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Thomasin looped her arm through Helena’s, leaving Lowen to trail behind them. Helena had no intention of excluding him, but she still felt too meek to touch him. The urge had not yet come naturally to her, even if she wished for his affections.

There was hardly a crowd—most of the patrons appeared to be locals, drawn more by curiosity than thrill. As they approached the first cage, Helena understood why: the fetid stench of droppings and rot was enough to burn the hair from her nostrils. Worse still were the animals themselves.

Within a cage of weathered bars, a mass of peacocks and peahens lay crammed together, their wings overlapping, some stretched as if desperate for relief. Helena wondered when they had last flown.

She craned her neck to peer down the line of cages—creatures she’d only seen in picture books.

A camel in one. A zebra in another. And further down, a large cat with filthy, tawny fur paced in frantic circles.

Its eyes were wild, nearly mad. When it reached one end of the cage, it struck its head against the bars with a sickening thud.

It was too much, too cruel.

Helena dropped her arm, backing away from Thomasin, from the cages.

“I—I don’t like this,” she said, swallowing with great difficulty. Her throat felt tight.

A man—either the owner or a gamekeeper—took notice of her distress. “Is something the matter, my lady?”

Lowen, who had been lingering behind her, stepped forward. His hands landed gently on her shoulders. “Helena, what’s wrong?”

“The a-animals,” she warbled, her voice cracking as moisture welled in her eyes. “Why do you keep them like this?”

The man cast a wary glance back at the cages. “I’m sorry—I try to keep them well, but the animals need more than the crowds ever pay.”

A few of the scattered patrons turned to look, some drawn by the ducal crest emblazoned on Lowen’s carriage, others by the sight of a woman in tears.

“Helena, why don’t we leave?” Lowen murmured.

“Yes,” Thomasin echoed quickly, looking equally disturbed by the scenery. “Let’s go.”

“I’m sorry,” Helena whispered, turning away and hiding her face in her gloved hands. Her legs trembled as she made her way back to the carriage.

“Go with her,” she heard Lowen say gently to Thomasin.

Inside the carriage, Thomasin sat beside her, rubbing slow, soothing circles on Helena’s back as she wept. Lowen, however, remained behind, still speaking with the man. Their conversation stretched on for several minutes.

“What are they doing?” Helena asked, blinking away a tear.

Thomasin leaned closer to the window, frowning. “I’m not sure, but I’d like to go. This was all far too dreary.”

“I’m sorry, Thomasin,” Helena said between sniffs. “I wanted to give you a good day.”

Thomasin turned back to her. “You don’t have to apologize for this. We couldn’t have known what it would really be like.”

“I know, but…I just wanted you to have a good day.”

“There’s still plenty of time for that,” Thomasin said with a smile.

Just then, Lowen returned, stepping into the carriage with a quiet apology for his absence.

“What did you say to him?” Thomasin asked almost at once.

“He can afford proper feed now,” Lowen said simply, settling into his seat. He glanced up at Helena. “And space. It won’t look like that next time—if there is a next time.”

Helena looked back out at the cages in disbelief. “How? What did you do?”

“I gave him the means to do better. What he does with it is up to him.”

“Really?” Helena nearly gasped. “That’s incredibly kind of you, Lowen.”

A smattering of color rose to the tops of Lowen’s cheeks. “The man clearly needed help,” he said gruffly.

If it weren’t for Thomasin, Helena might have thrown herself at Lowen and kissed his cheek in gratitude. Instead, she smiled. “Thank you.”

As Thomasin had promised, there was still time to enjoy the day, so they journeyed to Gunter’s for a treat to soothe their earlier troubles.

Helena had come to learn that Lowen’s penchant for sweets rivaled her own, as he requested two flavors to fill the small glass cup the ices were served in.

Helena was more decisive in her choice—pistachio.

But when Lowen let her sample his elderflower flavor, she realized she might have chosen wrong.

He offered her the rest, but Helena declined, saying they’d simply have to return soon so she could have a cup of elderflower ice to herself.

“I think we should go for ices every day,” Thomasin declared brightly, licking the last bit of chocolate from her spoon. “Look how much happier we are already.”

She wasn’t wrong. Helena was happier—because of Lowen. The horror of earlier had softened, eased by a kindness she hadn’t asked for. He had acted entirely of his own accord.

She watched as he offered the rest of his sweet to his sister, who—unlike Helena—did not so graciously decline.

It warmed her, that small gesture. The way he was with Thomasin.

The same afternoon, Helena learned that The Marriage of Figaro was premiering at the theatre that very evening. She brought the suggestion to Lowen, and he made the arrangements at once, casually mentioning the box he owned but had never used.

Helena had only attended the opera once with her family. They hadn’t the means to own a box, but it mattered little where she sat—she had been content simply to have the opportunity to attend at all.

What surprised her now was that she wanted to go at all.

She hadn’t shown her face in society for over a week.

It wasn’t the gossip that kept her away—though surely, the story of her fall on Charlotte still lingered—but her own weariness.

She wasn’t ready to be seen beside Lowen when he was the Duke of Carrivick and she, the Duchess.

But at least at the opera, no one would really talk to her and all she really wished was to have some semblance of entertainment other than the ballroom.

It was fortunate timing. The modiste had finished the last of her gowns, and what better excuse to wear one than a night at the theatre? But as Mercy fastened the final hook and stepped back, Helena frowned at her reflection.

Her cleavage spilled from the bodice—just as it always did.

It couldn’t be helped. Still, for the first time since childhood, she loathed the sight of it.

That part of her had been both lusted after and scorned—drawing dog-like men to heel and the prudes to sneer, as if she’d chosen how her body had grown.

She knew Lowen didn’t hate it. He was a man, after all. But she hated it now. It made her feel as though her body was the only thing worth knowing about her.

Ignoring Mercy’s protests, Helena pulled on a chemisette to cover herself. It clashed with the green evening gown, making the entire look awkward, almost matronly. But it was what she wanted. And when she descended the stairs, Lowen barely raised a brow.

Later, casting a nervous glance over the theatre from her high perch in the box, Helena tried to settle into her seat. She hadn’t expected to feel so visible—suspended above the crowd like a toy dangling over a cat.

Lowen sat beside her, seemingly unaware of her restlessness as he read the program, while she had already crumpled hers in distraction. As she attempted to smooth it out, he glanced up.

"Would you like mine?"

“Oh. No, thank you,” Helena replied, pressing a corner of the wrinkled paper between her thumb and fingers. But Lowen gently took it from her hand, replacing it with his own.

“Do you want to leave?” he asked. “We can always come back another time.”

Helena shook her head.

Lowen placed his hand on the arm of her chair, still too apprehensive to touch her. “I won’t be angry if you wish to leave.”

“I’ll feel better once the opera starts and the candles are put out,” she said, inching her arm a little closer to where the tips of his fingers rested. “I simply don’t wish to speak to anyone tonight.”

“I will make certain that no one will,” he assured her.

Pleasure swelled in her chest, and Helena nodded, trying to stifle the rapidly growing affection she felt for him. It would do her no good to fall so easily—she reminded herself of that.

Her husband kept his promise. During intermission, when many patrons stood to stretch their legs and mingle, Lowen dutifully guarded the door to their box. They kept the curtain drawn, but a few bold guests attempted to peek through. Lowen merely fixed them with a glower, and they darted away.

But one man, whose face Helena couldn’t place, lightly rapped on the wall outside their box and gestured toward Lowen, sneaking a wink in her direction.

Lowen, equally as confused as Helena, excused himself to speak with the man, positioning himself at the entryway to block the stranger’s view of her.

Helena tried her hand at eavesdropping, craning her neck toward Lowen, but she only caught the mention of Brooks’s before she saw the man attempt to hand something to him. Lowen merely crossed his arms and said, “Don’t you dare presume to hand me anything,” before returning to his seat.

“Who was that?” she asked.

For a moment, Lowen’s face hardened—a familiar reminder of the duke. But when his grey eyes met hers, the stone crumbled, and he offered her a smile.

“No one important to either of us.”

“Then why did he come here?”

“He’s a drunkard who frequents Brooks’s,” Lowen said, swallowing hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “He mistook me for another.”

Still unsatisfied, she probed further. “How could he possibly mistake you for someone else?”

“He mistook our box for another,” Lowen answered evenly. “He believed there to be someone else in here.”

“I see. I hope he finds who he’s looking for.”

But the peculiarity of the situation continued to scratch at her. She felt certain the man had purposely sought her husband out.

“Never mind him, Helena. Are you enjoying yourself?”

“I am.” She nodded. She truly was enjoying herself. “Thank you for taking me.”

Lowen leaned toward her in his seat, still keeping himself from touching her. “If there is anything else you wish of me, do not hesitate to tell me. I shall make all the time for you.”

Helena’s heart soared, ready to burst from her chest and land in Lowen’s lap.

Oh, how she wished it had been like this from the start.

But the ache was bittersweet. It reminded her that all good things must end, that she must stay practical and aloof—just as Lowen had been before.

This act of repentance could easily be a performance, a ploy for a fleeting moment of goodwill between them.

He didn’t love her, and the rising question of whether he ever could brought her great discomfort.

It was best she remained on guard.