Page 5

Lowen Roskelley, the sixth Duke of Carrivick, felt an intrusive pull for his attention.

Peering at him from beneath her oversized white bonnet—not at all as covertly as she likely imagined—could only be Miss Helena Hargreaves.

He had long since learned how to tell the sisters apart.

Felicity carried herself with a certain austere grace, while Helena… did not.

Perhaps their meeting this morning had soured her mood. Lowen knew he had been blunt—rude, even—but there had been no other way to dispense the appropriate advice to Mr. Pyle, who, like so many others, still salivated over the little hellion.

If he were being honest, he himself had been interested in the Hargreaves twins last year during their debut.

He would have been blind not to be. But then he had stumbled upon Miss Helena leaving the gallery alone with Mr. Montgomery—and the ensuing gossip had made his interest vanish.

He had considered Felicity for a time but quickly reasoned that she was guilty by association.

He had no desire to be a brother to a scandal-making sister.

The last bit of gossip he had overheard about Helena was that she had just turned down the attentions of Lady Crockwell’s dear nephew, Eustace. Lowen anticipated she would turn down Mr. Pyle as well—not that he was much of a catch.

Pity, he thought, a faint trace of condescension creeping in. She could have married well if she had truly wanted to, yet here she was, still lingering on the fringes.

She continued her hateful appraisal of him, her glare unwavering, as if she were attempting to wither him where he sat. Then, finally, her eyes met his. Hers widened in surprise, and in her haste to compose herself, she fumbled with her mallet before quickly returning her focus to her companions.

If he had not been surrounded by the other men, Lowen might have thrown his head back and laughed. Instead, he merely bit his tongue. He was an ogre, perhaps, for deriving pleasure from her embarrassment—but he had never claimed to be a good man.

He should not be so cruel. After all, he had a wayward sister waiting for him in Cornwall, and if he were not careful, she might end up like Miss Helena Hargreaves—with little attention to her reputation.

Thomasin had grown up with barely any memory of their mother and father, or even their older brother, who had died far too young.

The responsibility of raising her had fallen entirely to Lowen at an age when he was barely more than a boy himself, all while shouldering the burden of an inheritance that was never meant to be his.

He did his best to be both brother and father to her while preserving the respectability of the dukedom, a standard the old duke had enforced rigidly and passed on to Lowen’s older brother.

Embittered by the expectations tied to his title—marriage, heirs, duty—Lowen had long struggled with the notion of assuming the role of Duke.

For a time, he’d even considered forgetting the title altogether, feeling it was a burden he was never meant to bear.

But he couldn’t, not with Thomasin depending on him.

He might not care for the responsibilities, but he would not let his brother’s legacy slip away, nor could he trust the distant relatives who would seize it in his place once he passed.

Ultimately, he entered the marriage mart not for love, but out of necessity. He wanted a family—not for the sake of his title, but for Thomasin, and perhaps a little for himself too.

A companion to share the load, a future to secure.

He had only just arrived this morning, but some of the guests had been here since yesterday—Lord and Lady Babbage among them, along with their beguiling daughter, Charlotte.

No doubt they were anxiously awaiting him, eager for yet another opportunity to parade Charlotte before him, as they had done since last season.

Their confidence in his suit only made him all the more resistant.

Charlotte was everything he ought to want in a bride, but her father was a ponderous oaf, and her mother an interminable gossip.

Still, it would be easier to accept the match rather than endure the tiresome trouble of courting multiple women—not that he’d need to. What woman would refuse him in the first place?

As Lowen’s gaze lingered on Miss Helena’s full figure, he barely registered Lady Charlotte standing beside her.

“Admiring the view?” someone quipped beside him.

Lowen did not dignify the remark with a response, but the other men murmured in appreciation as they watched the women retreat.

“Hard to pick between the three of them,” the same man mused, as if speaking of horses.

“Two of them look exactly alike, so if you choose one, I suppose you’re getting both,” another added, prompting a round of derisive laughter.

“Not that I’d object to having both,” a man chuckled lowly.

“Pyle claims he took a turn around the garden with that little Hargreaves tart,” a peer drawled, speculatively.

“And did she turn him ’round?” someone asked, amusement curling his words. “Pyle’s been sniffing after her for some time now.”

“No doubt he had his hands on her today.”

“Just his hands?”

Laughter rippled through the group.

“Bah! Pyle wouldn’t know what to do with her,” another scoffed.

“You really think she isn’t… chaste?”

Some snickered. Others exchanged knowing glances. Lowen, despite himself, sneered at the vulgarity of the conversation. Yet… the thought had taken root.

"Of course she isn’t," a man said with confidence. "Montgomery, the wretch, claims there's a freckle above her left nipple."

A few men whistled at that, while others simply nodded, as if it were fact.

Lowen, however, scowled but said nothing—he wanted no part in such a base conversation.

He would have left, but he had only just sat down, and Lord and Lady Babbage were seated inside with the hostess… and he wanted no part in that either.

Stifling a resigned sigh, he straightened in his chair and pulled his hat down lower to shield his eyes from the sun, reluctantly listening.

“Chaste or not, doesn’t matter to me,” another interjected. “She’s a beauty. Fine hips, too. And a bosom to feed an army. She’ll bear heirs like clockwork.” He gave a satisfied nod. “I wager she’ll be affianced before the season’s out.”

Though Lowen was reluctant to offer Helena any praise, he could not deny her physical attributes. Her loveliness bordered on indecent. It almost irked him that someone so perfect-looking was squandering it. She could have had any man—princes, dukes, lords, beggars, priests...

“I’ll add it to the Betting Book.”

That caught the group’s full attention. Bored men would wager on anything to amuse themselves, and nothing was more entertaining than the downfall—or triumph—of a beautiful woman.

The Betting Book at Brooks’s recorded the wagers of gentlemen, tracking everything from politics to horses, to whether or not Lord Whitby’s wife would produce yet another girl.

“I’ll take the bet, but only if the stakes are high enough to make it interesting.”

More laughter.

“Very well. Let the wager be a thousand pounds.”

A murmur of surprise rippled through the men, the charge of excitement thick in the air.

Lowen did not gamble, not in the way other men did. His vices lay elsewhere. And yet, he listened, skeptical but engaged, already calculating the odds. Miss Helena Hargreaves, affianced by the end of the season?

He very much doubted it.