Page 21

In the days following the engagement announcement, Helena found herself busier than ever.

Several doors that had once remained closed to her were now wide open, and invitations arrived in endless piles.

The hypocrisy was staggering—the same people who had once turned her away now fawned over the prospect of welcoming a future duchess into their circles.

Still, her mother insisted they accept every invitation, reminding Helena that she would need as many allies as possible, whether she liked them or not.

As tiresome as her days were, they left her little room to think. From the moment she awoke, Margaret whisked her away for various social calls, with intervals in between reserved for shopping or wedding preparations. By the time Helena’s head hit the pillow, she was already unconscious.

Thoughts of Carrivick no longer troubled her as they once had.

The dread that once gripped her was now replaced with a sort of complaisant deference.

Perhaps it was because she hadn’t seen him in days—his physical presence no longer affected her.

But she knew that would change once they were wed, and with marriage came bedding.

Now that was a troublesome thought.

In fact, the wedding night had only entered her mind when she visited the modiste. An older woman with a vague accent had been taking her measurements when the topic arose.

The woman had been measuring Helena’s bust when she suddenly sighed deeply. “How fortunate you are, miss,” she cooed, her eyes lingering on Helena’s breasts a moment too long.

“Oh.” Heat spread across Helena’s face. “I’m not certain how fortunate I am... they make my back ache something fierce.”

Even as a girl, Helena had been well endowed.

Her breasts had come in before she turned thirteen, to her deep embarrassment, and ever since, men had gawped at her—just as they did now.

It hardly mattered how high the neckline of her gown was; there was no hiding them.

Perhaps once she married, she’d cut a more respectable figure.

Perhaps, as a duchess, men would finally meet her eye, and women might stop narrowing theirs as she passed.

“Perhaps your new husband can alleviate some of your pain,” she said with a cheeky grin. “You are to marry His Grace, the Duke of Carrivick, yes?”

“Yes,” Helena replied with a nod.

She’d never visited this modiste before—it was one of the more expensive establishments in London, and the one Carrivick preferred. Helena wondered what possible business he could have had here, but she was too afraid to inquire.

The shop was immaculate and well-stocked, filled with patterns, colors, and fabrics that left her hopelessly indecisive. She, Felicity, and their mother had already been there for several hours, inspecting every design and garment the modiste had to offer.

“How fortunate you are,” the woman repeated. “Surely, you captivated him with your beauty.”

“Ah—yes,” Helena lied. “And he captivated me with his… handsomeness.” She had nearly forgotten she was meant to behave as though they were hopelessly enamored with one another.

“You must be looking forward to your wedding night, then?” the woman inquired, her tone teasing. “If you wish to keep him obsessed with you, may I offer a friendly piece of advice?”

Helena blinked, unsure how to respond—but politeness compelled her to nod.

The woman smiled knowingly, lowering her voice. “A little secret to make certain he never looks at another woman again.”

Helena hadn’t given much thought to Carrivick looking at other women—especially since he hardly looked at her.

The woman pointed at Helena’s chest. “Your bosoms, miss.”

She leaned in, glancing over Helena’s shoulder to ensure there were no other patrons nearby. Felicity and Mother were still at the far end of the shop, occupied with bonnets.

“Take his manhood and rub it between your breasts,” she whispered. “He’ll return to your bed every night, and you’ll have an heir—and spares—before long.”

Helena nearly toppled over, the air caught in her throat. “I—I beg your pardon?”

It wasn’t as though she was entirely ignorant of what passed between a man and a woman—her brother was a notorious gadabout, and some whispers were simply too loud to ignore, no matter how much she wished she hadn’t heard them.

But this particular act… she never could have imagined.

She needed to tell Felicity at once.

“Women cry to me constantly about their husbands—about their waning interests,” the woman explained, resuming her measuring.

“I spent many years working in a brothel, and look at me—I’m no great beauty like you nor so generously figured.

But I had the same men visiting me, multiple times a day.

They simply couldn’t stay away. Now, I share all my secrets with my customers, to help keep their men coming back to their bed. ”

Inadvertently, Helena imagined Carrivick in the nude.

At first, he resembled one of those Grecian statues: broad-shouldered, muscular—perhaps a bit too sculpted to be real.

Another image flickered behind her mind’s eye—his manhood—and again, she thought of the statues.

She had always found them... modestly endowed, like little acorns.

Surely Carrivick wasn’t that disappointing.

Still, she couldn’t fathom how anything so small could be coaxed between her breasts.

"Truthfully..." Helena hesitated. She had never spoken so brazenly with anyone but Felicity and Charlotte. "I haven't thought much about my wedding night... or any other night—with him."

“It will be your first time making love, yes?” Asked the woman.

Helena nodded.

“There is only a little pain, and then your body will know what to do,” she reassured her. “But sometimes, we all need a little help—I will make certain all your gowns leave him utterly captivated.”

She leaned in again.

"A well-dressed woman," she said with a wink, "is far more dangerous than a naked one, you know. Keep him wanting to see more... and you'll have him eating from your hand.”

Helena doubted very much that Carrivick would care about anything she wore, and she doubted even more that he would care about her in time… except maybe to put on an act for the ton.

In response to Helena’s silence, the modiste spoke again, her tone more matter-of-fact: “Even if you don’t wish for him to come to you every night, the sooner you have an heir… the happier you both will be.”

“Oh—yes,” Helena replied absentmindedly, her thoughts turning sour as she considered her upcoming future. Despite her and Carrivick’s... arrangement, she did hope they could find some affection for one another.

Was it even possible?

The modiste seemed to sense Helena’s distraction. “It is good His Grace is finally marrying,” she interjected, cutting through Helena’s musings. “He’s been coming to my shop for the past ten years.”

Helena’s curiosity piqued despite herself. “For what?” she asked, suspicious.

The woman threw her head back and laughed, clearly delighted. “For his younger sister. Gowns of the latest fashions in London and Paris to take back to Cornwall.”

“Oh—that’s very kind of him.” Helena’s chest lightened, and a faint blush crept up her neck as she realized how foolish she had been to even worry.

And yet, oddly, relief washed over her.

“Do not worry your pretty little head, miss,” the modiste said with a smile. “You’re the first woman he’s done this for—and I reckon the only one.”

It was a comfort to Helena that His Grace was not the licentious sort; in fact, she even liked that about him.

Growing up, she had always been cautioned about the lecherous men of the ton—those who dallied with mistresses and neglected their wives.

The idea of being trapped in such a marriage had always been her greatest fear.

Of course, she knew that some wives took lovers of their own, but that life held no appeal for her.

If she was to spend her days with someone, it would be with a man who offered respect and companionship.

She longed for a marriage where they would wake up together, share breakfast, dance at balls, and laugh over little things.

It was the kind of bond she had witnessed between her parents.

But now, all those years of wishing and dreaming felt like a cruel joke.

Still, there was hope left in Helena. Despite Carrivick’s restrained nature, she had heard only flattering portrayals of him as she moved between drawing rooms and parlors.

Apparently, His Grace was a great patron of the arts and education, donating substantial sums to galleries and schools, ensuring that those who couldn’t afford supplies or tuition were well taken care of.

Her brother Isaac confirmed this and more.

“He may be a dullard, but he doesn’t lack generosity,” Isaac said, laying down a card as they played piquet in the drawing room of their home.

Helena relished these rare moments of freedom with him and used the opportunity to ask about Carrivick.

Isaac was her only reliable source—he had no reason to lie, unlike others who now sought to elevate their standing with her since the engagement.

“Father is right; you ought to be nicer,” Helena replied.

Isaac cocked a brow. “Weeks ago, you were nearly kicking and screaming your disinterest in him. What changed?”

“You’re being dramatic—I was not kicking and screaming,” she retorted with a sniff.

“ I’m dramatic?”

Helena ignored him. “I’m just trying to be more optimistic.”

“Hmph, we’ll see how you feel on your wedding day then.”

“You’re not helping.”

“Women get married every day, Helena—many to men they like far less than you like Carrivick. And those men aren’t even dukes.”

“Yes, yes. I’m very lucky to be marrying him,” she replied, feeling exhausted by the constant mention of his title.

“You certainly are. There’s not much else I can say about the man. I suppose the only shadow on his reputation is the death of his older brother, Benjamin, the former Marquess of St. Aubyn. But I can’t fault him for such a tragedy.”

“Oh. He had a brother? I only heard mention of a younger sister.”

"He was older, so I never knew him, but I heard about him incessantly from Carrivick back at Eton. He worshipped his brother.”

By this point, the two of them had stopped paying attention to their game, caught up in their conversation. Helena set her cards down on the table between them. “What was Carrivick like as a young boy?” she asked with thinly veiled interest.

Isaac followed suit, laying his cards down as he leaned back in his chair.

He crossed one foot over the opposite knee, a hint of amusement tugging at his lips.

“Cheeky, brash, and terribly competitive—obsessively so. But he was also very sensitive, taking offense at every slight. I might have been his friend if he hadn’t been so damned arrogant—a trait he still hasn’t outgrown. ”

“You know you must get along with him. If the two of you ever have a disagreement and I had to choose sides, I’d pick you,” she said, smiling wryly at her brother, who didn’t return the sentiment.

“Ah, poor decision-making on your part, as usual. I’m not the one with titles or fortunes of my own,” Isaac said ruefully. “As you can imagine, I’m also terribly unpopular with the ambitious matchmaking mamas—though I have no desire to wed. Marriage sounds positively abhorrent.”

Helena rolled her eyes. “Isaac, I’ll be quite thrilled when you marry—and even more so if it’s for love.”

“That makes one of us. Marriage will suit you, though. You’ll fund charities of your own and plan grand balls.

I know you’re nervous, but he’ll probably be too busy with Parliament to really pay attention to you—he’s even letting you keep your dowry for pin money.

That’s a freedom most women of the ton aren’t afforded.

” He leaned forward, placing his hand over hers.

“I know you’ll make the best of it. We all do. ”