Page 19

Sharp, staccato footsteps echoed from the corridor, followed by rising exclamations of shock. Several men in the room turned, their curiosity piqued by the commotion. As the voices grew louder and the movement drew closer, more men began to gather, drawn by the scene unfolding in the hallway.

Lowen’s curiosity got the better of him.

He slipped through the crowd and made his way toward the noise, arriving just in time to catch sight of Lady Babbage.

Her butter-yellow hair, the same shade as her daughters’, was unmistakable, though her attention was wholly consumed by the confrontation with Helena and her mother, who had nearly been backed into a wall.

“You dare show your face in this assembly after what you did to my daughter!” Lady Babbage’s voice was sharp, laced with venom. “You should be ashamed of yourself, Miss Helena Hargreaves.”

Mrs. van Dorn hovered between the women, looking as though she were ready to convulse from the embarrassment, her eyes darting between the guests and the scene before her. “Please,” she croaked, “may we return to the drawing room?” She tried to force a smile, but it was stiff.

“I should sooner see her thrown out!” Lady Babbage spat.

The surrounding guests gasped with feigned shock. Some of the women hid sly smiles behind raised fans, while the men, finally stirred from their ennui, leaned forward, eager to witness the rare spectacle of genuine drama unfolding at the ball.

“A guttersnipe with no morals and even less upbringing,” Lady Babbage continued, the amused gasps and hissing laughter stoking her cruelty further. “It’s no wonder she slithered her way in here—women like her always do!”

Lowen’s temper was not easily roused. Years in the volatile chambers of Parliament had taught him control.

But with Helena under threat, something primitive surged to the surface.

The veneer of restraint cracked—there was a high, sharp ringing in his ears, and the edges of his vision blurred.

Rage exploded in his chest like cannon fire.

As far as he was concerned, Helena was already his family.

And when it came to those he claimed, no one laid a hand—or a word—on them.

Not while he had breath in his body.

“ Enough! ” he thundered. The force of it echoed against the walls, silencing the room. He strode forward and took his place beside Helena and her mother, who looked just as stunned as Lady Babbage.

For a moment, Lady Babbage’s mouth hung open before it curved into her usual supplicant smile. “Y-Your Grace?”

“Is this how you comport yourself in gentle company? Disrupting the ball with false accusations and threatening to throw out my fiancée?”

Lady Babbage’s mouth fell open again, her eyes wide in disbelief.

The sudden shift in Lowen’s demeanor and the utterance of the word fiancée caused her to falter.

She briefly turned to face the guests; the jeering expressions had vanished, replaced by solemn stares as if they had known this information all along.

“F-fiancée?” she stammered. “When did this happen?”

“I had planned on announcing the news shortly before my dance with Miss Helena, but since that has now been spoiled, allow me to make it known now: as you all have heard, I am pleased to announce that Miss Helena Hargreaves and I are affianced.”

Whispers of approval moved through the hall, giving way to a cascade of polite applause.

A soft, gloved hand found Lowen’s own, and he looked down to see Helena with a soft smile on her reddened face.

“We hope that you will share in our happiness,” she said, shyly addressing the retinue.

They had been packed in the corridor for a few minutes now, with some guests still finding their way to the commotion.

“Champagne! We must have a toast!” Mrs. van Dorn proclaimed before Lady Babbage and her husband, who had finally found his way to the front of the throngs, could protest.

Lord Babbage’s mouth opened limply in disbelief, his face so red it resembled a tomato.

He cleared his throat, but his words were strangled.

“Your Grace, we... I did not—” Before he could finish, Mrs. van Dorn began to politely usher him and her guests other back to the ballroom, the quiet patter of excited whispers began to fade away.

Helena tried to remove her hand, but Lowen held it tightly—tight enough to keep her close without hurting her.

Some of the guests remained nearby, offering their congratulations as they hovered around him and Helena.

When the area was finally cleared of everyone but Helena and her family, Lowen released his hold.

“The nerve of that woman,” huffed Margaret Hargreaves.

Despite what had transpired, Josiah Hargreaves looked at his wife with admiration. “Quite the nerve, darling, but I know you would’ve pummeled it right out of her.”

“I know, but we’d never be invited into a home again. Thank goodness His Grace interfered.”

“Yes, thank you, Your Grace,” said Helena. Her smile was gone, but the fierce streak of color remained across her cheeks and lightly freckled nose.

With the grateful eyes of the Hargreaves upon him, Lowen felt his own face warm with bashfulness. “I would never let anyone lay a hand on your daughter.”

“How lovely,” sighed Felicity, clasping her hands together, while Helena averted her gaze, her fingers fussing at a seam on her gloves..

“I think I hear a set starting,” Isaac interjected. “Come, Fee. I believe this may be our dance.” The two left with a bow and a curtsy in Lowen’s direction and disappeared down the hall.

“Shall we?” Josiah offered his arm to his wife, who accepted, and the two walked ahead of Lowen and Helena, a little faster than usual.

With finally enough time to speak with Helena, Lowen asked, “Aside from that mishap with Lady Babbage, has anyone else mistreated you?”

“Ah—no,” she hesitated momentarily, then moistened her lips. “Well, I have been on the receiving end of some very curious looks at my being here.”

Of course, Helena’s family had never been invited to a van Dorn party before.

The van Dorns were notoriously particular when it came to guests.

If they weren’t long-standing friends of his family, he would never agree to attend.

“Unfortunately, I cannot control that, but I will have Lady Babbage apologize to you.”

“That is unnecessary. She was merely acting in defense of Charlotte.”

“Tempers run high in that family, it seems. Even more evident after what Charlotte said to you at the Crockwell party.”

“Oh. You heard that too?”

“Just recently, in passing.” The tale somehow found its way into the halls of Westminster.

“She was distraught, and I know she did not mean it. I hope to reconcile with her. Elias as well.”

Lowen gritted his teeth at the name. “There is no need to reconcile with Mr. Stockwell.”

“Why ever not? He was my friend too.”

“He’s a man, and you’re a woman.”

“Yes, I’m aware. What of it?” She inclined her head, peeking at him through her long lashes. From his height, he could see the delicate seed pearls pinned into her curls and the shadow of cleavage just below. Lowen’s heart knocked against his chest.

“You’ll be a married woman soon. Friendship with an unmarried man—an unmarried man who professed his love to you—could be easily misconstrued.”

“There is nothing to misconstrue, Your Grace,” she clipped.

“So, you think the two of you can go on as before? That I will allow my wife to entertain a man who asked for her hand in marriage?”

“Am I not to have friends?”

“I never said that.” They were drawing near the wide entry doors to the ballroom, where eager ears would be listening. “Besides, you shouldn’t be so certain that he’d wish to reconcile. After all, you broke his heart.”

Helena replied in silence—whether intentional or not, he couldn’t tell—as they walked into the bustling ballroom, where their attention was quickly dominated by well-wishers and acquaintances.

There was time for champagne before their dance, and Helena once again looped her arm through his as she entertained the tale of Lowen's proposal. She spun the truth of their encounter in the garden into a private meeting where he confessed his feelings to her. The audience responded with astonishment at Lowen’s uncharacteristic admission of romance toward Helena.

He, too, was astonished, as the story teetered a little too close to disbelief—especially for those who had known him for years.

“Your Grace, I never thought I’d see the day when you’d confess your undying love in a garden,” someone teased. “I must say, Miss Helena, you’ve done the impossible—tamed the untamable.”

The crowd laughed around them, and Lowen mustered his best smile.

“Love does change a man,” Helena said with a grin, leaning into him for effect, her breasts pressing into his arm. Her powdery scent floated around him like ambrosia.

“Why, you’ve even managed to make him smile!” a woman chimed in. “A smile is most becoming on you, Your Grace.”

“Oh yes, and he’s gone quite red in the face as well!” A man remarked.

Relief from the crush came with the Master of Ceremonies’ announcement of the reel.

Lowen and Helena took their places on the floor.

The music hadn’t started yet, but she was tapping her foot lightly, and though he couldn’t be certain, it looked as though she was humming.

He knew she favored the reel. Lowen had watched her dance it many times, always more lively than the other women, and he was pleased that the dance had not been promised to another.

The bright twang of violins began, and after a bow to one another, the dancing commenced.

As Lowen circled the other guests, he kept Helena in his peripheral vision.

She moved with effortless grace, as if it were second nature, her skirts twirling around her as her feet deftly landed each step.

A bright smile illuminated her already lovely face, and though Lowen knew it was not meant for him, he couldn’t help the warmth growing inside him.

As they danced around each other, her intoxicating scent marked a trail, and while her smile waned slightly, she regarded him with the same curiosity she had during dinner earlier.

Perhaps Lowen should not have chosen such a fast-paced dance after all.

He was eager to finish their conversation about Mr. Stockwell and to ask her what she thought of everything.

He knew, of course, that she had no desire to wed him, but her behavior this evening was remarkably more accepting than he had anticipated.

Once the dance ended, Lowen was met with both relief and reluctance as he escorted Helena back to her family.

He was due to leave shortly to prepare for his travels the next day to Penhollow, his home in Cornwall, where he would fetch his sister.

He had written to Thomasin days prior to inform her to ready herself for London.

Though the missive would likely arrive only a day or two before he did, at least she would be expecting him.

As he left, he turned to steal one last glance at Helena.

Her back was turned to him, but he could not find fault in the view of her from this angle either.

The finality of the situation swallowed him like the sharp, white waves of a raging ocean.

Days earlier, he had more or less held a firm grasp on his expected future.

As a duke, he would marry well—a woman of London’s finest breeding, a woman with no surprises, one who would do her duty—and life would simply continue as it had since his brother’s death.

The banality of it had never been questioned, for Lowen would simply do his duty.

But though the perfect steps of his plan had been disrupted by a rock in his shoe, Lowen found himself willing to continue onward.