Page 6

Ignoring the curious stares from the society matrons, Helena accepted Mr. Elias Stockwell as a dance partner once more, wrapping her small gloved hand around his large one and happily allowing him to guide her out to the dance floor.

As the other couples assembled to complete the set, Elias leaned forward, his mismatched eyes meeting hers.

“Miss Hargreaves, h-how did I become so lucky to have y-you as my partner again?”

Helena liked many things about the young Mr. Stockwell—his manners, his easy nature, and especially his eyes. One brown, one blue. Strangely, she even liked his occasional stutter, though once he found comfort with someone, the stutter lessened.

“It is because you asked, Mr. Stockwell,” she said with a grin.

Having come to know him over the months, Helena had found a genuine friend amid the throng of haughty aristocrats.

Perhaps it was because Elias was not an aristocrat himself—an upstart, as she had often heard whispered so scathingly whenever the Stockwell family entered a room of their peers.

But it was of no concern to her how the Stockwells had amassed their wealth.

Elias treated her with kindness, and unlike many of the men who had come to pay their respects to the Hargreaves twins, he actually knew how to tell her apart from Felicity.

As for Helena’s ‘reputation,’ it hardly mattered to him.

He replied with his usual effortless manners. “Then I am lucky still that y-you did not decline.”

The melodious hum of violins signaled the start of the dance, and the lead couple began their movements.

“How could I decline when you’re a wonderful dancer?” Helena peeked around the woman standing to her left, awaiting their turn to begin.

“I’m only as good as my partner,” Elias offered, slightly tapping his foot in rhythm.

Forgetting herself, Helena snorted. “Did you not feel me crush your toes during the last dance?”

The woman to her left gave her a side look before smiling back at her partner, who had not reacted to the offending noise.

“Hardly felt a th-thing.”

Helena laughed, prompting some partygoers to turn their heads in her direction. Margaret, Helena’s mother, who sat with a cluster of other married women, thankfully did not notice, staying engrossed in whatever conversation she was having.

“You were supposed to deny that I did so!” she chided playfully.

“It was meant to compliment your tiny feet.” At this, Helena couldn't help but laugh again, this time softer.

It was ill-advised to express herself so openly, but with Elias, there was no place for rigidity.

This was precisely why she had agreed to dance with him again, even though it was well known that such a thing was an open invitation for gossip and assumptions that he was courting her.

But what was one more rumor to add to the others?

Elias was pleasant to look at, young—only twenty-three—but Helena couldn’t help but wonder if there was something wrong with her.

Whenever she was with him, there was no hint of ardor.

No pulse of desire when he touched her hand.

No heat between them when their eyes met across the room.

No rapid heartbeat from nerves when she saw him approaching.

Surely there must be something wrong?

By all accounts, Mr. Elias Stockwell should be perfect for her—kind, steady, and more than adequate in his attentions—but he simply felt like another brother. And he’d only ever treated her as though she were his sister.

As the lead lady worked her way down the set, prompting the next couple to begin dancing, Helena became aware of a dark shape stirring somewhere behind Elias. A peculiar chill ran over her spine.

Inclining her head slightly to look past her dance partner, her gaze collided with storm clouds. The Duke of Carrivick had been watching her—or at least, she thought he had—but as soon as their eyes met, he quickly turned his attention away.

Helena's curiosity piqued, she now observed him closely as he surveyed his surroundings with natural aloofness.

While the other men engaged in the festivities and flirtations, the Duke of Carrivick remained on the outskirts, as though hiding from the crowd.

Confined to a more limited space, she caught glimpses of him between the gaps in the men standing before her.

Carrivick’s ebony hair was freshly cropped, shorn close to his head—far from fashionable, but she doubted he cared for perfect curls to spiral over his forehead.

Too superfluous, perhaps, for a man like him.

His attire, though impeccable, was starkly simple—a dark blue coat and grey waistcoat—devoid of any decorative pin or pattern.

It dawned on Helena that he might not want to draw attention to himself, though he failed at that.

Even amidst the vibrant textiles and glittering jewels of the others, he stood out, a glaring contrast to the festive sea of color.

The distraction proved hazardous during the dance, and she was jolted from her musings by a forceful shove that sent her tumbling into another participant.

Just before she could lose her balance and fall to the floor, Elias’s firm grasp caught her with surprising skill.

A chorus of gasps and simpering laughter rippled through the crowd, cutting through the music as Helena steadied herself in his arms. Using him as support, she managed to regain her footing, offering him a grateful but flustered smile.

The crowd swirled around them, quickly parting to avoid the pair as they made their way to the sidelines, ignoring the eyes that continued to follow their every move. Helena’s face flushed with embarrassment, but she managed to smile, a weak attempt to mask her mortification.

Once they were safely away from the rabble, Elias released his gentle hold on her elbow. “Are you injured, Helena?” The familiarity in his tone was something reserved for their more private moments.

“No, save for my pride,” she replied with a shaky laugh, smoothing her skirts. The ribbon fastened around her wrist, which held her dance card, swayed with the motion. “I do apologize, Elias. I had been so looking forward to stepping on your toes again.”

“N-no need to apologize, you still managed to,” he winked, his voice light despite the awkwardness. “Come, let’s get some refreshments.”

Helena complied, taking his arm once more.

As they walked, pitying glances were thrown her way, but she kept her expression serene, a carefully crafted facade.

Her mother had always warned her that the aristocracy could be bloodthirsty, and it was imperative that both she and Felicity never faltered in the eyes of society.

Any mistake, no matter how small, could be unraveled, examined, and blown out of proportion for the sake of gossip.

It was inevitable, Helena thought. Women were always easy targets—especially her—for slanderous whispers, and no doubt her small blunder would be repeated until something else captured the attention of the crowd.

Once at the refreshment table, Elias handed her a generously full flute of ratafia. “Th-think nothing of it.”

Helena accepted the glass, fingers curling around the opaque stem. “Impossible. I shall relive the humiliation until the end of my days,” she said, taking a sip and relishing the sweetness. “And so will everyone else.”

“If it makes y-you feel any better, I overheard that the Earl of Rokeby not only attempted admittance into Almack’s after midnight but… w-was wearing trousers.” He raised his brows comically high in mock horror.

“I do feel my spirits rising.” Helena pretended consideration, tapping a finger to her chin. “What else have you heard?”

Elias leaned in slightly, though still maintaining propriety. “Th-this is not for delicate ears, my lady.”

“Tell me,” she breathed.

“I o-once witnessed Mrs. van Dorn,” he paused for effect, “use the wrong spoon to eat her soup.”

“How is she still accepted into polite society?” Helena shook her head ruefully.

“She certainly won’t be invited to any of my dinner parties?—”

“Mr. Stockwell.” The deep, measured tone of her brother’s voice cut through their conversation. Helena turned just as Isaac materialized beside her. “I thank you for keeping my sister company this evening, but it is now time for me to play the part of chaperone.”

“Of c-course, Hargreaves. She is the most lovely company,” Elias said, bowing to Helena before making his exit. “Until next time, Miss Helena.”

“Next time, he better come with a proposal,” Isaac muttered once the other man was out of earshot.

“He’s not going to propose,” Helena insisted, tilting her head to meet her brother’s eyes—the same shade of blue as hers. “We’re only friends, and I prefer it to stay that way.”

“Men and women can’t be friends, so expel that foolish notion from your pretty little head,” Isaac said, extending his arm.

She accepted it, and they began a slow promenade around the ballroom.

“You danced with him thrice, and according to the rules of propriety, that’s cause for an engagement right there. ”

“You know nothing of propriety?—”

“Do not think I didn’t witness that spectacle of yours,” he interrupted, “which, of course, informs me that you know nothing of propriety either.”

Helena hadn’t pinched her brother in years, but the urge began weighing heavily on her mind.

She inconspicuously inspected the thickness of his sleeve, wondering just how hard she would have to clamp down for him to feel it.

Ultimately, and reluctantly, she decided against it, as it would only prove his point about her lack of decorum.

So, due to her merciful decision, her brother calmly continued surveying the partygoers, nodding politely to some as they passed. “Truly, what is so wrong with Mr. Stockwell proposing? He comes from obscene wealth—though the nature of how they acquired it is cause for conjecture.”

“His wealth does not matter to me.”