Page 7

“Wealth matters to me. I daresay, I’d have him if I were a woman.”

“Mr. Stockwell truly does not know how fortunate he is, then,” she remarked under her breath before finishing the rest of her ratafia in one gulp.

“Careful with that,” Isaac chided, prying the glass from her and handing it off to a passing servant. “It’s unbecoming for a lady to overindulge.”

Helena gave him a sidelong glance. “I’ve seen you unbecoming on plenty of occasions.”

“I’m a man?—”

She scoffed.

“And a man,” he continued resolutely, “is allowed different liberties.”

“The liberty of being a rake?” she asked, irritation rising once more.

“Hush, imp. I don’t make the rules, and thankfully, I don’t have to follow them,” he replied, flippantly reminding her of their places in society. As if Father hadn’t been pressuring Isaac to finally polish his behavior and consider an appropriate bride—a fact he conveniently ignored.

They came to a stop near the French doors that opened to the upper terrace. A seductive breeze of night air wafted into the warm ballroom, bringing slight relief.

“I’m quite serious, Helena. If Stockwell offers for you, you’re to accept.”

“And I’m quite serious that he will do no such thing—we’re only friends,” she repeated firmly.

Isaac exhaled in disbelief. “Believe what you will, but you will absolutely not deny the next suitor. Mother and Father have had enough.”

“Why? Did they say something?” Helena asked, suddenly alarmed.

“I didn’t wish for you to find out like this, but you ought to know,” Isaac said, glancing over his shoulder before lowering his voice. “If this season ends without a betrothal, they’ll be selecting a gentleman for you to wed.”

Before she could object, he added, “The ton is talking.”

“They always talk.”

“I’d rather they not—at least, not about you.”

He didn’t say anymore, but the word hung in the air between them.

There were times Helena forgot that her supposed reputation didn’t affect just her.

It wasn’t fair. The injustice done to her shouldn’t be passed down to her family either.

And though she didn’t wish to be rushed into an arrangement, she understood why her parents felt as they did.

If she continued on, attempting to ignore the rumors while making no progress in securing a suitable husband, she would eventually be pushed out of good society.

“This is serious, Helena,” Isaac warned.

“I’m treating it as such. I’m diligently husband hunting,” she replied, rather defensively.

“Hunting? Good heavens, you’ve nearly shot all the game—what is left?”

“There are plenty of eligible bachelors left.” Helena thought for a moment. “Like… like Lord Yarborough. He’s been very kind to me.”

“ Him ?” Isaac snorted. “You’re better off letting Mother and Father choose someone for you. At least then, when it all goes horribly wrong, you can blame them instead of yourself.”

Helena rolled her eyes, but luckily, Isaac wasn’t paying attention to her anymore.

“Blast,” he suddenly cursed under his breath. “Felicity has been cornered by Lord Fowler. The fiend. He’s nearly seventy and still acts the rake. The man can’t even see his own co?—”

Following the trajectory of his scowl, Helena spotted their sister stepping backward, inch by inch, as Lord Fowler advanced. His rotund belly nearly grazed Felicity’s arm while she maintained a stiff, polite smile.

“He can’t see his what?” Helena asked, glancing up innocently at her brother.

Flushed red, Isaac cleared his throat. “Feet.”

“That wasn’t what you were going to say,” she quipped.

“Mother really should be watching the two of you. The task of chaperone has been falling on me far too much of late,” he huffed, raking a hand through his hair in annoyance. “Stay here. Once I rescue Fee, we’re finding Mother, and the two of you are not to leave her side.”

Without waiting for a reply, he strode forward, moving to intercept Lord Fowler and offer Felicity a gracious escape, leaving Helena standing alone.

With her mood now fouled, Helena longed to withdraw from the festivities. Yet retiring before dinner wasn’t an option—nor would she find a husband by hiding herself away.

A gust of wind swept through the open terrace doors, raising a pleasant shiver along her skin. Perhaps a quick turn about the garden would set her right. But, as always, propriety dictated she require an escort to guard her every move.

Isaac and Felicity were still ensnared by Lord Fowler’s unwanted attentions, despite their best efforts.

They would likely remain so for several minutes yet.

The very rules her brother flouted were the same ones that shackled women like her to a life of restraint and boredom—so why not rebel, if only a little?

A passing footman carried a tray of drinks, and she helped herself to another glass of ratafia before slipping unnoticed onto the terrace.

The night air was intoxicating after the raucous humidity of the ballroom, carrying with it the faint, heady scent of wisteria.

Sipping her sweet beverage, she edged closer to the shadows, waiting a few moments before descending the steps.

With no lanterns to light the way, she relied on the silvery glow of the full moon to guide her.

She had no clear destination, only the impulse to move—one hand lifting her skirts, the other holding her glass as she wandered further from the house. But as she rounded a corner, she collided with something solid.

A rather ill-placed statue, she thought at first.

Then the statue growled a curse.

“Bloody—”

A squeak escaped her as the figure spun to face her.

The Duke of Carrivick glared down, his face unmistakable in the moonlight.