Page 30

She and Lowen hadn’t been married long; they’d scarcely conversed about anything, both still attached to the tension that had catalyzed their arranged marriage.

Doubtless, such emotions would not dissipate simply because they were now married, and Helena reckoned it was what kept Lowen out of her bed.

The unresolved feelings between them hung in the air, palpable only to the two of them, like a shadow that only they could see.

Helena worried that this impasse might define their marriage forever, but she didn’t know how to approach him or the subject.

Everything she said or did seemed to cause him some type displeasure, even if he clearly didn’t express it.

Did it matter? This was not a match made in love; it was like every other marriage born of social or financial benefit.

Lowen would eventually give her children, and she would find solace in raising and loving them, even if she and her husband could never find their way to love one another.

All the troubling thoughts that plagued Helena that night were soon scattered by the inharmonious pitch of a shrill flute, hesitantly played by a young debutante and her fellow accompanists.

After dinner, she and Lowen had agreed to attend a musical performance hosted by one of his parliamentary constituents, whose daughters were all playing various instruments.

Lowen and Helena exchanged subtle glances when the first note of the piece went off-key and the rest followed suit. It was perhaps the only moment of camaraderie Helena had felt with him in days, but it passed as quickly as it came, his expression returning to its usual stony mask.

The evening left Helena with a mild ache in her head, and she tossed restlessly in bed, unable to ignore the light throbbing that seemed to pulse with the memory of the sharp, discordant chords played earlier.

Annoyed, she finally pushed back the covers, donned her robe, and padded down to the library.

She didn’t bring her embroidery this time; her fingers were stiff from her earlier work.

Instead, she decided to distract herself with a book.

Perhaps something romantic—no, that would only make her wistful.

An adventure, then. If her staid husband even owned such books.

It seemed Lowen, too, found no solace in his bed that night. When Helena entered the library, she found him standing before the expanse of books, scanning the titles on each spine.

“Your Grace,” she breathed, her body inexplicably warming at the sight of him. Nervously, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

He turned, unsurprised by her interruption.

Dressed in his night robes, he was in a state of undress she had never seen before, yet it did nothing to diminish the commanding presence he always seemed to carry.

On the contrary, the ornate elegance of his banyan and the ramrod-straight posture only made him appear more regal—like a sultan among his harem.

“I see sleep evades you as well,” he said, his rich voice a low rumble. Helena was aware of how much she liked his voice, more than she cared to admit.

“It’s terribly unfair,” she replied, moving to stand beside him. “I had hoped to forget that musical, but it seems it haunts me still.”

Lowen’s mouth quirked. “It takes courage to perform before an audience. You should give them more credit.”

“I’m sorry,” Helena said, sheepishly. “I shouldn’t be so cruel. When I first started learning the pianoforte, my instructor said I played as though I had hooves instead of hands.”

The confession earned her a rare smile from her husband—a transformation that still amazed her. “And how are your skills now?”

“Remarkably better. I can even play without sheet music.”

“Then there may be hope yet for my horse to improve.”

This time, Helena couldn’t help but smile. “Shall we host our own musical, then?”

Lowen laughed, and her heart quavered at the sound. “Are you cold?” he asked suddenly. “I can light the hearth.”

“It’s unnecessary; I don’t imagine I’ll stay long,” she answered. “Though you certainly have much to choose from.” Helena’s gaze drifted upward, where the shelves, stocked with books, touched the painted ceiling.

“Might I give you some recommendations?” Lowen suggested.

“Yes, though nothing to do with philosophy. It took me ages to finish Voltaire.”

Lowen raised his brows in surprise. “You read Voltaire?”

“No—but yes. Well, only once. Only because my sister begged me to. Felicity desperately needed someone to discuss him with other than Isaac. They squabbled endlessly over his opinions, never coming to an agreement, and by the time I finished Candide , she had already moved on to Rousseau.”

“Well, Rousseau might give you a few... unconventional ideas.” Lowen extended his arm, reaching for a book. In doing so, his banyan loosened, exposing a patch of wiry dark hair on his chest. Helena quickly looked away, fearing her face might redden further.

After selecting one book, Lowen moved further down the room, picking another, and then another, before walking over to the table near the unlit fireplace. He set them down in a neat row.

“Come,” he called, and Helena obliged, taking a seat across from him at the table.

“I’d rather give you a few options. Or, if they all interest you, feel free to take them to your room,” he said, moving to the mantel to retrieve a tinderbox and light the hearth.

Helena watched his elegant hands work at the fire, captivated by the fluidity with which he worked, her eyes never once falling to the books he’d selected.

“Do any catch your interest?” Lowen asked, straightening up.

“Oh.” She snapped out of her reverie and grabbed the book in the middle. “This one,” she said quickly.

To her surprise, he sat beside her, their thighs touched. "Robinson Crusoe. A choice for adventure, then."

"Yes, perhaps I need something to tire me out before bed.”

In an instant, Lowen’s eyes darkened, his lips hovering closer than she remembered, just a breath away from her own. Helena’s pulse quickened, her fingers tightening on the hard edges of her book.

Had she said something wrong?

“Are you going to make me leave again?” The words slipped out before she could stop them.

Lowen’s brows furrowed in confusion. “Pardon?”

“The library,” Helena clarified, uncertain. “You made me leave last time.”

“I did.” His lashes lowered, gaze flicking briefly to her mouth—then lower, before he quickly looked back up.

“Did I… do something wrong?”

“No,” Lowen murmured. His hand rose to her braid, fingers brushing the honeyed strands before wrapping the long coil gently in his fist. Slowly, he pulled her closer, the motion deliberate and controlled.

Helena shivered as his fingers grazed her neck, the heat building in her chest spilling lower, pooling between her legs. Her body tightened in response, a sensation both thrilling and terrifying.

She thought she saw his lips move, but if he spoke, Helena couldn’t hear a word, deafened by the rush of her own pulse.

They leaned into one another until their lips finally met.

Lowen claimed her mouth without hesitation, his kiss assured and demanding.

The urgency frightened her and exhilarated her.

This was her first kiss, and she followed him instinctively, as if it were a dance.

When he pulled away, she leaned in again, and when he shifted, she mirrored him, their mouths growing frantic in their hunger.

Every part of her body was on fire now, she felt him all around her. In the curl of her toes, in the pit of her stomach, in the ache of her nipples as they hardened.

While one of Lowen’s hands still held her braid, the other moved to the sash of her robe, undoing it before sliding to the buttons of her nightgown.

If not for the cool rush of air against her skin, she might not have noticed that he had slipped the night rail past her shoulders, leaving her exposed to him.

His hand, warm and firm, found its way to her breast, kneading the tender flesh, his thumb teasing the hardened bud with slow, deliberate circles.

Absentmindedly, Helena’s hand drifted to the curve of his neck, the skin there burning hot beneath her fingers, as hard as stone. Her grip on the book in her lap loosened, and it tumbled to the floor with a dull thud. The sound startled them both, as though waking them from a dream.

They stared at one another momentarily, recognition of the situation slowly coming to them. Lowen had not yet removed his hand from her breast, and his attention flickered to it, his thumb resting over a dark freckle just above her nipple.

Helena noticed his mouth tighten as he pulled back, unwinding his hand from her braid.

She quickly covered herself, then bent to retrieve the book, clutching it to her chest as though it might offer some protection.

A sharp reminder flashed through her—of the first day they’d met, his disapproval so clear, and how he’d treated her that night at Lady Crockwell’s party.

With all the vitriol she’d felt for him then, only weeks ago, she could scarcely believe the fire now surging through her as they kissed.

This was the same man who had sneered at the thought of being seen with her. It was too soon for Helena to forget that, even if he didn’t know it. She’d never told him how much it had hurt her, but she was a coward in that regard, so she stood, nearly dropping the book again.

“Thank you for the book, Your Grace,” she said carefully, still spinning from the kiss. “Goodnight.”

“Helena.” Lowen’s voice called out as she started to walk away. She stopped and turned to face him. He was standing now. “I’ll escort you to your chambers.”

Oh god. Did he mean to take her tonight? Part of her screamed with anticipation, while another part recoiled in fear.

He plucked the book from her hands, took a lit candle from the sideboard, and beckoned for her to follow. She did.

“Thank you for spending time with Thomasin today,” he said, walking ahead of her. A light waft of air carried his scent—clean, bright, and faintly floral—across her senses.

“It was my pleasure,” Helena replied distractedly. “She’s a delight.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” They reached the stairs. “Careful,” Lowen warned, glancing back at her as they began their ascent into the dark.

“I raised her myself since she was a babe,” he said, his voice softer. “A more difficult task than I anticipated, even with the help of servants.”

Helena couldn’t see his face, but she knew in this instance it did not carry its usual hardness. “I’m sorry for both of your losses. You’ve raised her to be a fine young woman.”

“Thank you. That is one of the highest compliments you could give me,” Lowen replied after a pause. “I had an older brother as well. I always say that she takes after me, but sometimes she reminds me of him.”

“Benjamin?” Helena asked gently.

“Yes. Benjamin.”

They continued onward, taking each step with unintentional slowness. Helena was morbidly curious about Lowen’s older brother, but she had never been one to pry.

“He was a good brother," Lowen said roughly. “I should’ve been a better one to him.”

“Oh. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be," he said, his voice quieter still. "There’s nothing for it.”

“I’m still sorry,” Helena whispered, but he didn’t reply.

Lowen opened the door to her room and handed her the book. “Goodnight, Helena.”

“Goodnight,” she returned, watching as he closed the door.

If Helena thought she could sleep now, she was wrong.

Her body still reeled from the kiss, feverish and tingling.

But her mind ricocheted between her memories of Lowen—insults, disapproval, tenderness, consideration.

Unsettled, Helena sat on her bed, staring down at the book in her lap.

It held no interest for her now; her thoughts were muddled in far more consuming matters.