Page 38

The day of Felicity’s wedding had arrived—an occasion she had looked forward to since the moment she met her soon-to-be husband, Simon—and Helena was overwrought with joy for her sister.

The ceremony took place in St. Mary’s Church.

Helena, seated beside Lowen and Thomasin in the pews just adjacent to her mother and father, wiped at her watering eyes.

Felicity and her golden-haired groom, the Right Honorable Lord Simon Axford, basked in the streams of morning light pouring through the church’s arched windows.

Felicity’s smile was irrepressible, and when the rings were exchanged, Helena began to bawl in earnest, her handkerchief soaked through. Without a word, Lowen exchanged it for a fresh one of his own. She squeezed his hand in thanks, her own smile threatening to split her face.

It had been well over three weeks since she and Lowen agreed to start afresh. Helena had gradually begun to soften toward him—not merely because he indulged nearly all her whims, but because she truly enjoyed his company. And she suspected, with a quiet sort of hope, that he enjoyed hers as well.

Not only was he her faithful escort wherever she wished to go, but even at home he sought her out—for tea when he needed respite from his work, to play cards after dinner, or simply to read to her in the library while she embroidered.

It was dangerously easy to lose herself in the languid rhythm of his voice, her fingers fumbling loops and stitches as she listened.

Beyond their shared activities, conversation with him had grown considerably easier.

Never would she have suspected they shared such a sense of humor, or that they would laugh together like schoolchildren.

Helena began to wonder if Lowen was finally unburdening himself with her—allowing himself the ease he had never known in childhood.

Not that he spoke much of the past; only occasional fragments slipped through.

She never pressed for more, even as her heart ached to offer comfort.

All in due course, she reminded herself.

Speaking of which, they hadn’t made love again—though that had been Helena’s choice. She had been sore for a few days after that first time, wincing whenever she sat. Still, she melted at parts of the memory—the warmth of his lips, the safety in his arms, the feel of his body on hers.

She glanced over at him, seized by the sudden urge to press a kiss to his cheek. Lowen looked especially dashing in his new ensemble—a shade of blue she quite liked, reminiscent of their wedding day.

Sensing she was watching him, Lowen looked down at her quizzically.

Startled, Helena snapped her attention back to the ceremony. But to her delight, his gloved fingers soon found hers, and they remained gently entwined until the guests rose to depart.

By a stroke of generosity, Lowen had offered to host the wedding breakfast at Carrivick House after Helena had mentioned in passing that her mother and father weren’t sure they could manage to squeeze everyone into their dining room again.

The breakfast had gone splendidly, stretching well past the usual hour.

Even afterward, many guests lingered, including Felicity and her husband, though he had wandered off with Isaac and Lowen, leaving Felicity to seek Helena out for a private moment.

The two women found themselves in an unused music room, with Felicity pressing her back against the door as a makeshift barrier.

“What is consummation really like?” her sister asked in a panic. “Mother said it can be painful at first, but that some women find joy in it. Tell me, have you enjoyed it?”

Helena, more than a little uncertain, stammered, “I—I think it depends entirely on the two of you. It can be... overwhelming at first. But if you feel safe, and he’s gentle, I imagine it can become something quite tender.”

“Do not say you haven’t consummated the marriage!” Felicity’s eyes widened. “Doesn’t he wish for heirs?”

“We have consummated our marriage,” Helena snapped, a little redder in the face than before. “And heirs will come.”

Though not presently, as the recent ache in her breasts suggested her monthly courses were soon to begin.

“How long have the two of you been married?”

“I thought we were here to talk about you,” she said begrudgingly.

“So, is lovemaking awful then?” Felicity’s face was taut with worry, and Helena wished she had the right words to comfort her.

“N-no.” She hesitated, carefully choosing her words. Recounting that night with Lowen was difficult—it had been painful, for more reasons than one, though not unbearable. “Kissing is nice,” she offered gently. “And being held. I think there’s more to lovemaking than what we’ve been told.”

“Simon and I haven’t kissed much. He’s quite proper, like His Grace—except he smiles more.” Felicity looked down at her gloves, worrying a loose thread between her fingers. “I’m just afraid I’ll disappoint him.”

“Nonsense, Fee. He adores you.”

Helena hated seeing her sister like this. Felicity had always been the more self-assured of the two—more intelligent, more sensible, too. If anything, Simon should be the one worried about disappointing her. Though Helena kept that to herself.

Her sister leaned in suddenly, dropping her voice. “Have you tried what the modiste suggested? Rubbing his… part … between your breasts?”

Good Lord. Helena had forgotten all about that. The thought of it still blew steam from her ears.

“No,” she answered quickly. “I haven’t had the opportunity to.” Though now that Felicity had brought it up… perhaps she should.

“Hmm. I think I’m going to try it tonight.”

Helena nearly choked. “F-Fe—Fee!”

“I’ll let you know how it goes,” Felicity added with a wolfish grin, though her lips faltered slightly. “I hope that we’ll be happy.”

“Of course, the two of you will be happy,” Helena said earnestly, taking Felicity’s hands in hers. “And if Simon gives you any trouble, you tell me—I’ll set him straight.”

“I don’t think you’re any more effective than I am,” Felicity teased with a raise of her brow.

“Hmph.” Helena playfully tossed her head. “I suppose Lowen could help, then.”

Felicity laughed. “I meant to tell you that you look considerably better than the last time we saw each other.”

“I was terribly ill when you visited,” Helena lied. She kept what had happened with Lowen to herself for her family’s sake. Though she loved them, it was easier to move on without their interference. If they knew what Lowen had said, they wouldn’t be so forgiving.

Felicity hummed in acknowledgment, brushing the back of her finger along Helena’s cheek. “Whatever it is that cured you, you’re glowing.”

“I think I might be happy,” she said, the words slipping out before she fully considered them. And yet, she realized, she meant it.

That thought lingered with her as Helena later bid her sister and new husband farewell, watching their carriage grow smaller and smaller until it turned onto the street beyond the wrought iron gates of Carrivick House.

It was another fine day, though the air had a chill, with a few clouds drifting in front of the sun, stealing its warmth.

“Where was it there were going again?” Lowen asked from beside her, his hand resting on the small of her back.

“Weymouth,” she answered, leaning closer. “Lord Axford owns a cottage by the sea.”

“Very romantic.”

Helena noticed the slight catch in Lowen’s breath before he added, “You deserved a honeymoon. We should’ve gone to Cornwall—or anywhere but here.”

"We can make our honeymoon here," Helena suggested, a shiver running through her as his fingers danced over the buttons at the back of her gown. “It’s a beautiful day, still early, and Thomasin is away.”

It delighted Helena to learn how much Thomasin and her mother, Margaret, had taken to one another.

With the absence of her daughters creating a certain melancholy, Margaret had directed her maternal instincts toward Lowen’s sister.

She had invited Thomasin to join her and Josiah at a relative’s house in Hertfordshire, where several daughters close to Thomasin’s age resided.

With Lowen’s blessing, Thomasin had packed a trunk and set off after the wedding breakfast.

“It would be a crime to waste the day inside,” Lowen said. “Shall we picnic?”

As if in agreement with his assessment, a streak of light broke through a cloud above, bathing him in a golden halo. Helena longed to touch him but resisted, instead clapping her hands together in agreement. “A picnic would be lovely.”

“I’ll ask Cook to pack up what’s left from breakfast.”

“And the tarts,” she added quickly. “You mustn’t forget those.”

Lowen smiled at her—something he’d been doing more often lately—and still, she swooned every time. “I wouldn’t dare,” he replied.

Helena nearly skipped past him, hurrying up the stairs to ready herself. Their impromptu honeymoon took them back to the familiar heath where Lowen had once taught her about flowers—just outside of town, in a rare stretch of countryside.

They climbed the rolling hill as they had before, spreading a blanket over the soft shrubbery and carefully arranging their food.

But before they could take a bite, a rush of clouds ambushed the sky.

And just as Helena optimistically proclaimed, “Perhaps it won’t rain,” a fat drop landed squarely on her forehead as she tilted her head to look up.

A booming clap of thunder announced the coming torrent, promising to drench them and their picnic.

Lowen hurried to toss their uneaten bounty into the basket, shouting for Helena to run ahead to the shelter of the carriage.

But she refused to leave him. Instead, she grabbed his hand and ran alongside him, laughing at the absurdity of their misfortune and reveling in the wild thrill of the storm.

They collapsed into the carriage together, breathless between fits of laughter.

Without warning, Lowen pulled her into his lap, gently brushing the wet strands of hair from her face. “And to think—the last time we were here, we discussed the necessity of a bonnet.”

Helena had, in fact, neglected to wear one today and was now paying the price. But she didn’t mind—not if it meant feeling Lowen’s touch.

She tousled his soaked hair with a teasing smile. “Today, we might discuss the necessity of a hat.”

“Fair enough, my love,” Lowen chuckled.

My love.

At the endearment, she went lightheaded—and perhaps because of this, her lips found his. Immediately, his arms wrapped around her: one supporting her lower back, the other coming over her legs, his fingers kneading the soft flesh of her thighs.

Helena felt the familiar ache bloom between her legs as she wound her arms around his neck, pressing her breasts to his chest. He moaned in response, and every hair on her body stood on end at the rumble of the sound.

There was no frenzy in his kiss this time. Each movement was deliberate, exploratory—as if he were drinking her in like wine, savoring her with reverence. The fireworks in her body remained, threatening to burst into bright light, to fall over him like rain.

“Helena,” he whispered against her lips, “I want to make you feel good. Will you let me?”

“Yes,” she breathed. Yes to everything, so long as he didn’t stop.

She nearly panicked when he set her on the cushioned seat, fearing for a moment that it was over. But then he knelt before her, doing his best to fit within the narrow confines of the carriage, his hands finding the hem of her dress.

“If this is something you don’t like,” he said gently, “and you want me to stop—just tell me, and I will.”

Helena nodded, more curious than afraid.

Lowen cast her a cautious yet heavy-lidded glance as he instructed her to spread her legs and pushed her gown up to her hips.

Now completely exposed, Helena struggled against her modesty, feeling the warmth of his heavy breath against her slick skin.

But as soon as the first kiss fell on her inner thigh, she surrendered, squirming in delight as his lips trailed slowly over her skin, inching ever closer to her desperate sex.

The carriage juddered over the wet terrain, but he held her fast, his hands gripping the fabric bunched around her hips.

Helena arched against the seat, caring nothing for the pins slipping from her hair.

When his mouth touched her throbbing bud, she nearly bucked from the jolt of sensation, his tongue flicking soft and slow over the tender flesh.

He teased the sensitive pearl relentlessly—circling, sucking, pausing just long enough to make her whimper—before tracing down with the tip of his tongue, exploring with exquisite precision. Every stroke pushed her closer to the edge.

She hardly registered when his fingers joined—when he had removed his gloves, she didn’t know.

One slid into her with practiced ease, mirroring the rhythm of his tongue.

A second followed, and Helena's hips moved instinctively to meet him.

Every moan drew a deeper response from him, each flick and thrust growing firmer, more assured.

She bit her lip to stifle her cries, nails digging into the cushions as her release neared. The storm outside masked the sounds of her pleasure, the downpour pounding against the carriage, hard and wild.

And then—one last touch of his tongue—and she shattered.

A thousand stars exploded in her eyes, bright and beautiful. Her body trembled, spun, soared. Boneless, breathless, she collapsed against the cushions, watching through fluttering lashes as Lowen gently smoothed her gown down over her legs.

He smiled—lips glistening—and sat beside her, pulling her into his arms. He planted a tender kiss on her forehead. She could smell herself on his face, and far from recoiling, the scent deepened her hunger.

She pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Is there anything I can do for you?” she asked, gingerly, nestling closer to him.

Lowen chuckled. “Don’t worry,” he murmured, stroking her side. “The honeymoon has only just begun.”