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They made love like this, with Helena clawing at the bedsheets, the headboard, and the mattress, using anything to support herself as she pushed back against him. Lowen’s other arm rested beneath her, his hand squeezing the soft flesh of her breast and teasing her nipple.

They climaxed together, Lowen holding her so tightly that they could have fused into one.

It was a task to leave the bedroom afterward, but they had dozed long enough and finally made their way downstairs for breakfast. Lowen’s uncharacteristic good cheer earned him astonished glances from the servants, while some of the female staff passed Helena knowing smiles.

“What shall we do today, my love?” Lowen asked, skimming the broadsheets as he brought a cup of coffee to his lips. “It’s Sunday, so I’m all yours.”

Helena’s heart fluttered at the endearment—it came so naturally from him.

“Hmm. There are several party invitations I have yet to accept, though none catch my eye.”

“We don’t have to go anywhere if you don’t want to,” he said. “This is our first day to ourselves—we could stay home and indulge in a number of activities.” He added the last part none too subtly.

“That we could,” Helena replied with a smile. She leaned back, letting her eyes drift over the spacious, tastefully decorated breakfast room as an idea began to form.

“When was the last time a party was held at Carrivick House?”

Lowen thought for a moment. “I can’t say. My mother had no taste for hosting, and my father couldn’t be bothered to socialize outside of Parliament. Why? Are you thinking of throwing a party?”

“I think I would like to. We have a beautiful home, with a great big empty ballroom that hasn’t seen much dancing in quite some time.”

“It’s nearing the end of the season. Will you have enough time to arrange it?”

She blew out a breath. “I believe so. I can work quickly, and I’ll ask Thomasin for help.”

“Perfect. Let me know if you need anything,” Lowen said.

Another flutter tickled Helena’s heart. Now giddy with the impending party, she finished her breakfast and began making preparations in her mind.

True to their plans, the two stayed home together. Although Lowen needed to finish something in his study, he invited Helena inside to keep him company while he worked on a few matters.

Lowen’s study was warm and masculine, decorated in stately opulence with tones of brown and gold, and it smelled just like him—neat and floral.

Helena sat in a richly cushioned armchair, embroidering, though her attention kept drifting to a portrait hanging at the far end of the room.

There was no doubt in her mind that the painting depicted the Roskelley family, excluding Thomasin.

An older man in a powdered wig, much older than the pretty woman sitting beside him, stood proudly over two young boys with long, curling dark hair.

The older boy could only be Benjamin; his sad, almost diaphanous eyes bore into her like a plea for help. She wondered how he had come to pass.

“I was ten and Benny fifteen when we posed for that portrait,” Lowen intoned from his seat at his desk. Helena hadn’t realized he had been watching her.

“I noticed that you have no other paintings of your family in the rest of the house,” she said. “Why is that?”

Lowen set down his pen and leaned back in his chair. “We weren’t often together. What you’re looking at was a rare occasion when we actually had the time—or rather, the interest—to be together long enough to sit for a painting.”

“You said you don’t remember much of your mother and father. How often did you see them exactly?” Now that she and Lowen were on better terms, Helena felt a little more comfortable with prying.

“Before my brother died, perhaps once a year. After he died, I met with my father more often, now that I was his heir. For three months after Benny’s funeral, I saw my father almost every day, until he passed from apoplexy soon after.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he shrugged. “He was a difficult man—strict, unfeeling, and proud.”

“And your mother?”

“She was considerably younger than my father and melancholic by nature. She shut herself away after my father’s funeral, and I didn’t see her until after she passed, not five months later.”

There was no indication that Lowen cared much for his parents; he spoke matter-of-factly, but the loss was felt deeply by Helena. She ached for the boy her husband had been—losing his family so suddenly, one right after the other.

She stood and walked over to him, throwing herself into his lap for an embrace. “Oh, Lowen. I’m so sorry.”

“There’s really no need to be, Helena,” he replied, surprised but receptive to her. He adjusted her into a more comfortable position.

“But you were still only a child,” she sniffled. “It must’ve been so terribly lonely.”

“I was only lonely for my brother. If only I had known what it was truly like for him, I would’ve never been so envious of his position.”

“What do you mean?”

Lowen exhaled heavily, his eyes sliding to the painting.

“Up until his death, I spent nearly my entire life loving and resenting Benjamin. My father—my mother… all their attention was devoted to him. And I so desperately wanted that. I wanted to be the heir, the golden child. But it wasn’t all what it seemed.

” A gruffness entered Lowen’s voice. “I had no idea how controlling my father was, how demanding he could be. Benjamin’s life wasn’t his own—Father even attempted to forbid him from embarking on his Grand Tour. ”

Lowen cleared his throat and continued. “The last day I saw Benjamin, he gifted me a new horse as a way of apology, since he was due to leave for his tour. But I was envious, as always. I felt like he was leaving me behind. I was so angry… I didn’t even see him off. Didn’t even say goodbye.”

Helena's heart tightened at the pained expression on Lowen’s face, but she gently pressed on, hoping to offer him some comfort through understanding. “If you don’t mind me asking… how did he pass?”

“His ship went down somewhere in the Mediterranean,” Lowen said quietly. “A sudden storm, they think. There were no survivors. It happened just a two weeks after he set off. We didn’t even know until a month later, when the news finally reached us.”

There were moments in which the only appropriate response to such confessions was silence.

Such a tragedy could not be eased by certain apologies or platitudes.

Sometimes, all one could do was offer comfort through presence—a quiet show of unity.

Helena took Lowen’s hand in hers and stroked his knuckles gently.

“I wish I could have seen him one last time,” he whispered. “I wish… I wish I could apologize. I wish he were here… because, I think, all I ever really wanted was for him to keep watching over me.”

“I know,” Helena said softly. If she ever lost Felicity, she would lose a part of herself.

Lowen drew her to his chest, resting his chin atop her head. “But I’m happy I have you, Helena.”

Helena smiled against him, savoring the steady thump of his heart. It belonged to her now—and hers, to him.