line of sight to Helena.

She sat several places down, flanked by two young peers who, much to Lowen’s irritation, seemed to forget their manners the moment she leaned over to speak to her sister across the table.

Their attention dropped—predictably, eagerly—toward her décolletage.

There was nothing improper about her attire; the gown was white and modest, standard for an unmarried woman.

But Helena’s body didn’t yield to modesty.

Her bodice clung lovingly to the ample bosom it was meant to conceal, and the luscious, half-moon swells of her breasts rose just above the neckline with every breath she took.

Lowen looked away.

The heat in his spine had already begun its slow crawl downward. He shifted, jaw clenched. His breeches had grown uncomfortably snug. Disgusted with himself, he lowered his spoon and pushed aside his untouched chestnut soup.

“Is something amiss, Your Grace?” a woman asked from his right.

“No, my lady,” he replied, gruffly. He made a show of sipping his wine, more to avoid conversation than to appear sociable.

After a reasonable interval, he allowed himself another glance toward Helena—only to find her already looking at him.

A flash of surprise crossed her blue eyes, and Lowen anticipated she would turn away from him but she didn’t.

For as wide and bright as her eyes appeared, Lowen couldn't discern her thoughts.

He could only assume he was being observed, as her face remained serenely blank, with her lips slightly parted as if caught in a gasp.

His attention slipped to the soft flush of pink rising up her throat.

The slope of her neck was long, elegant, threadbare.

He imagined it adorned—not gaudily, but with something simple.

A strand of pearls. Something to match the impression she gave him: not a debutante, not a flirt—but something elemental.

Timeless.

A goddess born of sea-foam.

Only pearls would do.

But perhaps she had her own preferences. He’d have to find out. He still knew next to nothing about her, beyond what others said—and what they said was rarely kind.

That last thought struck hard, and he pulled his eyes away. The spell broke, as quickly as it had come. He took another sip of wine, this time to cool the heat blooming behind his collar.

His reaction to her was perplexing. She was just a woman—beautiful, yes, and scandalous, but he’d seen plenty of beautiful women before.

Lowen tried to reason with himself. It was nothing more than a primal urge, long dormant. That was all. It had been ages since he’d taken a lover—and longer still since he’d thought of a woman in quite this way.

He resolved not to look at her again for the remainder of the meal.

It was a Herculean task.

And yet, his eyes betrayed him—drawn back to her face just once more before dessert.

Once dinner concluded, the guests dispersed into their respective drawing rooms for post-dinner digestifs. The men and women separated, each group settling into their usual rituals before the evening’s dancing resumed.

Whether he liked it or not, Lowen was swarmed the moment he entered the men’s drawing room.

As a member of the House of Lords, he ought to have been listening intently to his fellow peers.

Unrest in England was on every man’s tongue—even a naval victory off the coast of Portugal had failed to soothe the public’s fears, and a recent mutiny within the Royal Navy had only deepened the unease.

There had been a time when these matters consumed his every waking thought. But now, all he could think of was Helena.

Lowen forced himself to engage as political chatter swirled around him, blending with the soft clinking of glass and the haze of pipe smoke. Though the room was large, only a corner was occupied, and yet the men pressed in, leaning over chairs and tables as if space were scarce.

At the periphery stood Josiah and Isaac, his soon-to-be brother and father-in-law, deep in their own conversation by the sideboard.

Even they, it seemed, weren’t safe from the scandal of a few nights past. They looked composed—untouched—but Lowen felt the pressure tightening around him like a noose.

If he were relegated to the sidelines of political life, what would become of his work in Parliament? What would they say about him? How would it affect Thomasin—would she be embarrassed?

No. He must stop. His mind was running wild.

His title would not be stripped from him for marrying a woman with a questionable past. He would not renege on the engagement.

And besides—he told himself—had it been any other woman in Helena’s place, he might still have done the honorable thing.

Might have.

But it wasn’t any other woman.

It was Helena.

And that made all the difference.