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There were still faint smears of blood on Lowen’s fingers as he left Helena’s room. He had thought he’d washed it all off, but the stains of his actions would not be so easily removed.

He had committed a grave sin against his wife—one that went beyond the physical.

Every assumption he’d made about her, every contemptuous thought that had formed long before her lips ever spoke his name, now circled back to haunt him, their mocking echoes ringing in his ears.

The consequences were glaringly obvious in the pain he'd inflicted on her.

It was one thing to harm her with words, but another to see it etched so plainly on her body.

But Montgomery had told everyone that—what had he done to Helena?

Lowen remembered the night—more than a year ago now—when Helena had nearly collided into him, with Montgomery lazily trailing behind her. He recalled the smugness on Montgomery’s face, that snide smile that had made Lowen’s blood boil even then.

Lowen swallowed thickly, his anger burning through the guilt.

He collapsed into the armchair, facing her door.

He should go back in, apologize, hold her in his arms again, and comfort her.

Yes, that was what he should do. But he didn’t.

She was sleeping, and he didn’t want to disturb her again.

He would speak to her tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow.

He would make it right. He’d have Cook prepare a splendid breakfast and an equally splendid supper.

He wouldn’t even go to Parliament. He’d spend the entire day with Helena—making amends, restoring some semblance of peace.

Yet despite his resolve, Lowen could not calm the nervous trembling within him. His ringed finger tapped rapidly against the armrest, the sound matching the frantic drumming of his thoughts. He longed for the light of dawn, eager to greet her with an offering of forgiveness.

The dawn eventually came, but Helena didn’t.

She remained in her room the entire day, locked away from the world. Plates of food were brought up, stacked high and untouched, and the only one to enter or leave her chambers was her lady’s maid.

When Lowen confronted the servant about Helena’s wellbeing, the alarmed woman merely stammered, “She’s feeling unwell, Your Grace.” And when he inquired whether a doctor was needed, the servant shook her head and hurried off to her duties.

Irritated, Lowen wanted to press the servant further about his wife but realized he was acting like a madman. A simple knock on Helena’s door would solve everything, but he didn’t do that. Instead, he chose to leave it alone, resolved to apologize when she was feeling better.

"Will Helena ever leave her room?" Thomasin asked, as usual, having invaded Lowen’s study out of boredom. This time, she brought her sketchbook with her. From his desk, Lowen could see that he was her current subject.

She had drawn him as half-crazed as he felt—unshaved, hair unkempt, cravat loose. Lowen hadn’t been sleeping.

Three days had passed since Helena drunkenly fell on Lady Charlotte—or had pushed her down, depending on the account—and three days since Lowen had done what he had done to Helena.

The former hardly mattered to him now; what tormented him was how he had taken Helena’s virginity.

He had been so smug, so sanctimonious in his assumptions about her that when he entered her—rough and unyielding—he had meant to punish her, even after she tearfully confronted him about his cruelty.

He was cruel, and he hadn’t stopped being cruel.

Lowen hadn’t seen Helena since that night—not that she wanted to see him.

She had turned away all visitors, even her own family.

The Hargreaves had protested, of course, but Helena had been insistent, claiming some malady had overtaken her—one that could very well claim them, too, if they came too close.

Lowen needed to see her, needed to prostrate himself before her and beg for forgiveness until his throat bled. But he didn’t know where to begin.

He buried his head in his hands, overwhelmed by shame.

"Lowen?"

“I don’t know, Thomasin,” he answered with a sigh, lifting his head to look at her.

“I tried to speak with her last night. I even brought up a fruit tart, but she didn’t want it,” Thomasin frowned. “She loves fruit tarts.”

Lowen grit his teeth against the guilt rising within him. He didn’t respond, the knot in his throat too thick to speak.

“What do you think is the matter with her?”

I hurt her.

More than that, he had degraded her.

Virgin or not, their first coupling should not have been like that.

No husband should take his wife in such a manner.

The breakfast he’d reluctantly eaten began to rise in his throat.

“I don’t know—you don’t need to concern yourself with it,” he said. He could barely look at Thomasin.

His sister raised a skeptical brow. “What do you know?”

“Out!” Lowen barked, rising abruptly from his chair and waving his hands in her direction. “Go bother your governess.”

The time to speak with Helena was long overdue. He had spent three long days hiding behind his shame, pride, arrogance, and many other faults.

“Fine.” Thomasin huffed, clearly annoyed. “But don’t forget we’re supposed to visit the traveling menagerie.”

“I’ll take you,” he replied, containing his impatience. Thomasin didn’t deserve to bear the weight of his foul mood, and he’d make it up to her too.

“But I want Helena to come with us,” she whined.

“She will,” Lowen assured her, more confident than he felt.

Now, alone in his study, Lowen paced in circles around his desk for a few minutes. He wanted his apology to encompass everything he had done wrong to Helena, not wishing to leave anything out for her consideration. He had done a damned lot to his poor wife.

When he finally knocked on Helena’s door, the apology he had rehearsed slipped away, like sand through his fingers. Rationality and thought became difficult to hold onto every time his eyes met hers. Today was no different; despite her swollen face from crying, she was still lovely.

Helena was seated at her vanity, her long hair cascading loosely as her lady’s maid brushed it carefully. It was still early, and she must have just woken up. But at Lowen’s entrance, the maid paused, setting the ivory brush down and excusing herself from the room.

He approached hesitantly. Helena lowered her chin to look down at her hands, picking at her nails.

“I’ve come to apologize,” he said, a little too stiffly. It occurred to him that he had hardly ever apologized to anyone except Benjamin. But those apologies had all come too late—after his brother’s death, when Benjamin could neither protest nor accept them.

“I should have apologized days ago,” he continued. “I don’t know why I didn’t.” Lowen stopped and shook his head in frustration. “That’s a lie. I’m sorry. I didn’t come because I was ashamed.”

Helena didn’t respond, her eyes still lowered. Lowen crouched beside her, trying to meet her gaze, but she turned her head away.

“What I’ve done—what I did to you, Helena, it’s shameful. You deserved none of it,” he said, taking her limp hand in his. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry for hurting you. Please, Helena… look at me.”

The room was eerily silent, and Lowen could neither hear Helena’s breathing nor his own. He was frozen, waiting for her to respond. He would take anything—her anger, her sadness—anything, as long as she said something.

“I don’t want to,” she finally whispered. “ You hate me . I don’t want to look at someone who hates me.”

Shame, like a blade, sank deep into his gut. For a moment, he thought he might double over from it.

“I don’t hate you,” he said, fiercely. It was the truth. “I don’t, Helena—I swear it. Please, look at me.”

As he held her hand, a tremor of fear coursed through him. The fear that she might never forgive him gripped his chest, his stomach tightening at the thought. But he refused to let that doubt take hold. He gave Helena’s hand a gentle squeeze.

“I don’t need you to forgive me now,” he said hoarsely, “or ever. But I am willing to do anything to earn that forgiveness, so that one day, you might consider it. Please, Helena. I want us to start anew.”

The silence stretched between them as Helena considered his words. A tear, like morning dew on a rose petal, slid slowly down her soft cheek, but she made no effort to brush it away.

Lowen brought her hand to his lips, lingering in her sweet scent. “I’m sorry, Helena,” he whispered against her skin.

“You want to start anew?” she asked, her voice a little brittle from disuse over the past few days.

“Yes, but only if you wish it,” Lowen said. “All I want now is whatever you desire.”

He watched as Helena bit her lower lip in thought. After a moment, she nodded, but still, she didn’t turn her eyes to him. Lowen longed for her gaze but held himself back. He would tread carefully now, as he should have from the beginning.

“I want to go for a walk,” she said.

“Of course. When? Where?”

"Now,” she replied, pulling her hand away. Lowen worried for a moment she meant to go without him, but then she finally turned to face him. “I don’t want us to go to St. James or Hyde Park. I don’t want to see anyone.”

All the better, Lowen thought. As always, he wanted Helena to himself. “I know where we can go. There’s a lovely heath just outside of town, with fields of flowers and open air.”

Helena nodded. “Thomasin is welcome to join.”

Lowen’s heart soared with relief and cautious joy. He didn’t deserve Helena’s kindness and had been blind to it for far too long. “She’ll be most pleased to come along.”

“I shall prepare myself, then,” Helena said, picking up her brush.

“Here,” Lowen said gently, taking the brush from her and running his fingers through the silky strands of honey-colored hair. “Let me.”

Helena didn’t object as he combed her hair, instead watching him through the reflection in her looking glass, slowly twisting her wedding ring around her finger.