Page 47

Lowen could only assume the tempestuous turn in weather, timed precisely with his departure for Lancashire, was some form of divine intervention.

Not being particularly religious, though, he also attributed it to bad luck—or poor planning.

Still, if it were truly divine, it would take more than God to stop him from reaching Helena.

And if it were bad luck, Lowen could dismiss that easily—he’d faced plenty of misfortune in the first half of his life.

But poor planning? Impossible. He had surveyed the skies for days beforehand, taking note of every cloud’s pattern and formation.

So, he decided the storm, though inconvenient and troublesome, was simply a mysterious turn of events, entirely unrelated to him.

Speaking of inconvenience and trouble, there was the matter of whether Helena would even be agreeable to accompanying him back to her rightful home in Cornwall. That remained to be seen, though it was better not to dwell on it, because, of course, she would come—she had to. She was his wife.

That’s why he was, quite literally, weathering a storm for her. If she wouldn’t come back to him, then he’d go and bring her home himself.

Lowen was still several days from Lancashire, and from there, Helena’s village of Sedford.

The rain had shown no mercy since his journey began, forcing him into the stifling confines of the carriage.

The unrelenting swaying as the wheels slogged through the mud gnawed at his patience.

He resolved that, once within a day’s distance of Sedford, he would abandon the carriage altogether and ride out on horseback, rain be damned.

Throughout this long journey, he tried to keep himself from thinking too much about Helena. If she was truly happier without him. If going after her was a mistake. If they could even manage to be congenial toward one another.

He was still angry, admittedly—still hurt by being called something unmade for love. Lowen’s brother, Benjamin, had loved him, hadn’t he? And Thomasin loved him.

But Helena?

The question circled endlessly in his mind, like a brewing storm in his skull—much like the one wreaking havoc outside. Lowen clenched his fist around the handkerchief he’d taken from Helena’s room in London, the delicate fabric now crumpled and damp with the sweat of his palm.

And her attachment to Elias Stockwell. Could it be that they were together now? Had this been planned all along? That was a mad thought.

Lowen loosened his grip on the handkerchief, inspecting it to ensure he hadn’t damaged the delicate embroidery. He needed to get out of this damned carriage, stretch his legs, and feel some damned sunlight.

Most importantly, he needed his damned wife.

Relief finally came the day he crossed into Lancashire, the sun having broken through a few days prior, leaving the air cleansed and the rolling hills greener than before. Now closer to Sedford, Lowen mounted his horse and urged it forward, eager to reach Helena within a few hours.

By early afternoon, Lowen and his horse rode down a shrub-lined path that led to the Hargreaves' home, a narrow, two-story manor that seemed to stretch higher than its width.

His heart began beating a little harder, and the reins felt as though they were inlaid with little needles.

It was ridiculous that he should feel so nervous, but he was, and he swallowed hard.

No groom or footman greeted him as he dismounted. It struck him as odd, but he knew Helena’s family wasn’t lavishly wealthy—merely living within their means, compared to the rest of the ton.

Lowen knocked on the door, noticing some of the paint was chipped.

Strangely, he found it rather charming. The home was old, and despite its slightly unpolished appearance, it was surrounded by a wealth of wildflowers growing up through the cobblestones and creeping around a short fence that failed to keep the chickens and geese enclosed.

White petals, almost mistaken for snow, speckled the dark slate roof, and from above, a thin, wispy curtain billowed out from an open window. He wondered if it was Helena’s room.

Finally, the door finally opened, but instead of a butler, a tiny, plump housekeeper appeared before him.

“Your Grace!” she blurted before he could introduce himself, her eyes nearly popping out of her head but she said nothing else after, leaving the both of them standing at the entry way in silence.

“May I come in?” he asked after a moment, raising a brow slightly.

She blinked, as though startled back to her senses, and opened the door wider with a creak. “Yes, yes! Of course. My apologies, Your Grace.”

Lowen was tempted to ask how she knew who he was but thought better of it; it was clear he must have been a frequent topic of conversation. What concerned him more was the matter of what, exactly, had been said.

The housekeeper clasped her hands together nervously. “May I take your coat, Your Grace?”

“No,” Lowen replied. “But I must speak with?—”

“Helena—er—Her Grace?” she interrupted.

“Yes,” he said, a hint of impatience creeping in. “Is she here?”

He sincerely hoped she was. He was damned tired from the ride and had no desire to mount his horse again to chase her down elsewhere. He would, of course—he always would—but the prospect threatened to further sour his already foul mood.

“Yes, yes. She is out picnicking in the cherry orchard. I’ll show you the way,” the housekeeper said, stepping quickly in front of him.

Lowen followed her down the corridor, which was as expectedly narrow as the house itself.

Yet, the space didn’t feel confining—rather, it was cozy.

The walls were painted a subdued green, though the color was barely visible beneath the gold-framed portraits covering every inch.

Faces of the family’s past stared out at him, serene and unbothered.

The side tables were covered as well, from vases with flowers, to baubles like porcelain figures and embossed little trinkets.

It was the stark opposite of his home in Cornwall.

There, the manor sprawled endlessly, palatial in its grandeur.

The white marble floors seemed to stretch on forever, creating the illusion of endless hallways.

The sheer number of rooms—hundreds of them—only amplified the vastness, making the space feel more like a labyrinth than a home.

Everything about the design and decor was intentional in its coldness.

Nothing took up too much space and nothing felt personal.

“Here we are,” the housekeeper said, opening one side of a double door. From what Lowen could tell, this room was near where the family usually took their meals. Servants moved quickly around the space, most likely already preparing for dinner, though a few tried to eye him inconspicuously.

“She’s just up ahead, Your Grace.” She pointed down a row of cherry trees, their branches laden with white blossoms.

The sky’s blue deepened the cherry blossoms into something holy, like heaven spread across the earth. Petals danced like a flurry of snowflakes from the sudden surge of wind, and then a faint laugh echoed in the air.

Helena.

Lowen followed a natural trail, worn into the earth by countless footsteps, marking the same path over and over.

He wanted to run but kept his pace steady, even as his body trembled with excitement at the sound of her voice drawing nearer.

And then, there she was, just as promised, picnicking in the cherry orchard, seated beneath a tree.

All breath left his lungs.

No wonder his journey had been cursed with rain—the sun seemed to shine only on Helena.

He hadn’t forgotten how beautiful she was, but in that moment, she was the closest Lowen would ever come to seeing the face of an angel.

In that moment, he could have forgiven anything.

She hadn’t noticed him yet; her focus was entirely on a tart she was happily eating, clumsily dropping a few crumbs as she bit into it. She swatted the crumbs off her bosom, laughing bashfully and apologizing to the man seated across from her.

A man. A young, handsome man—laughing with his wife, his eyes on her breasts despite her high-necked gown.

Lowen inhaled sharply, steadying the wave of jealousy rising in his chest.

“Helena,” he called out to her.

At the sound of her name, Helena froze.

Her hand flinched, and the raspberry tart slipped from her fingers, landing in her lap with a soft thud. She lifted her head, her eyes scanning the orchard until it landed on him—standing there, as imposing and unexpected as a storm on the horizon.

Reverend Alden jumped to his feet excitedly. “A visitor!” he exclaimed, glancing down at Helena and offering his hand.

Helena gave a weak smile and accepted it, grateful for the extra help.

The fatigue that lingered in her body made each movement feel more difficult.

As her hand touched Alden’s, she could have sworn her skin burned under the intensity of Lowen’s fiery gaze.

His eyes tracked the brief interaction with unnerving focus, and she nearly sighed.

Of course, his jealousy would be worse after the letters.

“Reverend Alden, this is my husband, the Duke of Carrivick,” she said hastily, stepping between them to make the introductions.

“Upon my word, we were just speaking of you, Your Grace,” Alden beamed, his face lighting up with an eager smile. “How fortuitous your timing.”

“Oh, really?” Lowen drawled. Helena could feel his eyes burning into the top of her head, or perhaps it was the sun—she had discarded her bonnet earlier.

Alden nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, I’ve been dying to meet you, but Her Grace wasn’t certain you could spare the time away from the estate—please excuse me. You simply must meet my wife, Beatrice.”

Helena noticed the tension in Lowen’s posture ease at the mention of ‘wife.’