Page 9

As she remained on hands and knees, fat droplets of tears dripped onto the dirt, landing on the back of her hands, trailing down her cheeks.

Large, warm hands enclosed her shoulders, firm yet gentle, pulling her upright.

Carrivick crouched beside her, his expression unreadable in the moonlit shadows.

Helena weakly pushed at him, but he held fast.

“Please,” he murmured, his voice quieter now. “You should let me take you back upstairs.”

She couldn’t bear his nearness or the sudden shift in his demeanor. But she made no effort to move. She was too tired, too dirty, too thoroughly humiliated.

Bowing her head against his chest, she wept.

This day had been cursed from the start—cursed from the moment she met him by the folly.

And now, she was crying in his arms.

Wisps of Helena’s hair tickled Lowen’s chin as she trembled with each sob. The earthy scent of the dust around them did nothing to dilute the powdery sweetness of her scent.

Suddenly, she looked up, her face mere inches from his.

Lowen hadn’t realized how close he’d leaned in, his breath catching as the whites of her eyes flashed, so bright they seemed to glow, contrasting with the rest of her lovely features. His heart thudded uncomfortably in his chest, an unfamiliar vigor pulsing through him.

Still, his hands remained at her shoulders, unwittingly tracing small, soothing circles over the fabric of her dress. He had been about to help her to her feet when?—

Crack!

A fierce sting exploded across his left cheek, fire licking his skin and flaring up to his forehead. The force of it left him momentarily dazed.

The little minx had slapped him!

And quite powerfully at that. If she hadn’t already riled his temper, he might’ve admired her for it.

His hands moved to snare her elbows, his grip far rougher this time, pulling her upright with a sharp tug. They collided—chest to chest—her breasts crushed against him, and her gown twisted around his legs as she fumbled to regain her balance.

“Damn you,” he growled, barely able to hold the rising anger in check.

“I should’ve never gone after you.” His fingers found the ribbon of the dance card he’d tied around her wrist, yanking it viciously until it snapped, the delicate material breaking in his grip.

He flung the card somewhere behind them, his anger flaring hotter with each passing second.

“I should’ve left you to your own ruin.”

“I wish you had,” she spat back, her voice cut with fury.

“You’re the worst person I’ve ever met.” Her foot stomped down on his, but the blow was ineffectual, the short heel of her shoe making little impact against the buckle of his own.

“You’re positively the most arrogant, loathsome, self-righteous?—”

Lowen jerked her away with a force that left her stumbling slightly, but he wouldn’t allow her to fall again. “Enough of that. You’re behaving childishly.”

“I’m behaving childishly?” She raised her hands, digging her nails into the bare skin between his gloves and sleeves. She clawed at him with desperate awkwardness, struggling against his hold on her upper arms. “You have been cruel to me all evening.”

“This is not cruelty, Miss Helena,” he snapped. “Not compared to what society whispers behind your back. What do you think they’d say now? Seeing you like this?”

“I don’t care,” she hissed, a crease of defiance forming between her brows. “I’ve done nothing to deserve this.” She kept scratching at him, nails digging deeper, briefly catching on one of his cufflinks. He winced, worried she might break a nail, but he didn’t let go.

“Release me!”

Lowen ignored the sting, his patience thinning. “After tonight, I’m almost certain you deserve it.” His grip tightened on her wrists, though his voice was harder than ever. “Don’t think I didn’t see how many times you danced with that upstart Stockwell?—”

“Don’t you dare call him that!”

Lowen’s lips twisted into a cold smile. “And you, sneaking out into the night without a chaperone. Perhaps for an assignation? Is that why you didn’t wish for my escort?”

Something dark and perverse stirred in him.

He felt a twisted thrill watching her anger flare, an almost sick satisfaction as his words stoked the fire between them.

It was wrong, but he relished the way her temper ignited.

Since no one else had the decency to rein her in, he found himself wanting to be the one to do it. To punish her.

Every instinct screamed for him to stop, to release her, to leave before he crossed some boundary. But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

“I merely wished to be away from you! If you don’t release me, I’ll spit in your face.”

Lowen’s chest tightened with something almost like amusement. Her defiance was impressive—she had the spirit of a feral cat.

“And you say you’ve done nothing to deserve such slander?

” he pressed. “All the while you continuously test the limits of what society will tolerate. You reject every suitor, wasting their time—and your family’s.

Yet you accept multiple dances with a man you have no intention of offering anything more to… ”

“We are only friends!”

“Ah, yes,” he drawled. “Because that’s exactly how he feels.”

Helena pushed against him with her forearms, her strength waning with every futile attempt. “You don’t know anything about him.”

He didn’t, of course. He knew little of Stockwell and even less about his family. Lowen had no reason to associate with the parvenu.

“And you don’t know anything about me,” she shot back, her voice fierce despite the exhaustion in her chest. Her struggle faltered, her arms going limp in defeat. Lowen hesitated, then relaxed his grip, still holding her firmly but no longer as forceful.

“I’ve heard more than enough to deduce what kind of woman you are.”

“I don’t care,” she spat, her eyes flashing with disdain. “I don’t even like you.”

Lowen’s breath caught, something about the words stung more than he’d anticipated.

“Likewise,” he muttered. It wasn’t entirely the truth, and strangely, it offended him more than it should have.

“You wouldn’t torment me otherwise,” Helena said, her voice breaking. She jerked her shoulders in a final, futile attempt to free herself. “Please stop touching me.”

Hair half-falling from its pins, gloveless, dirty, and disheveled, Helena appeared small and pitiful.

The deviance inside Lowen was smothered by the delicate feel of her breakable body beneath his fingertips.

Burning with shame, he dropped his arms, fists clenched, his gloves still carrying the lingering warmth of her skin.

How had they ended up like this? The muffled sounds of music, laughter, and clinking glasses from the distant ballroom filtered into his consciousness.

How long had they been gone? Had they missed dinner?

He should’ve cared, should’ve felt the sting of his absence on the edge of propriety, but it felt irrelevant now.

His seat at the table would be near the head, and his absence would be noticed, but that seemed like a distant concern compared to what was unfolding between them.

Helena’s hands brushed down her dress, her movements slow, careful. When she winced, a small flash of worry flickered through Lowen.

“Are you hurt?” His voice softened, almost unconsciously, as he reached toward her.

She recoiled, wrapping her arms around herself, shielding her from his touch. “It is none of your concern, even if it is your fault.”

“It’s not my fault you make poor decisions,” he retorted, then quickly inhaled, trying to calm himself. Lowen knew he needed to get her back to her room discreetly, but first, he needed to regain his composure—and somehow convince Helena to let him help.

“Let me help you to your room,” he offered.

A sound between a scoff and a laugh escaped her lips. “What makes you think I’ll just let you help me? The longer I’m with you, the worse my night becomes.”

Ignoring the insult, Lowen explained, “I know this estate as well as the Crockwells do. I can show you the way through the servants’ quarters and up to the guest rooms.”

For a moment, there was silence as she seemed to consider his offer, the night growing darker and a chill settling into the air. Helena hugged herself tighter, and Lowen noticed her shudder as a gust of wind passed through.

Instinctively, he began to remove his coat, only to recall that he had carelessly left it draped over the balustrade where Helena had first run into him.

“You’ll catch your death out here sooner than you’ll come to a decision,” he remarked, impatience creeping into his voice.

“Maybe that’s better than facing them,” she said softly, shivering again.

“If you’re worried about your mother and father making a fuss, rest assured of my discretion,” Lowen replied confidently. He was certain he could silence them—whether through money or persuasion.

She shook her head. “You don’t understand.”

“Just let me help you back to your room. I can?—”

“No,” she interrupted, shaking her head again. “I think I’ll find my own way back inside.”

“Not that way,” Lowen said, impulsively seizing her elbow. It was the entirely wrong thing to do, and she responded in panic.

“I don’t want help!” she exclaimed, jerking her arm away.

“You’re being a fool,” he growled.

“And you’re being stubborn,” she shot back.

Lowen was preparing a few choice words for the hellion when he noticed a slender figure moving in his peripheral vision. He turned to see Lady Charlotte standing stiffly in the path, holding something in front of her.

"I found her," Lady Charlotte called out monotonously.