Page 2

Disoriented, Helena remained silent as she stumbled backward, her back colliding with the heavy door. With a trembling hand, she fumbled desperately for the knob, her fingers finally finding the strength to twist it open.

She shuffled quickly down the corridor, her steps stiff and automatic, driven by some instinct to flee.

She clutched her arms tightly to her chest, as if armoring herself, still feeling Mr. Montgomery’s touch on her skin.

Each hurried step echoed in the quiet hall, her breath shallow and quick.

Behind her, Mr. Montgomery moved slowly, almost too slowly, as though playing a game with her, or like a predator trailing its prey.

As Helena neared the men’s withdrawing room, she almost collided with a lone figure standing in the hall.

She glanced up, her body coming to a graceless halt as she mumbled, “Pardon me,” not recognizing the man but feeling an instinctive chill at his presence.

Her gaze flickered over him for a split second—his prominent nose, steely grey eyes that pierced through the dimness of the hallway, and the tight, unamused set of his mouth.

The stranger raised a dark brow but said nothing, so she continued on. As she passed, however, Mr. Montgomery stopped. She heard his voice, low and smooth, but then a deeper, unfamiliar baritone rumble, echoing in the hallway.

Once on the outskirts of the ballroom, Helena inhaled deeply, smoothing her gown and straightening her back.

She needed to calm herself, to appear unshaken, though every fiber of her being screamed otherwise.

She forced a smile, tight and stiff, then took slow, deliberate steps back into the crowded ballroom.

Helena could hear her heart pounding in her ears, but her face remained composed, as if nothing could disturb her perfect poise. She spotted her mother not far off, laughing with a group of ladies.

“Mother,” she said, approaching her with veiled urgency. “I—I’m not feeling well. I think I should retire for the evening.”

“Oh, dear. Whatever is the matter?” Margaret asked, her brows coming together in concern.

“It’s just the heat,” Helena said hastily, blinking back any threat of tears. “I’ll be fine with a bit of rest, I’m sure.”

Her mother looked as though she might argue, but Helena's strained expression seemed to put an end to that.

With a soft sigh, Margaret acquiesced. “Very well, my dear.”

Helena gave a small, polite nod, then quickly turned away, eager to leave before Montgomery found her.

Later that evening, using her sickness as an excuse, she ordered a bath to be drawn, instructing the servants to heat the water as high as they dared. She plunged herself beneath the surface, as if to scald the memory of Mr. Montgomery's grasping hands on her skin.

Helena then sobbed quietly in the room she shared with Felicity, careful not to wake her.

Of course, Helena could always confide in her sister, but tonight she felt particularly ashamed of herself.

Not that Felicity would ever judge—she never did—but something like this would never have happened to her.

For the next few days, Helena hid away in her room, coughing occasionally whenever her mother or father came too close.

A physician was called, thankfully an elderly man who didn’t examine her too thoroughly.

He concluded that Helena had overworked herself from the excitement of the season and instructed her to remain in bed until her complexion improved.

It was to her utter dread that Mr. Montgomery had called upon her during this time.

Of course, she would not be seeing to him, so instead he tolerated a brief visit from Helena’s father Josiah, and Margaret.

It was with them that he had asked permission to court Helena.

Once he had left, Margaret had bounded up the stairs in glee to deliver the news, but to her mother’s dismay, Helena declined.

Questions came from her parents and sister, while her brother Isaac was openly delighted—he’d never liked Montgomery, but she’d paid it no mind at the time.

Isaac disapproved of every man who so much as looked at her.

Of course he hated Montgomery. He always believed no one would ever be good enough.

She ought to have listened.

But Helena only lied, telling them she simply could not tolerate Mr. Montgomery’s cologne.

Odd as excuses went, it stunned them into silence.

While Helena did not outright refuse Mr. Montgomery, she was too terrified to even be in the same room as him.

He caught on quickly to her snub and ceased his attempts to call, write letters, and send flowers.

She was almost relieved—until the first harsh whispers of her ruined reputation drifted from ballroom to ballroom.

“The so-called ‘diamond’ is nothing but a bauble made of paste! A true diamond would never give away her maidenhead in a gallery, behind Lord Wakefield’s grandsire’s bust, no less!”

The venom in those words could only have come from her affronted suitor. But Helena knew she could not very well call him out—if she did, she would only fan the flames, though convincing Isaac of that was another matter entirely.

So, she chose to ignore it—a tactic her family, too, elected to adopt.

Of course, her mother and father questioned her extensively about the rumors, but ultimately—like the loving parents they were—they stood by her amid those who sought to shake their faith in her.

As for the ton , some scoffed in disbelief, while others relished the cruel gossip.

Despite it all, Helena still received her fair share of invitations; her status as a diamond of the first water was not so easily diminished.

Yet Mr. Montgomery’s words had reached certain impressionable men, casting a shadow over her reputation that would prove difficult to dispel.

It was a burden Helena would soon find herself unable to escape—one that would bring challenges she had yet to anticipate.