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“Worry not, Your Grace, your wife isn’t going anywhere,” a masculine voice teased in good humor.

Lowen blinked, suddenly aware that he'd been staring at Helena across the salon, caught in a moment of private reverie. He searched for the source of the jibe and found the smiling face of Lord Yarborough, a man two decades older than him yet still living as a bachelor.

The surrounding guests laughed at the quip, and Lowen fought to suppress a sneer at Yarborough’s expense. The man should be more concerned with his own lack of matrimony than with Lowen’s.

“Forgive me,” Lowen said. “I am not usually so distracted, but I am still a newlywed, after all.”

“Nothing to forgive, Your Grace,” Yarborough replied, casting a wolfish glance at Helena. “With a wife as lovely as yours, it would be impossible not to be distracted.”

Lowen’s jaw tightened in annoyance. While he didn’t disagree with the old fool—Helena was beautiful, the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen—the rumors about her continued to mock him.

Every word of praise and glance of admiration directed her way nearly drove him mad with speculation.

The situation had worsened after the previous evening, when he had very nearly taken her again in the library.

She had kissed him with such fervor and confidence that, after escorting her to her room, madness swirled within him.

Names, faces, lords, gentlemen—besides Montgomery, who had kissed her? And how many?

The questions burned hotter now as he found himself surrounded by men who had attempted to court Helena before their wedding. Their eyes followed her wherever she went, still beseeching her for dances and companionship at the refreshment table.

And it was as Montgomery had said: there was a freckle above her nipple. It shouldn’t have mattered—but somehow, it did. As if he could demand Helena’s innocence back, so that it belonged only to him. He felt primitive, possessive, and mortified by his own irrationality.

Unable to help himself, Lowen’s eyes found Helena once more.

Despite how lovely she looked this evening, he knew she was feeling particularly discontent being once again in the company of members of the House of Lords and their esteemed spouses.

Lowen and Helena were among the youngest in the group, and the differences were more evident in her, as she had little taste for the cumbersome sitting and political speak.

In fact, he now realized that, aside from the men, none of the women spoke to her at all.

Aware that he was watching her, Helena’s blue eyes locked with his.

Over time, it had become easier to read her face; every crinkle and furrow no longer felt like a language he couldn’t understand.

No line was too subtle for him to comprehend now.

But how difficult could it really be when she was always teetering on the edges of misery or fleeting elation?

It was his own damned fault, to be sure.

He’d barely done anything to help her, except buy her candied roses and paw at her in the library.

Even if he hadn’t been much help, he was glad Helena had managed to charm Thomasin so quickly.

It was something he hadn’t expected—though truthfully, he hadn’t realized how pleasant Helena could be.

Again, his own damned fault. He knew he needed to stop being so stubborn.

“You should allow Her Grace to sit for the tableau vivant the Dowager Countess of Auden is planning,” Lord Yarborough continued, blissfully unaware of Lowen’s brooding.

“I hear she plans to turn the entertainment into a charity event for that foundling asylum she’s always going on about.

I believe she’s still searching for a Galatea.

Your wife would be a perfect representation of her. ”

Of course, the old lecher would want to see Helena scantily clad as a sea nymph. Lowen was ready to decline on her behalf—perhaps more for his own sake—until Helena wandered over, cutting him off before he had the chance.

“Your Grace,” the older man crooned, his eyes blatantly resting on Helena’s cleavage. “I was just speaking of you.”

Seemingly oblivious, Helena smiled delicately. “Knowing you, my lord, I have no reason to worry about the matters in which you were speaking of me.”

What on earth did that mean? Lowen thought bitterly. When had they ever spoken at any length?

“Always good things,” he assured her with a wink. “I was just telling His Grace that the Dowager Countess of Auden is planning a charity event. She’s looking for select women to pose as living portraits of famous paintings, and I thought you’d be a perfect representation of Raphael’s Galatea.”

“Oh, how delightful!” Clapping her hands together, Helena cast a cautious glance in Lowen’s direction. “I’m quite fond of the dowager countess. I would love to be a part of it.”

“She will be quite thrilled to have you,” Yarborough said, patting Lowen on the back for emphasis. Lowen was about ready to strangle the man. “I was just telling His Grace that you’d make a most befitting sea nymph.”

“If she’d have me,” Helena replied bashfully, her cheeks reddening prettily at the compliment. Lowen, feeling very much like Galatea’s spurned lover, Polyphemus, was ready to hurl boulders and steal her away for himself.

“Who could ever decline you, Your Grace?” Yarborough questioned, his tone mockingly playful.

Once again, the blush on Helena’s face deepened; her skin was lush and warm, like ripened peaches.

A pang of desire hit Lowen—he wanted to see her draped in a thin wisp of cloth, her hair unbound, lips parted in anticipation of a kiss.

She would embody the very splendor of a sea nymph, but it would be for his eyes only.

As much as Lowen wished to reject the idea, it was too late now to object without causing a fuss from either of them. So, he waited until he and Helena were in the privacy of his carriage to bring the matter up.

“I don’t want you to pose for the tableau.”

Helena, who had been unbuttoning her gloves, looked up suddenly. “What? Why not?”

“It’s unseemly for a duchess to participate in such a thing,” Lowen replied. “Have you even seen the painting he’s referring to?”

“No,” she admitted sullenly. “But I’m sure it’s beautiful.”

“Galatea is scarcely covered in cloth. I find it troubling that the dowager would even consider that specific portrait.”

“Then I shall pose as someone else. A cardinal, perhaps? I believe most cardinals aren’t scarcely covered.”

Despite wanting to laugh at the image of Helena in a cardinal’s robe and cap, Lowen tempered his response. “It’s not just about the tableau. The dowager countess associates with a variety of... unique characters. I simply cannot allow you to be influenced by them or used for their gains.”

“Unique characters?” she echoed, her voice rising with indignation. Lowen braced himself for her anger. “You mean my new friends that you refused to meet?”

“ Friends ?” Lowen scoffed. “Undesirables, all of them. You could have easily fallen in with them had I not married you—hanging about the outskirts of polite society, trying to latch onto anyone’s good graces to elevate your standing once more.

And for what? To ruin it all again by posing half-nude for the sake of some charity? ”

The bitter words spilled from him without thought. The reserves of his self-control had cracked, and every scathing thought that had tormented him erupted in a torrent at his wife.

“You act as though you’ve done me a great service,” she said thickly, leaning back in her seat as if trying to distance herself as far from him as possible. “I have no doubt I could’ve married well, if not for you and whatever sense of honor you claim to follow.”

“And who would you have married?” Lowen snapped. “Someone like Lord Yarborough? An old, lustful bachelor? I’m sure someone like him would’ve offered marriage.”

“Yes!” Helena shot back. “He wrote me poetry and sent me flowers! He wanted to court me.”

Jealousy clouded Lowen’s vision—or perhaps it was simply the shadowy interior of the carriage. The cloud-covered day had stretched into a moonless night, and the lamps outside barely burned bright enough to pierce the darkness.

“What man hasn’t wanted to court you? You’ve gone through every eligible man in London, and I must hear about it constantly.”

“ ‘Gone through?’ ” Helena laughed mirthlessly. “Then pray tell, what was I supposed to do during my seasons? Sit in my room and wait for the perfect man to climb through my window? Was I not instructed to find a husband?”

“Then why hadn’t you?” Lowen shot back. “You’re beautiful— ‘a diamond of the first water,’ ” he taunted. “What ill-reputable thing could possibly have stopped you from finding a husband?”

The carriage jolted, and Helena lurched forward. Instinctively, Lowen reached out to steady her, but she flinched away, retreating back into her seat.

“The only ill-reputable thing I’ve done is that which you’ve conjured up in your mind,” she retorted. “I told you before, I wished for a love match—I would not settle for anything less.”

There were several replies Lowen considered, each crueler than the last. Instead, he said, “And what good did that serve you?”

Everything inside Lowen urged him to cease his needless cruelty.

Nothing was gained from this except a fleeting thrill of victory—a hollow triumph he could hold over her.

Yet that victory was a mere phantom. Helena had no part in his games; she had no understanding of them, responding to him with her usual innocent sincerity.

There was no going back now; too many cruel words had been spoken. Lowen rested his head against the cushioned seat, closing his eyes in shame.

“I wish I would’ve married Elias,” Helena said bitterly.

Lowen chose to remain silent.