Page 32

Misery and champagne were troublesome companions when combined.

This was evident by Helena’s unsteady gait as she made her way toward the women’s withdrawing room.

She and Lowen had found themselves at yet another function hosted by one of those dour matrons married to one of his Parliamentary cronies.

Ungracious thoughts had been creeping into her mind all evening, and with her fifth glass of champagne, Helena worried that one might slip out thoughtlessly.

If it did, perhaps they would finally stop inviting her, though she knew they only truly wanted Lowen present.

Helena had no idea where Lowen was; she hadn’t seen him since they arrived—not that she particularly wished to.

Not after what he had said to her in the carriage the night before.

Her heart ached—it hadn’t stopped aching because of him, even before they married.

Yet there were moments, fleeting and intimate, when the cold, proper mask he wore slipped away, revealing the man beneath.

In those rare instances, she dared to hope he might remain that way.

But something about her always seemed to trouble him, as if he wanted her to repent for some unseen fault.

The withdrawing room was farther than she remembered.

Or perhaps she was simply going the wrong way.

Helena stumbled into the wall, leaning heavily against it, careful not to knock herself or spill her champagne on a nearby sconce.

She blinked, examining her surroundings.

A vaguely familiar Aubusson tapestry hung on the wall, giving her some confidence she was heading in the right direction.

She continued onward, using the walls and sideboards to stabilize herself, until she finally wobbled into the ladies' withdrawing room.

Helena ignored the incoming stares and sought a private corner where she could rest for a while.

A few women greeted her politely, but none offered to sit with her.

After a few minutes, finding the hushed conversations around her increasingly tiresome, she got up to leave, finishing the rest of her champagne before she did so, feeling even more unstable than before.

As she made her way down the hallway, a group of women approached, and at the center stood a tall, buttery-blonde woman who looked just as miserable as Helena.

“Charlotte!” Helena blurted, barreling toward her, oblivious to the horrified look on her former friend’s face.

The women steered away from Helena, leaving Charlotte to look around for help, but Helena had already wrapped her in an embrace. They hadn’t seen each other since Lady Crockwell’s disastrous party so long ago.

Helena was overjoyed, nearly on the verge of tears to be with Charlotte again. “It’s been ages, Charlotte,” she said, pulling away, though her vision blurred in a double-image haze. “I’ve sent you countless letters.”

After straightening her mussed gown, Charlotte regarded Helena coolly, her four eyes narrowing with a trace of disapproval. “My apologies, Your Grace—I’ve been quite busy.”

“Well, when you’re done being quite busy, you should stop by Carrivick House for tea,” Helena suggested, her voice a bit too loud, a touch of desperation in her tone. “It would be a delight to have you.”

Charlotte smiled tightly. “I truly appreciate the invitation, Your Grace, but I fear my commitments this season will leave me quite occupied.”

“I see,” Helena murmured, dejected. She began to sway slightly, feeling the champagne work its way into her legs. “Do you think we may speak in private?”

“Now?”

Helena nodded, the motion sending a dull throb through her temples. “Yes. Now.”

Charlotte exchanged glances with her cortege, as if seeking permission. After a brief, uncomfortable pause, one of the girls spoke up. “Pardon us, Your Grace, but we’ve all been promised for the next dance.”

In unison, the women turned, but Helena, in her drunken desperation, chose to follow.

She needed Charlotte to hear her—needed her friend back, needed to apologize, to explain that she hadn’t betrayed her.

But with the champagne clouding her movements, she followed too closely, her heavy heel catching the hem of Charlotte’s dress.

With a shriek, both women collapsed to the floor. Their legs collided awkwardly as Helena’s chin slammed into the back of Charlotte’s head. Charlotte absorbed the brunt of the fall, her body cushioning Helena’s descent.

Laughter erupted around them—shrill and cruel. Mortified, Helena glanced down at Charlotte, who was trying to push herself up onto all fours, but Helena, now ungracefully straddling her, made it impossible.

“Get off me!” Charlotte growled, attempting to buck Helena off as though she were a horse.

Helena slid off her pathetically, struggling to regain her bearings. Her body felt thick and sluggish, and blurred shadows of people encircled her, their faces indistinguishable as they extended hands to help. With a shaky effort, she managed to stumble to her feet.

The women surrounding Charlotte quickly formed a protective barrier, shielding her from the scene, straightening her gown, and murmuring reassurances.

“Charlotte, I’m so sorry!” Helena cried, reaching toward her, but Charlotte’s face twisted with hatred.

“Leave it, Helena!” she snarled. Then, without another word, Charlotte and her companions hurried down the corridor, almost shoving through the crowd, leaving Helena stranded amidst a pit of vipers.

They stared at her, these unrecognizable faces, their movements slow and disjointed and their japing smiles growing ever wider.

“Are you well, Your Grace?” Someone asked but Helena didn’t know who. The walls seemed to grow closer, the air now sickly with heat.

The champagne she’d consumed pressed threateningly at the back of her throat, and she pushed past the concerned guests, frantic in her haste to escape. She could hardly be bothered to care that she was making a scene, though she thought she heard Lowen call out to her. She didn’t stop.

She surged through the double doors and into the vast stretch of the drive, her eyes scanning the line of carriages.

When she spotted Carrivick’s, she reached for the door handles, tugging them impatiently. A footman quickly descended from his perch atop the carriage to assist, but Helena swung the doors open herself, practically throwing herself onto the seat, her sobs loud and uncontrollable.

Lowen followed closely behind, slamming the door shut. “What on earth happened? Did someone hurt you?”

“I just want to go h-home,” Helena sobbed, her voice cracking. She didn’t know when the tears had started, but they spilled down her cheeks like a waterfall. She wiped her face with the back of her gloved hands, but more kept coming, blurring her vision.

“First, tell me—did someone hurt you?” His tone was gentle but edged with concern.

Helena shook her head, unable to speak.

A moment later, she heard him pound his fist on the carriage roof. The carriage lurched into motion, followed by a sharp whistle and shout from outside. They were the first to leave, the path clear from the usual congestion of other guests preparing their departure.

Helena remained curled in her seat, her face hidden from Lowen. The tears hadn’t stopped, but her body ached from the exertion, her chest heaving as she struggled to catch her breath. She heard him shift beside her, his shadow looming over her with concern.

“Please, Helena. What troubles you?” he asked softly.

This only made her weep harder. His rare moments of gentleness, now appearing only because he didn’t yet know she’d humiliated herself—humiliated him—were what truly concerned him.

When Helena didn’t answer, he didn’t press her further.

Instead, with the same gentleness, he drew her into his arms. Helena collapsed into his warmth, her weariness overpowering the wariness of what would come when he eventually learned what had happened.

In that moment, she desperately needed comfort—something she had found little of since their marriage.

Though her family wasn’t far, they moved in their own circles, and Helena had her own life to live.

“Are you in pain? Should I call for a doctor?” His voice rumbled in her ear, smooth and deep, and she caught the faint scent of spirits on his breath. Again, she shook her head, and again, he didn’t press further, only tightened his hold on her as she continued to weep.

It was only when Lowen carried her into her chambers, after barking at the servants to return to their own quarters, that he spoke again.

“Helena, I cannot bear this—tell me what troubles you?” His voice was sharper now, though still laced with worry.

“Nothing you won’t hear about as soon as you wake,” she cried, fine strands of hair clinging to her damp face. The throbbing in the center of her forehead worsened as she looked up at Lowen, who had set her down on the bed.

Growing more impatient, Lowen sighed and sat next to her. “Enough of this—speak plainly.”

“I don’t want to,” Helena said, rising and stumbling slightly as she made her way to the other side of the bed. She caught herself on the bedpost, her hands trembling.

“I am in no mood to tolerate your cruelty tonight.”

“Cruelty?” Lowen rose as well but did not attempt to approach her. “What cruelty?”

“Do not pretend you don’t enjoy it,” she retorted through a fresh wave of tears. A few clung to her chin, and she quickly wiped them away. “You take pleasure in tormenting me.”

Lowen said nothing for a moment, his gaze unwavering. She could see a thousand fleeting thoughts flicker behind his eyes, and for a moment, she thought he might deny her accusation or, at the very least, offer her comfort.

"I have been cruel to you," he admitted, quietly. "And I have taken pleasure in it."

The words struck her like a physical blow. A stinging pain pierced her chest. “Why? What did I ever do to you?”

“Nothing.”