Page 49

Helena had barely enough time to bid her family farewell before departing that morning, leaving them understandably perplexed by her abrupt exit.

Isaac, ever on guard, had even offered to accompany her for comfort, but she waved his concern away.

Besides, she needed this time to speak to Lowen privately—if that was even possible.

Lowen, true to his nature, was ready early, eager to set off while the dawn sky still carried its faint blue hue.

He was silent as he helped her into the carriage, and for a moment, Helena thought he might join her inside.

She was, however, sadly mistaken. Throughout the journey—marked by a brief stop to rest the horses before reaching their lodgings for the night—he kept his distance, choosing to ride alongside the carriages.

Unsure of how to approach him, she resolved to wait until they reached Cornwall. Today, she felt particularly unwell and could not summon the strength for a conversation, even if she had wished to try.

Upon reaching their inn for the evening, Helena longed for nothing more than a bath. Yet, the moment she entered the room, exhaustion claimed her. Too weary to even summon Mercy, she clumsily removed her gown and collapsed onto the bed, leaving the candles burning.

Lowen had mentioned he would join her shortly. She was surprised he even wanted to share a bed, but said nothing of it and was fast asleep by the time he entered the room.

The next morning, a violent wave of nausea jolted Helena awake.

Panicked, she rolled off the bed with a thud and groped for the chamber pot beneath it.

“Helena?” Lowen’s sleep-roughened voice called out, but she couldn’t respond. Her stomach churned violently, and to her dismay, her mouth filled with bile that splattered against the porcelain chamber pot.

“Helena!”

Realizing what was happening, Lowen was at her side in an instant, crouching behind her.

She tried to lift her head to reassure him, but another surge of bile forced her back down.

Her hair slipped loose, falling in strands beside her face.

Tears welled in her eyes, as they always did from the burning pain in her throat, and between ragged breaths, she began to sob—partly from disgust, partly from the agony, and partly from sheer mortification.

“Sshhh,” Lowen murmured softly beside her.

Helena felt his touch as he brushed away strands of hair clinging to her face, gathering it with care. Pressing a hand to her mouth, she tilted her head just enough to glance at him. “Are you... braiding my hair ?” She asked in disbelief.

“Yes,” he replied simply, working diligently at the task. “To keep it out of your face.”

Before she could ask anything further, another wave of nausea overtook her. Shuddering, she leaned forward and retched again.

“I’ll be right back,” Lowen said.

She heard him cross the room and open the door to speak with someone briefly. Moments later, he returned, settling beside her once more and murmuring soft words of comfort.

Certain she was finished, Helena pushed the chamber pot back under the bed, unable to bear the sight or smell any longer. “I’m sorry,” she croaked, turning away from him as she wiped at her lips. “Just one of the many lovely benefits of my condition.”

“There’s no need to apologize,” he said gently. “Here.”

He pressed something into her limp hand—a handkerchief.

“Thank you,” she murmured, cleaning her mouth with slow, shaky movements. Afterward, she looked down at the cloth, recognition struck her. “This... where did you get this?”

“From your room,” he answered. Though she couldn’t see his face, she knew his silver eyes were fixed on her, watching intently. “After you left, I found it there.”

Helena flushed as the memory of that day resurfaced, a whirl of emotions roiling inside her, much like the sickness that had just left her body. “It was meant to be a present for you,” she admitted quietly.

“I know,” he replied carefully. “It’s why…I took it.”

But he said nothing else on the matter, only stood and extended a hand to help her up.

“Here, lay down,” he urged, motioning to the bed.

“But we need to prepare to leave,” she protested weakly, wobbling as she tried to stand.

“There’s no need to rush.”

“But isn’t Thomasin waiting for us?”

“She’s being thoroughly distracted by some of our relations at the moment,” he assured her, guiding her back to the bed and gently tucking the blankets over her. “We’ll leave when you’re feeling better.”

A knock sounded at the door, and one of the inn’s maids entered, carrying a tray.

Lowen rose to take it from her, offering a quiet word of thanks before she left.

He brought the tray to the bed, setting it down carefully before sitting beside Helena.

Still in his nightshirt, the collar hung open, revealing a broad swatch of skin dusted with dark curls.

She liked him best like this—ruffled and at ease.

It reminded her of the quiet mornings they’d shared in the privacy of his room, making love and savoring each other’s company before preparing for the day.

Feeling the warmth rise to her cheeks, she quickly shifted her attention to the tray. It held a simple plate of bread and a warmed cup of milk. She wrinkled her nose at the sight.

“You need to eat,” Lowen said in response to her grimace, as he began breaking off pieces of the bread.

Helena turned her head away with a groan. “I don’t think I can manage it.”

“You’ll feel better. Here.” He held a piece of bread out to her, but she shook her head.

“If I eat, I can’t promise it will stay down.” Though the smell of the fresh bread was undeniably tempting.

“Just try it,” he coaxed.

“I don’t know,” she said, eyeing the piece of bread with uncertainty.

Normally, the mornings she felt ill, she would have stayed in bed until her body regained enough strength to rise.

But this time, she didn’t have that luxury.

They needed to return to Cornwall, and there was no time to wait for her to feel better.

Without warning, Lowen gathered her into his arms and shifted back against the headboard, his movements careful to avoid knocking over the tray.

“What are you doing?” she asked, startled.

He loosened his grip as she squirmed in his arms, trying to find a comfortable position. Her body rested against his solid chest, and even though there wasn't a chill in the air, Helena rejoiced in the warmth of him.

“Eat,” he insisted again, his voice kind yet firm. “Please, just one bite. For me.”

Helena hesitated, then sighed. “Very well.”

She opened her mouth, allowing him to feed her a small piece of bread. It was soft, warm, and delicious, and as she swallowed, she paused, waiting to see if the nausea would return.

“And?” he asked, watching her expectantly.

“I think I can manage another bite,” she admitted sheepishly.

So, Lowen fed her another bite, and another, and another, until she’d finished nearly half of what he’d brought.

When the milk was still warm, she managed a few cautious sips.

Afterward, she nestled into his arms, enjoying this moment of closeness—at least for as long as she could before the inevitable distance returned.

“How are you feeling now?” Lowen asked, his chin grazing the top of her head as he spoke.

“Much better,” she replied. “Thank you.”

He exhaled deeply, as if relieved, and began to shift as if to release her. But Helena wasn’t ready to let go.

“I should have told you,” she blurted, her fingers tightened around the fabric of his nightshirt. “I should have told you as soon as I knew.”

For a long moment, the only sound was the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear. It thudded strong and assured, so unlike her own, which fluttered like a rabbit’s.

“I would have liked to celebrate with you,” he said at last, his hand caressing the small swell of her stomach. “But I’m pleased. I truly am.” Then, gently, he pried her arms from around him and eased her back onto the bed. “We must prepare to depart.”

“Of course,” she murmured, instantly feeling a chill as Lowen released her.

Drawing her bare feet under the blankets, she watched as he removed his nightshirt, leaving him clad only in his smallclothes.

His back, broad at the shoulders and trim at the waist, appeared leaner.

The muscles beneath his skin were more apparent than before, standing out as he moved.

She wondered what he had been doing these past two months.

Clearly, something physical.

She wondered, briefly, if he had turned to someone else in her absence. Plenty of men in the ton did. Was Lowen no different? Her stomach lurched—not just from illness now, but from painful uncertainty.

“Helena.”

Lowen’s voice pierced her spiraling thoughts. She blinked and looked up.

He was fully dressed now, standing at the foot of the bed. “Is something the matter?”

His face was so sincere, so taut with worry. He would never take another woman to bed, she reassured herself.

“No, not at all,” Helena replied, shaking her head.

“Good,” he nodded, and the tenseness in his brow eased. “I’ll be downstairs. I’ll have a maid bring you fresh water so you may wash. Come down when you’re ready.”

Lowen left the room, and Helena’s lady’s maid, Mercy, entered.

Helena wasn’t eager to spend hours in the carriage again, so she cleaned herself carefully with the fresh water brought to her quarters.

With Mercy’s help, she dressed in a loose-fitting gown, one suitable for her condition and comfortable enough for travel.

Afterward, Helena met Lowen outside. It wasn’t too late in the morning, and with fair weather and clear roads, they could still cover a great distance. She climbed into the carriage, expecting Mercy to follow, but instead, it was Lowen who entered and closed the door behind him.

“I assumed you’d ride alongside today,” she said, reaching for a plush pillow and tucking it behind her back for comfort.