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Domesticity suited Lowen far more than politicking in Westminster or attending social events to mingle with the men only to then discuss his Parliamentary work.

He simply wanted to be home with Helena and, when she was in the mood for company, Thomasin—sitting comfortably in the drawing room, chatting over tea.

Helena had been unwell of late, complaining of aches and pains some mornings.

Lowen could only hazard a guess as to why, and the idea thrilled him beyond belief; yet, she had said nothing, and he had no wish to push her.

Breeding was a delicate subject for women—his own mother had struggled with it—so he resolved to keep his suspicions to himself, if only out of caution in case Helena wasn’t with child.

The thought of children at his feet was a welcome distraction for Lowen.

The anniversary of Benjamin’s death had haunted him for days, though not as severely as before.

The once-overwhelming pain had weakened; it dimmed each time Helena’s laughter echoed down the corridor or when he found her half-finished embroidery left in his study.

His wife and their imagined children kept him from crumbling in grief, and he found himself thinking of their names and faces, silently vowing to be the father his own had never been.

He would love each child equally—heir, spare, or daughters alike.

It didn’t matter; in his heart, he already loved them.

And Helena.

Lowen had never been in love before. Not that he scoffed at the idea, as many men of the ton did—it had simply never occurred to him.

He’d always imagined marriage as something polite and distant, platonic at best, cordial at worst—a formal arrangement with minimal contact after the heir was born. That was the world he knew.

But for the first time, he was glad to be wrong.

He hadn’t expected to wake beside his wife each morning, either. At first, he assumed they’d keep separate rooms, as custom dictated. But how could he stay away from Helena—even in sleep?

They awoke together as usual, though this time there was no time for love-making. Helena practically leapt from the bed, leaving him blinking after her.

“Today is the day!” Helena announced, nearly tearing the curtains from their rods as she flung them open to unleash the blinding morning light. “Or have you forgotten? Today is the ball!”

Lowen groaned, sinking deeper into his pillow and throwing an arm over his eyes. “Of course not.”

As if he could forget. Helena had chattered about it daily since the idea first took root, her excitement as radiant as the sun now streaming through their window.

It had even begun to rub off on him—not that he’d ever admit it.

But he was looking forward to it, if only to see her and Thomasin so happy.

He heard her pacing the room, her soft footsteps scuffing against the carpet.

“The flowers are arriving first, so perhaps we should start with their arrangement—but oh, I must pick up your new waistcoat, and Thomasin’s slippers.

Though we could send someone to fetch them.

.. but I do wish to visit Bond Street, because I’m not quite sure if the hair combs go well with the dress. ”

He stifled a smile at her breathless chatter, and then felt the mattress dip beside him.

“What do you think?” Helena asked, gently urging his arm down.

Lowen opened his eyes and looked at her. She was glorious in the mornings—sleep still lingering in her heavy-lidded eyes, her cheeks ruddy from resting on the pillows, and her hair falling in a long braid down her back.

“What do I think about what?” he asked, reaching out to playfully pinch her side.

She laughed softly, swatting at his hand. “The combs?”

“I suppose you’ll just have to show me.”

“Yes, of course!” she said before scurrying to her room. A moment later, she returned, gown in one hand and combs in the other.

Lowen sat up, making space on the bed as she laid everything out across the blanket. They spent a few cheerful minutes this way—a merry little task of decision-making, as Helena held each comb up to her hair, modeling for him. She was perfect no matter which she chose.

In the end, though, she decided she’d rather match her brooch or hairpin to Lowen’s new waistcoat—the one she’d chosen for him especially for the ball—so off they went together to Bond Street.

Their outing had taken longer than expected, with Helena pausing at nearly every shop window or stopping to exchange pleasantries with passing acquaintances.

They returned to Carrivick House in haste to oversee the final preparations—arranging hot-house flowers, ensuring the lanterns were properly placed and lit, counting candles, and tending to a dozen other details.

Helena flitted from room to room, full of energy and purpose, showing no trace of the illness that had troubled her days ago.

Lowen kept close, not merely to be helpful but because these were the final quiet moments he’d have with her before the house filled with guests—mostly men, he noted sourly, already dreading how many would want her attention.

To his relief, there had been no sign—nor mention—of young Elias Stockwell. But Lowen hadn’t forgotten what Helena had once said in a moment of thoughtless candor: “I wish I would’ve married Elias Stockwell.”

He’d told himself not to take it to heart. After all, she had rejected Elias’s offer of marriage—though only to avoid further damaging her reputation.

And yet the words lingered, rearing up at odd, inopportune moments—surfacing whenever something trivial happened to remind him of them.

As the hour of the party approached, he and Helena dressed in their respective rooms. She barged in at one point, insisting on pinning his new jeweled brooch to his lapel.

“Perfect,” she gushed, clapping her hands. “You’ll be the finest man at the ball.”

Lowen kissed the tip of her nose, and together they descended to the ballroom to await the first guests. As the servants lined up in preparation for the inevitable crush, Helena’s hands flew to her neck.

“Oh, dear—I meant to wear the pearl necklace,” she said, turning toward the staircase.

“I’ll fetch it,” Lowen offered, already heading for her room.

Oddly, despite everything, he’d spent little time there and felt almost like a stranger in the space. Once his mother’s chamber, the decor had been left mostly untouched—yet the room now smelled sweetly of Helena, like a confectionery.

His gaze swept over her vanity, across her brush, hairpins, and oils, but there was no sign of the necklace.

After quickly searching the drawers without success, he wandered over to her writing desk, where a white strand lay gleaming against the dark rosewood. Her pearl necklace, forgotten in haste.

He picked it up with care, folding it into his palm. But as he turned to leave, something else caught his eye—a small stack of papers tucked beside a well-used wax jack.

Apprehensive, Lowen glanced toward the open door. Hearing no footsteps or voices, he picked up the paper from the top of the stack.

“Dearest Elias” , it began.

He felt his jaw clench.

“You were always the one who understood me, but how could I think it right to go on while burdening you with my discontent?”

His chest tightened.

“How I wish you could see me now and say a word to soothe my unhappiness. Or perhaps there are no such remedies. I fall asleep unhappy, and I wake up unhappy. This is what it must mean to be the Duchess of Carrivick.”

He blinked rapidly, hardly trusting what he read. Yet to be sure— to be sure —he reached for another letter, though thunder pounded in his chest.

“I am left to wonder, had things been different, would we be happier? I think we would have been. There are times I mourn what might have been.”

His vision darkened at the edges, but still he read on. Half-mad now, he rifled through the stack, scattering pages across the desk in a panic.

"Dearest Elias. Dearest Elias. Dearest Elias. Dearest Elias."

The endearment mocked him. It rang in his ears like laughter, each repetition a wasp’s sting. When had she written these? There was no date. No warning.

The erratic thump of his pulse filled his head.

“Where you brought warmth and laughter, His Grace brings silence, as if joy were somehow beneath him. He chills every room he enters, and sometimes I wonder if there is a heart in him at all.”

Lowen’s breath quickened, his fury growing like a storm over a sea—wild, ragged—as he crushed the paper in his fist. A burst of laughter echoed down the hall, startling him back to the present. He’d forgotten.

The fucking ball.

He swallowed hard, trembling with the urge to toss every guest into the street, to bar the doors, to drag Helena into this room and force her to read every venomous line aloud before he threw the lot into the fire—until there was nothing left of her precious Elias but ash.

With shaking hands, he gathered the letters, bent them roughly, and stuffed them into his inner coat pocket, each crumpled page searing a hole through his heart.

He would go downstairs. He would play the gracious host. Smile, nod, endure.

But afterward?—

He didn’t know what thoughts might seize him in the dark.