Page 3

One Year Later…

Now in her second season, Miss Helena Hargreaves swallowed a fitful sigh as she scrutinized the rose in her gloved hand.

It had been given to her by a hopeful young suitor, Mr. Tobias Pyle, who had subtly grazed her breast when he reached to pluck it from a nearby bush. Ignoring the transgression, Helena thanked him, inching away ever so slightly as they continued their stroll beneath a lush canopy of trees.

Men like Mr. Pyle now tested the boundaries of propriety with her in ways they would never have dared with a woman whose reputation was untouched.

They “accidentally” brushed against her, held her too long during a dance, and wove practiced innuendos into conversation, assessing how far she would let them go.

A year had passed, and she knew all too well what they still said about her—that she had been compromised, that her virtue had been lost in some dimly lit corner of a gallery.

No matter that it was untrue. No matter that she had never so much as kissed a man—Mr. Montgomery had never been her first kiss!

Her first kiss would be given freely, not taken from her.

The rumor had done its damage, and while she remained desirable, it was for all the wrong reasons.

Still, Helena wasn’t ungrateful for the rose—it was beautiful, its petals smooth and pink.

She could never be unhappy receiving something lovely.

It gave her a glimmer of hope that, despite the rumors surrounding her, a love match was still possible.

Not all the men who sought her company were mannerless louts; some remained kind and gentlemanly.

Helena still had plenty of admirers, and her prospects were still the envy of every unmarried young woman. Her dance card was always full, she was never without an escort, and if she required refreshments, they were hastily procured by any of the surrounding men.

Yet, she was disenchanted by them all, and by now, she was certain she had met every eligible bachelor in London.

None had set her heart on fire.

None of them felt right .

Worry began to unsettle her. Many of the women who had debuted alongside her were now engaged, married, or already expecting their first child. Even Helena’s sister, Felicity, had fallen in love.

It was only a matter of time before she wed, and once she did, Helena would find herself quite alone.

“Something amiss?” A face resembling a cherub’s assailed hers.

Alarmed by Mr. Pyle’s sudden closeness, Helena jumped slightly. “Oh!”

Mr. Pyle stood before her sheepishly, blocking her view of the path ahead. “Apologies. You look rather… pensive.”

It was then that Helena realized how rigid her face felt. She relaxed, then smiled up at him. “Pensive? Goodness, no one has ever accused me of such a thing before.”

“That is a good thing then.” Mr. Pyle was at her side once more, and they continued their descent down a row of freshly planted flowers. “Women shouldn’t be so serious. Especially beautiful ones, like yourself. It distracts from the loveliness.”

Whatever chance Tobias Pyle had for courting her had now been tossed out the window, like the contents of a chamberpot.

Helena willed herself to keep her lips stretched congenially in some semblance of a grin. “You are too kind.”

Behind her, there was a faint rustle. Her mother and grandmother trailed after her at a fair distance, engrossed in their usual gossiping.

Helena knew her family was beginning to grow impatient with her fastidious approach to husband-hunting, but she would not be swayed into accepting just any gentleman who appeared before her doorstep with an offer, even if it was a smart match.

Nor would she accept Mr. Pyle, though he was comely enough, as long as he kept his mouth shut.

But there was little chance of that, and she would have to endure his company until they reached the end of the gardens—expansive, thanks to their hostess, Lady Crockwell’s love of greenery.

Helena quickened her pace, nearly leaving Mr. Pyle behind. But with one long stride, he matched her evenly, and the back of his hands gently swept across the sides of her gown.

Suppressing a shudder, Helena began to wonder if perhaps a love match wasn’t in the stars for her.

“I must confess something,” Mr. Pyle said, surprising her out of her thoughts once more.

Not meeting his eyes, Helena pretended to take great interest in some passing topiary. “And what is that, Mr. Pyle?”

“From the first moment I laid eyes on you, Miss Felicity, I knew I had to have you.”

With that, she looked up at him. “I’m Helena.”

Mr. Pyle’s face flushed crimson. “Er—pardon me, you and your sister look remarkably alike.”

“We are twins, Mr. Pyle.”

“Yes, a-and because you are twins, I still meant what I said. You’re beautiful, and from the first moment I laid eyes on you, I knew you were the woman for me.”

Helena couldn’t help but laugh, not from amusement, but from disbelief.

Mr. Pyle, however, did not notice the derision and chuckled along with her.

“Mr. Pyle, grant me the courtesy of honesty. Did you mean to invite my sister Felicity to this turn around the garden?”

“N-no, I meant to invite you, but since you have a twin sister, does it really make a difference who I intended to invite?” he admitted bashfully.

Under her submissive smile, Helena gnashed her teeth together, willing herself to remain amenable for the sake of her family.

“Of course, it makes a difference. Wouldn’t you like to know the woman you are walking with?” she asked.

“What exactly is there to know?” He shrugged. “You’re beautiful, biddable, and your family is well-liked.”

“Is there anything else?”

“Er… well, are you and your sister really quite so different? You’ve received the same education and your dowries are of equal sums.”

“Yes, we’re completely interchangeable, Mr. Pyle,” Helena laughed again, a little too sardonically. “Same hair, same eyes, same face, same thoughts and feelings. Why, we could switch places and who would know?”

Mr. Pyle laughed uncomfortably.

Helena held her pointer finger to the side of her face in mock thought. “Though, my sister says I’m quick to temper and slow to forgive. I’ve also been known to be quite stubborn and demanding, and I would hardly call either myself or my sister ‘biddable.’”

Either dumbstruck by her outburst or too polite to object, Mr. Pyle stared at her blankly.

“So, I would advise you to at least try to learn something about the women you wish to court,” she said. When he failed to find his words, Helena turned to catch the attention of her mother and grandmother, unfortunately now a little farther away.

To her surprise, Mr. Pyle snaked his hand around her elbow, forcing her gaze back to him. “Now that I think of it, I do recall something about you.”

“Oh?”

“You have a reputation as a prick-teaser. At least, that’s what I’ve heard.” A self-satisfied smile stretched across his round face as his eyes glossed over her breasts. “Isn’t that right?”

“Wrong again, Mr. Pyle.” Helena mustered up all the disdain she could manage in her voice. “If you’ll excuse me, I do believe this parley of ours is over.”

But Mr. Pyle did not release her. “I think not, Miss Helena. Our tour of the gardens is nearly halfway through. Besides, I shouldn’t like to tell my friends that you so rudely abandoned me.

Or perhaps I can tell them that you and I engaged in rather salacious behavior during our stroll. Less embarrassing on my part.”

At his threat, Helena’s expression hardened. She had naught to say, nor time to think, before he spoke again.

“Oh, my dear, how you still underestimate the power of well-placed rumors,” a wicked gleam sparkled in Mr. Pyle’s eye.

“No need for endearments. ‘Miss Helena’ suits me just fine.” She straightened her back and looked ahead, begrudgingly following her escort’s lead.

Much to her continued annoyance, Mr. Pyle slowed his pace, reveling in her discomfort as he began to hum a jaunty tune.

As much as she wished to kick dirt at his freshly polished boots, Helena decided it best to remain complacent and quiet, praying for a sudden rainfall to intercede on her behalf. But it was an exceptionally cloudless day.

“Ah-ha!” Mr. Pyle exclaimed. “The Roman folly!”

Up ahead, encircled by young yew trees, stood a tall structure resembling the temple ruins Helena had seen in her brother’s history books. Its stone facade, adorned with carved columns, nestled amongst the greenery, with Venus poised in its hollow center.

In his excitement, Mr. Pyle quickened his stride. “Lord and Lady Crockwell just had it built. Apparently, they commissioned the same architect the Duke of Carrivick employs.”

Helena dutifully followed as he walked the perimeter of the folly, marveling at its grandeur. “Must’ve cost a fortune,” he muttered. “I’m surprised Carrivick even allowed the commission.”

“Why surprised?” She asked, though she truly didn’t care. She needed to stay somewhat courteous.

Mr. Pyle made an annoyed sound as though answering were a great trouble. “If I had the very best of something, I wouldn’t be so eager to share it.”

Since his back was to her, she rolled her eyes and continued behind him as they turned a corner. A lone figure stood on the other side, partially obscured between Venus and the columns.

The Duke of Carrivick.

“Speak of the devil,” Mr. Pyle said just loudly enough to elicit the duke’s attention.

A man of middling height and appearance, with black-brown hair and a prominent nose, the Duke of Carrivick was a figure Helena had only ever glimpsed in passing.

Which, as it turned out, suited her just fine.

He was not a man whose countenance invited warmth, though sycophants seemed to flock around him like ants to sugar, much like her own relentless admirers.

But that was where their commonality ended.

Helena had long since determined it a feckless endeavor to seek an introduction.

She was not ambitious enough to presume she might catch his eye for a match, and thus, she had never pursued it.

She couldn’t help but wonder about him, though.

Still, from her experience, if a man was interested, he came to her.

The duke, however, kept his distance, content to remain a distant figure on the periphery of her world.

What she hadn’t known then, however, was that she had already crossed paths with him the year prior, in the hallway.

After Mr. Montgomery’s unwanted fondling, she had fled in such haste that she hadn’t spared a thought for the man standing there—the man she’d nearly collided with—unnoticed in the moment.

The Duke, of course, hadn’t pressed himself into her acquaintance, nor had he seemed to care enough to offer anything more than a polite acknowledgment.

But now, as the truth settled in, Helena stood corrected.

He was the only bachelor she hadn’t yet met.

And, she thought with some small measure of irony, it was for good reason. He was, after all, no more likely to find her desirable than any of the others.

Carrivick did not seem at all surprised by the disturbance. He studied Helena and Mr. Pyle with shrewd grey eyes, his face betraying nothing as he offered a well-practiced, closed-lip, aristocratic smile.

As if waiting for permission, Mr. Pyle deemed it acceptable to speak. “Your Grace,” he stepped forward with a bow and beckoned to Helena, who curtsied in return. “Miss Helena Hargreaves has done me the great honor of allowing me to escort her through the gardens.”

The duke’s gaze focused on her, quickly sweeping up and down. “A pleasure,” he replied crisply.

Helena suppressed the bristle of discomfort as his eyes lingered just a moment too long, before settling on the eager Mr. Pyle.

“We were just admiring the folly,” Mr. Pyle’s voice cracked slightly.

“I have one just like it at my estate in Cornwall,” replied Carrivick. “Lady Crockwell adored the design, so I couldn’t resist recommending the services of my architect. It would be a shame not to share his talents.”

Helena had never heard him speak so much before, and found herself surprised by the depth of his voice. Carrivick wasn’t a large man, yet she felt the smooth rumble of his tone reverberate between the empty spaces of the folly, as if he were a giant of mythical proportions.

“You are most generous, Your Grace,” simpered her escort. “Perhaps you could share his talents with me, for I think my own garden could do with a folly.”

“I thought you had parliamentary aspirations, Mr. Pyle? Now is not the time for needless spending on fripperies, not when there is a campaign to fund. Politics, after all, require a heavy coin purse.”

Helena watched as the tops of Mr. Pyle’s cheeks deepened in color, and in sympathy, so did hers.

“Yes, of course, Your Grace. All my efforts are focused on becoming a member,” croaked Mr. Pyle.

“Good,” the duke’s attention briefly returned to Helena, his eyes meeting hers before darting away. “And do remember, one’s associates speak volumes about their aspirations and priorities. After all, surrounding oneself with those of elevated standing can only enhance one’s prospects.”

Helena’s stomach sank to her feet—the jab at her was all too obvious. “You need not worry,” she replied through nearly gritted teeth. “Mr. Pyle is indeed a man of character and discerning taste—much like you.”

A strange, garbled noise emitted from the back of Mr. Pyle’s throat before he cleared it. “She is most kind.”

“Indeed,” Carrivick’s response was as derisive as his expression. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I am due to return to our hostess.”

“By all means, allow us to join you, Your Grace. We were just?—”

“No,” the duke interrupted, his tone firm. “Stay. Enjoy the folly.” He turned to leave, but not before addressing Mr. Pyle one last time. “I shall have my secretary send you my architect’s information. Perhaps you may find yourself in need of distractions.”

There was no doubt in Helena’s mind that Carrivick’s offer carried an edge of mockery, but it completely bypassed Mr. Pyle, who seemed to straighten up in confidence.

“By jove,” he said, beaming at Helena. “That went better than I ever could’ve imagined.”

“Quite splendidly,” she lied, watching the duke disappear between the line of trees.

It was clear to her now why they had never been introduced.

It had been a purposeful decision on his part—one made by a man who surrounded himself with those of elevated standing .

Helena nearly snorted out loud. At least her curiosity was sated, and she had no reason to hope for a formal introduction.