As it was a Saturday, Parliament was not in session, but Helena still found herself without her husband. Lowen had dashed off on some errand, leaving his sister, Thomasin, visibly disappointed as she slumped back into her room. Helena had overheard her plead with Lowen to take her to a gallery at the Royal Academy, but her husband insisted he could take her another day as a pressing issue demanded his attention.

Helena herself sat in her own room, caught between boredom and exhaustion as she hunched over her writing desk. She had penned Elias another letter—one more to add to the growing pile of unsent, uncertain drafts. What words could possibly placate a broken heart?

Her small writing desk faced the window. It was a cloudless day with mild winds and warm air. Perfect for a walk and too perfect a day to spend inside.

Stepping out of her room, Helena paused in the stillness of the hallway. The quiet stretched endlessly—until light laughter drifted from Lady Thomasin's room. Curiosity guided her to the door.

She knocked gently, and the laughter stopped. "Enter," came the reply from the other side.

Stepping into Thomasin's room—equally as large as her own—Helena took in the sight of a wide, round table in the center, cluttered with papers and drawing utensils. Seated there were Thomasin and the governess she had brought from Penhollow.

Thomasin and her governess stood hastily, their chairs screeching as they slid backward. "Your Grace," they intoned in unison, dipping into curtsies.

Helena waved away their formalities. "Please, there is no need to do that at my expense."

The girl and her governess appeared momentarily befuddled as Helena approached the table, as though they had never seen her before. "May I join you?" Helena asked.

"Oh—yes, of course, Your Grace." Thomasin hurriedly gathered the scattered papers on the table, passing them to her governess. "Will you ring for tea, Miss Wodehouse?"

Helena seated herself beside Thomasin, and after a fleeting moment of silence, the tea arrived, giving them both something to do to ease the discomfort. In a shiny silver bowl lay a familiar treat Helena hadn't eaten since she lived at Hargreaves House—candied rose petals. Delighted and surprised, she plopped a few on her plate.

"Is this your first time in London, Lady Thomasin?" Helena asked, breaking the quiet between them.

"No, Your Grace. I used to visit with my grandmother before she passed, just three years ago."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Why did your brother not bring you after her passing?"

"He worried he wouldn't have time for me during the season," Thomasin admitted, dropping a few spoonfuls of sugar into her tea. "And he didn't want me to be in London without the proper female guidance."

"I see. It's good that he is so cautious of you."

"Yes, but I would prefer that he not be so busy. Though what do I know of Parliament?" She shrugged, taking a sip of her tea before adding yet another spoonful of sugar. Her governess, Miss Wodehouse, raised an eyebrow but said nothing, watching with mild disapproval. Thomasin ignored her entirely. "It demands so much of him," she continued. "I know he wants to live up to certain expectations."

"He is ambitious," Helena said carefully, wary of saying the wrong thing about Lowen to Thomasin. The girl was as protective of her elder brother as Helena was of hers, and she liked that about her.

Somehow that seemed like the entirely wrong thing to say, as Thomasin blew a breath and slouched in her seat. "Well, it's boring. He used to be more fun and he used to take me anywhere I wanted to go. Now he is busier each year."

Helena smiled sympathetically. "It happens. As my brother got older, he spent less and less time with my sister and me, but I know he doesn't love us any less."

"He should love me more and take me to the Royal Academy like I wanted. And your brother should visit you sometime."

"We can go?" Helena offered, strangely worried about being rejected by a child. "Just you, me, and Miss Wodehouse. Would you like that?"

Grey eyes the size of moons flashed before her. "Yes! Yes! I would! Today?" Thomasin nearly jumped from her chair.

"Yes, today." Helena nodded. Thomasin's enthusiasm was infectious, and for the first time since arriving at Carrivick House, Helena felt as if she had done something right.

The trio set off, deciding to walk, unwilling to waste such lovely weather. Thomasin wasn't overly chatty—a trait she shared with her brother—but she was quick to observe anything that caught her interest and to pass a witty remark. The gallery was impressive, and Thomasin could hardly contain herself; she bounced from painting to painting, nearly pressing her face to the canvases as she drank in every brushstroke. Helena and the governess followed after her dutifully, stopping to chat with several other patrons in attendance as well. Afterward, they treated themselves to Gunter's, sitting for a moment to enjoy their desserts and watching passerby's.

Lady Osgood and her husband had walked by; if they meant to ignore her, Helena did not know, for both husband and wife had their noses so high in the air that she wondered how many years it had been since they last saw their feet.

Lowen was tucked away in his study when the three of them returned home, but Thomasin barged into his sanctuary to happily chat about her day—something Helena didn't think she would ever be comfortable doing. So, she retreated to her private salon, welcoming the few visitors who came. Mrs. van Dorn never did return, even after Lowen had demanded Helena write her an apology, but this didn't bother Helena in the slightest. In fact, she was rather pleased.

Dinner was not as quiet as usual. It seemed Thomasin still had more to say about her time at the gallery, and to his credit, Lowen's patience went far with his sister. He listened intently, asking questions and offering his own opinions on subject of art. Helena did not like the uncomfortable pang of envy she felt at the attentiveness he bestowed upon Thomasin and tried to push the feeling away.

She and Lowen hadn't been married long; they'd scarcely conversed about anything, both still attached to the tension that had catalyzed their arranged marriage. Doubtless, such emotions would not dissipate simply because they were now married, and Helena reckoned it was what kept Lowen out of her bed. This irresolution radiated off both of them, but like some divine light, only they could see it on one another.

Helena worried that they might always exist at an impasse but she didn't know how to approach him or the subject. Everything she said or did seemed to cause him some type displeasure, even if he clearly didn't express it. Did it matter? This was not a match made in love; it was like every other marriage born of social or financial benefit. Lowen would eventually give her children, and Helena could find solace in raising and loving them, even if she and her husband could never grow to love one another.

All the troubling thoughts plaguing Helena that night were later blasted away by the inharmonious pitch of a shrill flute, hesitantly played by a young debutante and her fellow accompanists. After dinner, she and Lowen had agreed to attend a musical performance organized by one of her husband's parliamentary constituents, who happened to have several daughters playing a variety of instruments.

Lowen and Helena exchanged subtle glances when the first note of the piece started off-key and continued to be played off-key. It was perhaps the only moment of camaraderie Helena had felt with Lowen, but it passed as quickly as it came, his countenance returning to its usual stony facade.

The evening had left Helena with a mild ache in her head, and she tossed in bed, unable to ignore the light throbbing as though she could still hear the sharp chords being played. Annoyed, she snapped out of bed, donned her robe, and ambled down to the library. She didn't bring her embroidery this time; her fingers were stiff from her earlier work, so she decided to distract herself with a book. Perhaps something romantic—no, that would only make her wistful—maybe an adventure. If her staid husband even housed such books.

It appeared that Lowen was unable to find solace in his bed tonight as well, for when Helena entered, she found him standing in front of his expanse of books, examining the titles on each spine.

"Your Grace," she breathed, her body involuntarily warming in his presence as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear nervously.

He turned, unsurprised by her interruption. Dressed in his night robes, he was in a state of undress that Helena had never seen before, yet it did nothing to diminish the air of authority surrounding him. In fact, the ornate elegance of his banyan and the ramrod-straight posture of his figure only served to make him appear like a sultan among his harem.

"I see sleep evades you as well this evening." He said, his rich voice a low rumble. Helena liked his voice more than she cared to admit.

"It's terribly unfair," she replied, coming to stand next to him. "I was hoping to forget that musical, but it seems it haunts me still."

Lowen's mouth quirked. "It takes some bravery to perform in front of an audience. You should give them more credit."

"I'm sorry," Helena said, sheepishly. "I shouldn't be so cruel. When I first started learning the pianoforte, my instructor told me I played as if I had hooves instead of hands."

The confession earned her a rare smile from her husband—a transformation that still amazed her. "And how is your skill now?"

"Remarkably better. I can even play without the sheet music."

"Then there may be hope yet for my horse to improve."

This time Helena smiled. "Shall we throw our own musical then?"

Lowen laughed, and her heart quavered at the sound. "Are you cold?" he asked suddenly. "I can light the hearth."

"It's unnecessary; I don't imagine I'll stay long," she answered. "Though you have much to choose from." Helena's attention drifted upward to where the shelves, stocked with books, touched the painted ceiling.

"Might I give you some recommendations?" Lowen suggested.

"Yes, though as long as it's not philosophy. It took me ages to find the motivation to finish Voltaire."

Lowen raised his brows in surprise. "You read Voltaire?"

"No—but yes. Well, only once, but only because my sister begged me to. Felicity desperately wished to have someone to discuss him with other than Isaac. They squabbled ceaselessly over Voltaire's opinions, never coming to an agreement, but by the time I finished Candide, she had already moved on to Rousseau."

"Well, Rousseau will certainly put you to sleep, but let's see what we can find." Lowen extended his arm, reaching for a book. In doing so, his banyan loosened, exposing a patch of wiry dark hair on his chest. Helena quickly looked away, fearing her face might redden further.

After selecting one book, Lowen moved further down the room, picking another, and then another before walking over to the table near the unlit fireplace. He set them down in a neat row.

"Come," he called, and Helena obliged, taking a seat across the table.

"I'd rather give you a few options. Or, if they all interest you, feel free to take them to your room," he said as he went to the mantel, procuring a tinderbox to light the hearth.

Helena watched his elegant hands work at the fire, unaware of the trance she had fallen into, her eyes never once glancing down at the books he'd selected.

"Do any catch your interest?" Lowen asked, straightening up.

"Oh." She snatched the book in the middle. "This one," she said quickly.

To her surprise, he sat down beside her, their thighs nearly touching. "Robinson Crusoe. It seems you have a taste for adventure, then."

"Yes, perhaps I need something to tire me out before bed."

In an instant, Lowen's eyes darkened, his lips closer than she remembered, hovering dangerously over her own. Helena's breath caught, and she gripped the hard edges of her book tightly. Had she said something wrong?

"Are you going to make me leave again?" She question tumbled out of her before she could stop it.

Lowen's brows came together in confusion. "Pardon?"

"The library," Helena clarified. "You made me leave last time."

"I did," His lashes lowered, gaze flicking to her mouth—or was it somewhere lower?

"Did I do something wrong?"

Lowen didn't respond. Instead, his hand rose to her braid, gently stroking the honeyed strands before wrapping the long coil in his fist, slowly pulling her closer. Helena shivered as his fingers grazed her neck, the heat building in her chest spilling lower, pooling between her legs. Her body tightened in response, a sensation both thrilling and terrifying.

She thought she saw his lips move, but if he spoke, Helena couldn't hear a word, deafened by the rush of her own pulse.

They leaned into one another until their lips finally met. Lowen claimed her mouth without hesitation, his kiss assured and demanding. The urgency frightened her and exhilarated her, Helena had been kissed before but not like this. She followed his lead as she would a dance. When he moved one way, she the other until their lips became frenzied. Every part of her body was on fire now, she felt him all around her. In the curl of her toes, in the pit of her stomach, in the ache of her nipples as they hardened. While one of Lowen's hand still held her braid the other was at her breast; kneading the heavy flesh and drawing tantalizing circles around the bud.

Absentmindedly, Helena's hand drifted to the curve of his neck, the skin there burning hot beneath her fingers and as hard as stone. Her grip on the book in her lap loosened, and it tumbled to the floor with a dull thud. The sound startled them both, as if waking them from a dream.

They stared at one another momentarily, recognition of the situation slowly coming to them. Lowen removed his hand from her breast and unraveled his hand from her braid. Helena bent down to pick up the book, holding it to her chest like protection. A sharp reminder flashed through her—of the first day they'd met, his disapproval so clear, and how he'd treated her that night at Lady Crockwell's party. With all the vitriol she'd felt for him that evening, only weeks ago, she could scarcely believe the fire now surging through her as they kissed.

This was the same man who had sneered at the thought of being seen with her. It was too soon for Helena to forget that, even if he didn't know it. She'd never told him how much it had hurt her, but she was a coward in that regard, so she stood, nearly dropping her book again.

"Thank you for the book, Your Grace," she said carefully, still spinning from the kiss. "Goodnight."

"Helena." Lowen's voice called out to her as she began to walk away. She stopped and turned to face him. He was standing now. "I'll escort you to your chambers."

Oh god. Did he mean to take her tonight? Part of her screamed with anticipation, while the other wanted to hide away in fear.

He plucked the book from her hands, took a lit candle from the sideboard, and beckoned her to follow. She did.

"Thank you for spending time with Thomasin today," he said, walking ahead of her. A light waft of air carried his scent—clean, bright, and faintly floral—across her senses.

"It was my pleasure." Replied Helena distractedly. "She's a delight."

"I'm glad to hear it." They reached the stairs. "Careful," Lowen warned, glancing back at her as they began their ascent into the dark.

"I raised her myself since she was three," he said, his voice softer. "A more difficult task than I anticipated, even with the help of servants and our grandmother."

Helena couldn't see his face, but she knew in this instance it did not carry its usual hardness. "I'm sorry for both of your losses. You've raised her to be a fine young girl."

"Thank you. That is one of the highest compliments you could give me," Lowen replied after a pause. "I had an older brother as well. I always say that she takes after me, but sometimes she reminds me of him."

"Benjamin?" Helena asked gently.

"Yes. Benjamin."

They continued onward, taking each step with unintentional slowness. Helena was morbidly curious about Lowen's older brother, but she had never been one to pry.

"He had been ill for most of his life," Lowen said roughly, "and one day, he finally succumbed to it."

"Oh. I'm so sorry."

"Don't be," he said, his voice quieter still. "There's nothing for it."

"I'm still sorry," Helena near whispered but he didn't reply.

Lowen opened the door to her room and handed her the book. "Goodnight, Helena."

"Goodnight," she returned, watching as he closed the door.

If Helena thought she could sleep now, she was wrong. Her body still reeled from the kiss, feverish and tingling. But her mind ricocheted between her memories of Lowen—insults, disapproval, tenderness, consideration. Unsettled, Helena sat on her bed, staring down at the book in her lap. It held no interest for her now; her thoughts were muddled in far more consuming matters.

~

"Worry not, Your Grace, your wife isn't going anywhere," a masculine voice teased in good humor.

Lowen blinked, finally aware he'd been unceremoniously staring at Helena from far across the salon. He searched for the source of the jibe and landed on the smiling face of Lord Yarborough, a man two decades older than him yet still living as a bachelor.

The surrounding guests laughed at the quip, and Lowen contained his own sneer at Yarborough's expense; that man should be more concerned with his own lack of matrimony than with Lowen's.

"Forgive me," Lowen said. "I am not usually so distracted, but I am still a newlywed after all."

"Nothing to forgive, Your Grace," Yarborough replied, casting a wolfish glance at Helena. "With a wife as lovely as yours, it would be impossible not to be distracted."

Lowen's jaw tightened in annoyance. While he didn't disagree with the old fool—Helena was beautiful, the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen—the rumors about her continued to mock him. Every word of praise and glance of admiration directed her way nearly drove him mad with speculation. The situation had worsened after last evening, when he had very nearly taken her again in the library. She had kissed him with such fervor and confidence that after escorting her to her room, madness whirled within him. Names, faces, lords, gentlemen—who had kissed her? And how many?

The questions burned hotter now as he found himself surrounded by men who had attempted to court Helena before their wedding. Their eyes followed her wherever she went, and they still beseeched her for dances and companionship at the refreshment table.

Unable to help himself, Lowen's eyes found Helena once more. Despite how lovely she looked this evening, he knew she was feeling particularly discontent to once again be in the company of members of the House of Lords and their esteemed spouses. Lowen and Helena were among the youngest in the group, and the differences were more evident in her, as she had little taste for the cumbersome sitting and political speak. In fact, he just realized that, aside from the men, none of the women spoke to her at all.

Aware that he was watching her, Helena's lapis eyes locked with his. Over time, it had become easier to read her face; every crinkle and furrow was no longer a language he couldn't understand, and no line was too subtle for his comprehension. But how difficult could it really be when she was always teetering on the edges of misery or fleeting elation? It was his own damned fault, to be sure; he'd barely done anything to help her, except purchase her candied roses and paw at her in the library.

He so badly wanted to ram his cock in her, he very nearly did last night but then she looked at him as though he were unrecognizable. The chips of her lapis lazuli eyes overcome with confusion and an emotion he couldn't quite place. The uncertainty was too much to bear. If she were perhaps apathetic toward him, it would be easier; he could tolerate her indifference but not her apprehension.

"You should allow Her Grace to sit for the tableau vivant the Dowager Countess of Auden is planning," Lord Yarborough continued, blissfully unaware of Lowen's brooding. "I hear she plans to turn the entertainment into a charity event for that foundling asylum she's always going on about. I believe she's still searching for a Galatea. Your wife would be a perfect representation of her."

Of course, the old lecher would want to see Helena scantily clad as a sea nymph. Lowen was ready to decline on her behalf—perhaps more for his own sake—until Helena wandered over before he had the chance.

"Your Grace," the older man crooned. "I was just talking about you."

Helena smiled delicately. "Knowing you, my lord, I have no reason to worry about the matters in which you were speaking of me."

What on earth did that mean? Lowen thought bitterly. When had they ever spoken at any length?

"Always good things," he assured her with a wink. "I was just telling His Grace that the Dowager Countess of Auden is planning a charity event. She's looking for select women to pose as living portraits of famous paintings, and I thought you'd be a perfect representation of Raphael's Galatea."

"Oh, how delightful!" Clapping her hands together, Helena cast a cautionary glance in Lowen's direction. "I'm quite fond of the dowager countess. I would love to be a part of it."

"She will be quite thrilled to have you," Yarborough said, patting Lowen on the back for emphasis—Lowen was about ready to strangle the man. "I was just telling His Grace that you'd make a most befitting sea nymph."

"If she'd have me," Helena replied bashfully, her cheeks reddened at the compliment. Lowen, feeling very much like Galatea's spurned lover, Polyphemus, was ready to hurl boulders and steal her away for himself.

"Who could ever decline you, Your Grace?" Yarborough questioned, his tone mockingly playful.

Once again, the blush on Helena's face deepened; her skin was lush and warm like ripened peaches. A pang of desire hit Lowen—he wanted to see her draped in a thin wisp of cloth, her hair unbound, lips parted in anticipation of a kiss. She would embody the very splendor of a sea nymph, but it would be for his eyes only.

As much as Lowen wished to reject the idea, it was too late now to object without causing a fuss from either of them, so he waited until he and Helena were in the privacy of his carriage to bring the matter up.

"I don't want you to pose for the tableau."

Helena, who had been unbuttoning her gloves, looked up suddenly. "What? Why not?"

"It's unseemly for a duchess to participate in such a thing," Lowen replied. "Have you even seen the painting he's referring to?"

"No," she admitted sullenly, "but I'm sure it's beautiful."

"Galatea is scarcely covered in cloth. I find it troubling that the dowager would even consider that specific portrait."

"Then I shall pose as someone else. A bishop, perhaps? I've never seen a scarcely covered bishop before."

Despite wanting to laugh at the image of Helena in a bishop's habit, Lowen tempered his response. "It's not just about the tableau. The dowager countess associates with a variety of unique characters—I simply cannot allow you to be influenced by them or used for their gains."

"Unique characters?" she echoed, her voice heightened with indignation. Lowen braced himself for her anger. "You mean my new friends that you refused to meet?"

"Friends?" Lowen scoffed. "Undesirables, all of them. You could have easily fallen in with them had I not married you—hanging about the outskirts of polite society, looking to latch onto anyone's good graces to elevate your standing once more. And for what? To ruin it all again by posing half-nude for the sake of some charity?" The bitter words spilled from him unintentionally. The reserves of his self-control had cracked, and every scathing thought that had tormented him erupted in a torrent upon his wife.

"You act as though you've done me a great service," she said thickly, leaning back in her seat as if trying to distance herself as far from him as possible. "I have no doubt I could've married well, if not for you and whatever sense of honor you claim to follow."

"And who would you have married?" Lowen snapped. "Someone like Lord Yarborough? An old, lustful bachelor? I'm sure someone like him would've offered marriage."

"Yes!" Helena shot back. "He wrote me poetry and sent me flowers! He wanted to court me."

Jealousy clouded Lowen's vision, or perhaps it was simply the dark interior of the carriage. The cloud-covered day had stretched into a moonless night, and the lamps outside barely burned bright enough to allow light to pierce the carriage. "What man hasn't wanted to court you? You've gone through every eligible man in London, and I must hear about it constantly."

"'Gone through?'" She laughed mirthlessly. "Then pray tell, what was I supposed to do during my seasons? Sit in my room and wait for the perfect man to climb through my window? Was I not instructed to find a husband?"

"Then why hadn't you? You've had over two seasons. What ill-reputable thing could possibly be stopping you from finding a husband?"

The carriage jostled, and Helena lurched forward. Instinctively, Lowen reached out to steady her, but she flinched away, retreating back into her seat.

"The only ill-reputable thing I have done is that which you've conjured up in your mind," she retorted. "I told you before, I wished for a love match—I would not settle for anything less."

There were several different replies Lowen considered, each crueler than the rest, instead, he said, "And what good did that serve you?"

Everything inside Lowen urged him to cease his needless cruelty toward her. Nothing was gained from this except a fleeting thrill of victory, a hollow triumph he could hold over her. Yet that victory was a mere phantom. It left as quickly as it came. Helena had no part in his games; she had no understanding of them, responding to him with her usual innocent sincerity.

There was no going back now; too many cruel words had been unveiled. Lowen rested his head against the cushioned seat, closing his eyes in shame..

"I wish I would've married Elias Stockwell," he heard Helena say. Lowen chose to remain silent.