Page 43

From across the room, Helena cast another wary glance toward Lowen.

He’d been quiet all evening—quieter, at least, than he’d been for some time now.

Between guests, dances, and dinner, Helena watched him carefully, uncertainty knotting in the pit of her stomach.

This was the first ball held at Carrivick House in many years, coinciding with a time that brought her husband great grief; perhaps old memories had resurfaced.

Helena sipped her lemonade, trying to pay attention to the people around her.

She longed to speak with Lowen, to offer some comfort, but each time she moved in his direction, he seemed to move in the other.

It was foolish to assume he’d stay by her side all evening; as host, he had to oversee the male guests.

Naturally, he would seem quiet. She knew he was not one for socializing anyway; perhaps she was thinking too much.

Still, he hadn’t so much as blinked at her.

With a smile etched on her face—one she’d held for hours now—Helena moved through the throngs, ignoring her own exhaustion. It would be over soon. Dinner had ended, the guests had enjoyed a time of respite in the drawing rooms, and now it was time for dancing.

From a corner of the room, Helena watched as Thomasin danced with Isaac.

Her brother was kind enough to entertain the young girl, who, much like Lowen, had little taste for society chatter.

Thomasin’s governess, Miss Wodehouse, was quite handsome for her age, even with the streaks of silver in her hair, and Helena wouldn’t be surprised if that was the true source of Isaac’s attentions.

Though she hoped her brother knew better than to dally with governesses.

Helena circled the ballroom slowly, ensuring everything was as it should be: the refreshment table neatly arranged, the guests content, and the orchestra poised for the next set. Satisfied, she allowed herself to relax slightly as she continued her stroll.

Through gaps in the crowd, her eyes found Lowen’s. To her delight, he had been staring at her. She smiled, but as she began to make her way toward him, he was quickly beset by well-wishers, blocking him from view.

She stifled a disappointed sigh. She was behaving like a little dog, whimpering for his attention.

Of course, she couldn’t stay by his side all evening—he had his own guests to tend to.

It wasn’t as if she wasn’t enjoying herself, either, though her stomach occasionally kicked up a fuss.

At least she managed to stay upright through the discomfort.

By the time all the guests had departed, the sun was nearly rising. Helena’s body felt close to breaking—her feet swollen, her head pounding. She had never felt more relieved to see everyone gone. Sweet Thomasin, exhausted, had been carried to her room by Lowen.

Speaking of whom, her husband had disappeared somewhere. Finding him proved no issue; if there was one room he frequently inhabited aside from the bedroom, it was his study. Yet for some reason, Helena found herself hesitating at the door.

However, he sensed her presence, glancing up from whatever he was reading.

“Aren’t you tired?” she asked, now that he’d noticed her. She walked over and carefully sat on the corner of the desk.

He leaned back in his chair, looking at her. In the dim light, his eyes appeared almost black.

“A little. But I don’t think I’d be able to fall asleep tonight.”

“Maybe there’s something I can do to help?” Helena drawled suggestively as she slid into his lap.

To her relief, his arms wrapped around her, drawing her closer.

She tilted her head, aiming for his lips, but as she moved, his face turned slightly, and her kiss landed on his jaw instead.

For a moment, she stilled, disappointment fluttered in her chest, but she quickly dismissed it.

Instead, she traced a slow path down his jaw with her lips, to his neck.

She felt him shiver, his breath catching as she nipped at his skin.

Her body pressed against his, and she could feel the evidence of his arousal beneath her.

His hand slid under her bodice, fingertips brushing against her nipples, teasing a soft, involuntary gasp from her lips, while the other hand remained at her back, pulling her even closer.

“Shall we make our way to the bedroom?” Helena asked with a moan, as he cupped her breast.

“No,” he answered gruffly, suddenly withdrawing his hands from her body as though it burned him.

He slid the chair back—the legs grated against the grain of the floor—and urged her to stand.

“What’s the matter?” she asked with a frown, leaning back against the desk, her palms pressing into the cool wood.

A strange sensation crept over her, the very one she had been trying to ignore all evening.

Lowen’s eyes flicked to something behind her.

Helena followed his gaze. Beside an ornamental inkwell rested a stack of parchment, the feminine, looping penmanship all too familiar to her.

"What’s this?" Confused, she picked up one of the papers.

In the low light, it took a moment for her eyes to focus, but as soon as they did—her heart sank. With shaking hands, she placed the letter back on the desk and looked at Lowen.

He said nothing, only rising from his chair and distancing himself from her. His face was as expressionless as a marble bust and unreadable, almost as if carved from stone.

“Why do you have these?” Her voice faltered.

Lowen tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing. “Why do I have them?” He repeated with an edge of mockery. “Why did you write them?”

A chill crept up her spine. There was no answer for it—not one that would satisfy him.

“It was before—before we—” She struggled to find the words, the explanation, but nothing seemed right. “I was never going to send them. I don’t mean any of it. Not now.”

Lowen’s lips twisted in a sneer. “Not now? You think that excuses you from what you’ve written to him?

” With a swift motion, he snatched the letters and began to read.

“‘ 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 . You, who know me better than most, know that this marriage will never agree with me ? —’ ”

“Stop it,” Helena choked out.

He ignored her. “‘ I know at least that I love you as I love my brother; had we married, I believe I could have loved you differently. However, I do not know if I could ever grow to love His Grace, as he appears entirely a figure unmade for love.’ ”

“I said stop . ” She reached for him, but he turned away, flipping to the next page.

“‘ I miss you dreadfully, Elias. There was no better dance partner, and I pray you return to London soon, so I may step on your toes once more ? —’”

“Stop it!” she cried. “Please!” Helena leaned over him, attempting to steal the letters away, but he held them high and brushed her aside.

“You’re right. I should stop,” he agreed, the words dripping with scorn as he crumpled the letters in his fist. “Or else we’ll be here for a few more hours.”

She reached for him again. “You must understand, Lowen—these letters… I never intended to send them. I wrote them so long ago, out of anger. I was—I was alone.”

Lowen dodged her touch once more, his eyes deliberately averted. “Angry or not, you’re a married woman, writing to an unmarried man. After everything I’ve said—after I explicitly told you I would tolerate no further dalliances with him.”

“There are no dalliances!” She insisted.

He gave a short, cutting laugh. “I may be ‘unmade for love,’ but I’m not stupid.”

Helena flinched. “I did not mean that,” she whispered.

At last, Lowen’s eyes met hers. His gaze was heavy-lidded, distant—disinterested. The cool detachment on his face was almost worse than the anger. It was a judgment far more damning than anything he could have said.

“Please, I’m sorry,” she begged, her hands trembling as she clasped them in front of her. “I didn’t mean any of it. Please, Lowen, believe me.”

Lowen’s face remained blank, unreadable. “Believe you? What exactly am I to believe when it comes to you?”

“What do mean?”

“You had a reputation long before our marriage. Everyone knew it. And I was no different.” He let the words hang. He held up the letters, his lip curling as he shook the crumpled pages. “It’s reasons like this,” he hissed, “that everyone thinks the worst of you.”

Helena’s stomach roiled; whether from this or her condition, she couldn’t be certain. Her face went pale as shock coursed through her, and she gripped the back of the wingback chair for support.

“After everything I’ve heard, it was difficult to believe you were even chaste.” He added with brutal honesty. “I may have been wrong about that, but tell me, what am I supposed to think now? After this?”

Had she heard him right?

Difficult to believe you were even chaste.

She could feel her heart freeze inside her—apologies and pleas—vanishing into a numb, boiling fury.

Her eyes pricked with moisture, the kind that always came when she was angry. “How dare you!” she hissed.

Lowen’s jaw tightened as he drew nearer, his shadow looming over her like a storm cloud. “How dare I? How dare you? Hiding behind excuses as always. How many more do you have?”

“Excuses?” She snapped, her voice rising. “Do you even hear yourself? You’ve judged me since the day we married—no, even before! And for what? To soothe your own endless doubts?”

“Mind your tone.” His warning was dangerous, but Helena was past caring.

“Or what? You already think me beneath you,” she laughed bitterly. “What more could you possibly say or do to me now that you haven’t already?”

“Do you think your small efforts in this marriage undo everything I’ve heard? That they erase the words you’ve written on these pages?” He shook the papers again in emphasis.

“Oh, yes, of course. ‘Everything you’ve heard,’ ” she shot back, her tone laced with mockery. “From whom? From people who don’t even know me? From scorned men who hate me? Or was it just easier for you to believe I was some—some whore ?”

His face darkened. “Careful.”

Sunlight seeped through the curtains, its beams outshining the few candles and the fading glow of the hearth. Lowen’s face became more visible to her now—deep lines etched beneath his eyes. His countenance, softened by the light, appeared only weary.

Helena was weary, too.

“Give me back the letters,” she asked quietly, extending her hand. “They’re mine.”

Without a word, Lowen turned his back, crushing the papers in his hand before striding toward the hearth. With a sharp flick of his wrist, he cast them into the flames.

“No!” Without a second thought, Helena ran to the hearth, falling to her knees as she reached toward the flames, trying to retrieve the letters, but they burned faster than she could act.

Lowen was behind her instantly, his hands gripping her wrists, pulling her back. “You little fool. Why do you even want them?”

“Because they were mine!” She protested, struggling to break free as he hauled her to her feet. “You had no right to do that to my personal things!”

“I had every right,” He stated.

“You stole them from my room!”

"I stole nothing," he said coldly, releasing his hold on her. "Everything of yours belongs to me. And since you're mine, I'll remind you again—you're not to correspond with Elias any longer."

“It’s not as if he even wants to be my friend!” Helena wiped her eyes, the hot tears streaming down her face. “You can’t even try to understand how I feel!”

He pressed his palm to his brow and sighed. “I don’t want to hear any more of this.”

“Is that it?” she asked thickly.

He remained silent, leaning heavily against his desk, peering at her from beneath lowered lids.

It was as good an answer as any, she decided, and with one forceful tug, pulled the pearl necklace from her neck. The delicate jewels scattered across the floor in a faint melody, flashes of white flying every which way. But still, Lowen remained unmoved.

There was more she wished to say—jibes and taunts crueler than anything she'd ever spoken before. I hate you , she wanted to shout, but she didn’t. She couldn’t lie, so instead, she left the room quietly.

The pearls lay pathetically on the carpet. Wearied by it all, Lowen nudged one with the tip of his shoe, watching it roll slowly across the room before it disappeared under the desk.

He’d pick them up later. He’d pick it all up later.

The brandy on the sideboard caught his attention.

He wasn’t one for drinking, but a few glasses would send him straight to bed.

He needed sleep if he was to pay attention later in Parliament later.

Yet the thought of Helena, lying in the bed across from him, would torment him endlessly.

Perhaps even to the point of begging for her.

But he would not beg.

He was unmade for love, as she’d said. He’d begged for love before, as a child—only to realize he’d already found it in his brother Benjamin, but Benjamin was dead.

Thomasin was the only one left who cared for him in that same way.

But the love he wanted, the one he couldn’t bring himself to admit, was different.

He took a generous pour of brandy in one swing, then another, until he felt nothing—the ache in his head, the one in his chest, gone. The anger dissipated, and the words Helena had written about him were reduced to mere fragments, broken down letter by letter.

What was he even angry about now?

There was no need for anger; he’d known all along.

Of course, she didn’t love him. Love didn’t come easily to him.

If it weren’t for his remaining family, he would have nothing at all.

Lowen sank onto the settee near the hearth, finding some semblance of comfort in his newfound reasoning, the warmth from the brandy spreading through him.

When he woke, he would be himself again—the man who saw marriage as nothing more than a contractual agreement, without the need for love, expectations, or jealousy. It was simpler, better—no need to concern himself with Helena.

His eyes grew heavy, the light blurring and fading until all went black.