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True to his word, Lowen escorted Helena wherever she wished to go.

One evening, they visited Covent Garden—much to Thomasin’s dismay, as she was still too young to attend—and watched a pantomime while sharing candied almonds he’d purchased from a local vendor.

More recently, they had strolled beneath a starry sky through Vauxhall, taking a secluded path often used for clandestine meetings.

Whenever they happened upon a couple, Helena distanced herself from him, perhaps fearing that the image of coupling might inspire amorous advances from him.

Lowen could hardly blame her. He had rutted her crudely, in a manner suited for a more experienced woman—one he had wrongly assumed her to be.

But that was no excuse. It had been their first time together in the marriage bed, and Lowen vowed to make amends for that in due time.

Now, all he wanted was the simple tenderness of her hand in his as they walked side by side.

It was strange to think of himself this way, as a man who merely wished to be in his wife’s company and to make her happy.

From the few memories he had of his father, he recalled him declaring it unfashionable for a husband and wife to spend too much time together.

Nonsensical rhetoric, Lowen had come to realize—though he sometimes wondered if his mother had taken that sentiment to mean she shouldn’t spend much time with her children, either.

As he gradually relaxed into this new role, sharp reminders of his father still snapped at him. The man had barely grieved Benjamin before dying himself, but not before imparting strict edicts and misguided beliefs that had shaped Lowen for far too long.

The day after Benjamin had been laid to rest, his father summoned him to the same study Lowen had only entered once before.

“Such is my fortune, that my son and heir dies,” the old duke said, lowering himself into the leather chair behind the massive desk. “Still, it is somewhat of a comfort that I have you. But we must make haste.”

Lowen stood stiffly on the other side of the desk, unsure whether to sit.

“Make haste for what, Your Grace?” he had asked.

“For everything,” the old duke replied. “Everything your brother learned, you must now learn twice as fast. By the time I’m through with you, I expect a worthy successor.”

There was no mention of Benny. No condolences. No acknowledgment that Lowen had lost not just a brother, but the only person in the household who had ever tried to make time for him.

“You cannot indulge in grief,” his father continued, rifling through papers.

“You are no longer the spare, Lowen. You are the future of this house. You will speak little, listen more, and never betray weakness. Your bearing will be impeccable. Your reputation, immaculate. You are more than just a man now.”

And just like that, his mourning had been replaced with marching orders. The boy who had loved his brother was dismissed; the heir expected to replace him was summoned.

Now, in the Dowager Countess of Auden’s drawing room, Lowen found himself smiling as he watched Helena play the pianoforte—no sheet music required, just as she had told him.

This was the first assembly she had attended since drunkenly trampling Lady Charlotte.

Though her absence from society would do little to stifle the gossip, at least now she was safer from outright scrutiny with him at her side.

The guests at the Dowager Countess’s were not the typical set Lowen associated with, but Helena seemed to find comfort among the like-minded young women who frequented her gatherings.

So, he would not protest. If she found kindred spirits to offset the individuals in his circle—many of whom he struggled to tolerate himself—that was all that mattered.

Her new friends gathered at the pianoforte, watching with delight, while the Dowager Countess swayed to the music, a drink in hand. Lowen stood by the hearth, his elbow resting on the mantel, and watched Helena with quiet admiration.

That was until Lowen felt a nudge at his side. He glanced down. It was the man from the opera—Mr. Pruitt, or was it Pritchard? It hardly mattered. He was one of the fools at Lady Crockwell’s party, placing that asinine wager on whether or not Helena would marry this season.

“Pardon me, Your Grace,” the man murmured.

They lingered in silence for a moment. Lowen considered walking away, but more guests shuffled in front of him, blocking his path. He stayed put, hoping the man would have the good sense to keep his distance.

“Are you sure you’ve no desire to pocket the winnings?

” Mr. Pruitt—or Pritchard—leaned in too closely, the heavy smell of spirits on his breath.

“Quite a few wagered against her. Very few believed Miss Helena—er, Her Grace—would marry. There’s plenty of coin to split among the winners.

Consider it a wedding gift from the club. ”

“I was never part of that wager,” Lowen replied through gritted teeth. “And I’ve no use for the paltry sum you hold. Since you’re unwed and without fortune, I suggest you put it to better use in Soho Square—if it’ll even take you that far.”

At the mention of the notorious street of brothels, Mr. Pruitt—or Pritchard—flushed a deeper shade of red, his drink-swelled face burning with embarrassment. “A simple no would’ve sufficed, Your Grace.”

“I already said no at the opera,” Lowen hissed, his ire rising dangerously. If this man continued his tiresome chattering, Lowen would throw him through a window.

“We just wanted to be certain, Your Grace. It was only right,” the man shrugged. “You know, some thought you orchestrated the entire wager, but?—”

Lowen couldn’t bear it any longer. He seized Mr. Pruitt—or Pritchard—by the cravat, nearly lifting him off the floor.

“I am trying to listen to my wife’s performance, which I cannot do because you won’t stop talking.

So help me God, if another word leaves your rotten mouth, I’ll play an entire sonata by smashing your face against the keys. Do you hear me?”

Only the wheeze of Mr. Pruitt's—or Pritchard’s—throat broke the silence that fell over the room. Aghast faces gaped at Lowen from all corners, but the most important one sat at the pianoforte, her hands frozen over the keys in shock.

Lowen cleared his throat, releasing the cravat from his fist. “If it pleases Her Grace to continue.”

The Dowager Countess of Auden threw her head back suddenly, laughing heartily. “Let this be a lesson to you all if you dare to interrupt Her Grace’s wonderful playing. Please, continue, my dear!”

Helena, stupefied, struggled to recall where she had stopped. After a moment, she began playing an entirely different composition, the horrified expression still lingering on her face.

"As you were, Mr. Pritchard," Lowen sniffed, his tone dismissive as he turned his attention back to his wife.

“It’s Prentice,” he squeaked, shrinking away from Lowen.

As Helena resumed her playing, Lady Auden drifted over with a toothy grin.

“Your Grace, I do hope you won’t treat me as you did poor Mr. Prentice,” she whispered, casting a pitying glance toward the man now seated at a safe distance.

“But I had to say it—your wife is a treasure. Clever, charming, and far too generous with the company she keeps. I’m quite taken with her. ”

The tips of Lowen’s ears burned at the praise, though his eyes never left Helena.

She looked as elegant and at ease at the pianoforte as she had on the dance floor.

It shamed him to think he’d only danced with her once—and even more to realize how long it had taken him to see what others had known all along.

“She is a treasure,” he agreed softly.

“It’s a shame she won’t participate in the tableau vivant ,” Lady Auden went on. “But she agreed to organize events with me for the charity I run in support of the foundling asylum.”

Lowen blinked, caught off guard. He hadn’t known. Of course she hadn’t mentioned it—she still wasn’t entirely comfortable telling him much. And he couldn’t blame her.

“If you need anything from me, my lady, do not hesitate to ask,” Lowen said. This earned him a raised brow of surprise from Lady Auden, though she nodded graciously.

When Helena finished playing, she gave a small nod and gestured for Lowen to follow her out of the withdrawing room. It wasn’t until they stepped into the quiet, moonlit courtyard that she finally turned to him.

“What was that about?” she asked, calm but pointed, clearly referencing the scene with Mr. Prentice.

“He wouldn’t stop talking,” Lowen answered simply. He began walking slowly past her, further into the courtyard in case anyone remained near the doorway.

Helena followed, her expression wary, eyes narrowing with suspicion. “I remember him. That was the man from the opera—the one you said mistook you for someone else. Tell me the truth. What did he really want?”

Lowen exhaled slowly, reluctant. Telling her meant hurting her, and he hated the thought of doing that.

“Some time ago, a few men made a wager that you wouldn’t marry this season.

Obviously, you did. And since very few bet on that outcome, they thought it fitting to offer me the winnings. As a wedding gift, they said.”

Helena paused, taking it in. Her brows drew together slightly. “And you didn’t place any bets yourself?”

“None.”

“When was this?” she pressed.

“At the start of the season. Lady Crockwell’s party.”

“Oh. That was the night you and I...” She trailed off, unable to land on a proper description of whatever had transpired between them.

An argument? A spat? An unfortunate encounter?

Lowen didn’t know either—and preferred to leave it where it belonged: in the past. She didn’t finish the sentence, nor did he prompt her to.

“Why on earth would they make such a wager?”

There was a stone bench nestled beneath an arched trellis, thick with vines that laced through the gaps in the latticework. Lowen made his way to it and sat, gesturing for Helena to join him. To his delight, she did. Their thighs brushed as she settled beside him.

“They’re bored men,” he finally said, leaning in just enough to catch the sweetness of her perfume. “And when they’re bored, they talk.”

“They talk about me.”

“Yes.” He wasn’t sure if it had been a question.

“But you were there with them—did you say anything about me?” she asked, careful now.

“No,” he said, firm. “I would never.”

It was true, in a way. He had kept all his worst thoughts to himself—but still, he felt like a liar.

She went quiet. And Lowen, suddenly uncertain, wondered if she believed him.

“I can hazard a guess as to what they said about me,” Helena murmured, sounding more defeated than bitter.

Lowen wasn’t sure if she expected a response, but she went on.

“Men like that think they’re such prizes.” Her lip curled slightly. “They couldn’t even distinguish Felicity and me from one another—they didn’t bother trying, and they didn’t care to know me. One of them even touched me?—”

Lowen stiffened. “Touched you? Who touched you?”

Helena shrank into herself, her voice barely above a whisper. “Mr. William Montgomery—at a ball last year. He... he wanted to escort me to the gallery, but instead he led me far from everyone. He slipped his hand down my bodice.” She pulled her arms tightly around herself. “He squeezed my breast?—”

The vague pieces of that memory had all now come together. Montgomery had been the root of it all.

Lowen’s jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists at his sides. The thought of Montgomery’s hands on her, violating her, made his blood run cold. He could feel the vein in his forehead throb with the pulse of his anger.

The fury wasn’t just for what Montgomery had done—it was for the helplessness he now felt. The man had defiled her, and there was nothing Lowen could do to undo it. He couldn’t take back his own misjudgment. He couldn’t erase the damage the rumors had done to Helena.

He wanted to make Montgomery pay. But what could Lowen do now?

“I’m so sorry, Helena,” Lowen rasped, heavy with guilt. It wasn’t just an apology for what had happened to her, but for his own failures—the ones he hadn’t seen before, the ones that had led them here.

“It was a long time ago now.” She said with a small wave of her hand, but the corners of her mouth were still taut. “He’s long gone now. I think he purchased an army commission.”

Lowen's eyes darkened. “Then I hope he dies in battle.”

He paused, considering. “No. That’s too noble. Let him perish from a French disease.”

Helena laughed—still, there was no sweeter sound—and placed her hand on his knee. Lowen’s heart skipped excitedly at the touch. “Goodness, bloodthirsty tonight, aren’t you?”

“Only when it pertains to you.” He took her hand in his, cradling it as if he would a robin’s egg. “I thought you’d be angry about the wager. I should’ve just told you that night at the opera, but you were enjoying yourself, and I would not let anyone take that enjoyment from you.”

“I wish you’d told me that evening, but I understand.” She gave him a sidelong glance. “Though, now you’ll be the subject of gossip after what happened in that drawing room.”

He shrugged. “I deserve it, but I’m willing to do it again.”

“We’ll never be welcomed anywhere then,” Helena laughed again, and Lowen joined her.

“All the better. We can stay home. Speaking of which, would you like to leave?”

“No, not yet.” She dropped her head to his shoulder. “Let’s stay under the stars a little while longer.”

Lowen nuzzled against her, the fine strands of her hair feeling like satin against his cheek.

Never before had he known such intimacy.

There had been no childhood sweethearts, no mistresses, no visits to brothels.

The affection he shared with Helena now was something he had never experienced, something he hadn’t known he’d been missing.

And now that he knew it, he was glad he hadn’t known it before. He wanted this—only this—with her.