Page 24

Later that evening, Lowen surveyed the bounty laid out on the dining room table: roasted venison and ham, mutton, partridge, crayfish, white chicken fricassee, meat pastries, cauliflower pudding, white soup, and potted asparagus.

It was an indulgence, but he thought it best to offer Helena a variety of options—this way, he could subtly learn what she preferred.

He stood at the head of the table, glancing at his pocket watch. It was nine o’clock, and right on cue, soft footsteps heralded Helena’s arrival.

She wore an evening gown of blue, a shade darker than the muted one she had worn for the wedding.

The fabric draped against her body like a smooth flow of water, hugging her bosom and falling gracefully over her wide hips.

The bodice strained against her generous breasts, and Lowen quickly averted his gaze, only to be drawn back to her face—a glance that was just as damning.

His heart skipped several beats.

He must’ve been gawking like a fool, for Helena smiled shyly, running her small hands over her waist. “Do you like it? It’s new… from the modiste.”

Lowen blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the question. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “It’s... beautiful,” he said, voice rough, before clearing his throat. “It suits you perfectly.”

She smiled brightly at the compliment, her earlier timidness melting away, and allowed him to pull out her chair beside him.

“How are your accommodations?” he asked, taking his seat, the scent of her trailing behind her. The footmen moved quietly around the table, plating the food with precision, ensuring Helena received a small portion of everything, as Lowen had instructed.

"Lovely, Your Grace," she said warmly. The chandelier light caught her earrings, scattering little stars across her face. "You’ve a beautiful home."

"It’s your home now too, Helena," he said, the deliberate use of her name drawing her blue eyes to his. He had never called her by her name before. "You need not be so formal with me in private. You may call me by my name, if you like." Lowen hoped this small gesture of intimacy would comfort her.

"As you wish, Lowen," she replied carefully, as if testing the word. His breath nearly caught at the sound of his name on her shapely lips.

"I’ve been rather curious about your name," she said.

"Oh?"

"Yes, it’s quite unusual. I’ve never heard one like it before," Helena remarked.

"It’s a very Cornish name, given to me in complete irony."

She regarded him curiously as she sliced into her mutton. "Irony?"

"Yes. My name means ‘joyful.’"

"I see," she said, taking a bite to hide the smile forming on her face. "Surely, as a babe, you were a bundle of joy?"

"Do you mean to say you don’t find me a joy now?" he teased.

Helena raised a brow, a playful glint in her blue eyes. "Well, I may yet be surprised if you live up to your name."

Lowen laughed, surprising them both. "I was a fussy babe, always very demanding. It seems I’ve stayed true to form."

This time, Helena laughed, the sound ringing like a tinkering of bells. "And what of your sister? Speaking of which, where is Lady Thomasin?"

"She’s taking her dinner in her room tonight. She was a fussy babe herself—takes after me."

"So, joyful as well?"

"Occasionally," Lowen said, taking a sip of his wine. "We might be counting on you to bring a little more joy to the household."

A delicate blush spread across Helena’s cheeks as she looked down at her plate. "I’ll do my best."

Dinner had been a much more pleasant affair than Lowen had anticipated.

He had expected Helena to regard him as she had during their wedding breakfast—like a lamb watching a wolf, gripping her silverware so tightly her knuckles blanched against her skin.

Instead, she had surprised him with quiet humor, though a touch of hesitation remained.

Since she hadn’t eaten during breakfast, she had shown a rather hearty appetite this evening. Lowen took careful note of her preferences: she did not care for venison or asparagus, but she devoured the cauliflower pudding with such eager delight it nearly made him laugh.

As for dessert, She wrinkled her nose at the marzipan — but ate it anyway, along with the candied pineapple, sugared almonds, orange pudding, and a raspberry tart to finish.

She had eaten every dessert laid out before her — a fact that delighted him.

Apparently, like him, she did not discriminate when it came to sweets.

When dinner ended, Helena excused herself, remarking that she was tired and wished to retire early.

Lowen knew she was hiding herself away, and he couldn’t fault her for it.

Despite the small victory of their pleasant meal, they were still strangers to one another, and he wondered if they ought to consummate their marriage at all.

In his own room, Lowen struggled between forcing himself to sleep or fleeing to his study. Neither offered any distraction from the thoughts racing through his mind—of what lay just beyond his door.

That cursed door was both tempting and maddening; he had never found one so alluring before.

Damn it.

She was his wife. His. And God help him, he wanted her so badly .

It was ridiculous to be so afraid of a door.

He knocked, and her muffled answer from within granted him admittance.

Helena sat up in bed, the blanket clutched to her chest, her long hair spilling over her shoulders like streams of honey.

She said nothing, only watched him as though he held a weapon in his hand, shrinking further into the cushions. She looked so small in that bed, so heartbreakingly innocent.

Lowen couldn’t do it.

No matter that she was his wife — he would not touch a woman who looked half-scared to death.

Without a word, he stepped back and quietly closed the door behind him.

For a moment, he simply stood there, staring at the carved headboard of his bed, wrestling with frustration.

He needed to clear his head — to gather his wits before temptation drove him back into Helena’s room to take her. She was no innocent; she knew what marriage demanded.

But it was the principle of the thing.

She was still afraid.

Lowen rubbed a hand over his face

Perhaps it would be best to leave altogether, to pass a few hours somewhere loud and thoughtless until fatigue finally dragged him to sleep. Fortunately, there were clubs aplenty in the fashionable districts of London.

At Brooks’s, Lowen ignored the curious glances from the upper-class men scattered around the tables. He belonged here, whether he liked it or not.

He wandered into a salon draped in heavy red damask and spotted a familiar face.

“Your Grace, come to celebrate your honeymoon??” Isaac Hargreaves laughed with a woman—whom had no doubt snuck in—sitting on his lap.

Lowen ignored him and fixed his glare on his companion instead. The woman immediately squirmed free from Isaac’s arms and hastily retreated to a different part of the club.

“Ah, it seems you’ve come to ruin my fun,” Isaac said with marked annoyance as Lowen took a seat across from him. “Now that you’re a married man, shouldn’t you be spending your evening with someone else—though I hate to think of it?”

“Then think nothing of it, Mr. Hargreaves. Unless you’d like me to find a wife for you? I can certainly arrange it.”

“That won’t be necessary,” he sniffed.

“Then you needn’t worry about how I choose to spend my evenings.”

Isaac held up his palms. “A jest, Your Grace. You’re hardly seen at clubs as it is, and to come on the day of your wedding—I was merely curious.”

“Keep your curiosity to yourself. Not everyone here is aware that I was wed today,” Lowen replied, keeping his voice low and declining the offer of a beverage from one of the servants.

“And here I thought we were to be getting on as brothers now.”

“It depends on whether you can answer a question for me.”

“Oh?” Intrigued, Isaac leaned forward.

It was rather fortuitous to run into Isaac, as Lowen had been unable to stop thinking about Helena since dinner. Who better to speak about her with than her own brother?

“What does Helena like?”

“What does she like?” Isaac replied, disappointed that the topic was about his sister and not something more scandalous. He slumped back into his chair. “Pardon me, Your Grace, but could you not ask her yourself?”

“I mean to surprise her.”

“Oh.”

After a moment of silence, Lowen raised a brow. “Do not tell me you don’t know what your sister likes.”

“Of course I know,” Isaac snapped. “I was merely thinking.”

“Be careful not to injure yourself.” This earned Lowen a particularly nasty glower from Isaac—an expression he had also seen from Helena.

“She likes French perfume, candied rose petals, birds, walks in the park, the color blue—though be careful, as it should not be too dark of a blue; that distinction matters, I’ve come to learn—and dancing,” Isaac said, blowing out a breath. “Er, and card games, playing the pianofo?—”

“That’s enough,” Lowen interrupted, trying to remember Isaac’s list. “That’s more than helpful.”

“Glad to be of service, Your Grace,” came Isaac’s sardonic reply.

With little interest in gambling or drink, Lowen departed, armed with newfound knowledge of his wife—yet knowing full well it would do little to help him sleep, not with Helena just on the other side of the wall.

The door had shut almost as quickly as it had opened, and Helena remained frozen in the bed long after the soft click of the latch.

Her heart hammered against her ribs, a painful, bewildering rhythm that pulsed in her throat.

She had braced herself for... something. A duty, at the very least. Yet he had left her untouched — and she did not know whether to feel relieved or stricken.

Did he find her lacking? Had she disappointed him already?

Curling into the pillows, Helena clutched the blanket tighter around her and squeezed her eyes shut, as if she could block out the shame prickling beneath her skin.