Misery and champagne were troublesome companions when combined. This was evidenced by Helena's unsteady gait as she made her way toward the women's withdrawing room.

She and Lowen found themselves at yet another function hosted by one of those dour matrons married to one of his Parliamentary nobs. Ungracious thoughts had been creeping into her mind all evening, and with her fifth glass of champagne, Helena worried that one might slip out thoughtlessly. If it did, perhaps they would finally stop inviting her, though she knew they only truly wanted Lowen present.

Helena had no idea where Lowen was; she hadn't seen him since they arrived, not that she particularly wished to, not after what he had said to her in the carriage last night. Her heart ached— it hadn't stopped aching because of him, even before they married. Yet there were moments, intimate ones, when the cold proper mask he wore slipped away, revealing the man beneath. In those fleeting instances, she dared to hope that he might remain that way. But something about her always seemed to trouble him, as if he wanted her to repent for some unseen fault.

The withdrawing room was farther than she remembered. Or perhaps she was simply going the wrong way. Helena stumbled into the wall, leaning heavily against it, careful not to knock herself on a nearby sconce or spill her champagne. She blinked, examining her surroundings. A vaguely familiar Aubusson tapestry hung on the wall, giving her some confidence she was headed in the right direction. She continued onward, using the walls and sideboards to stabilize herself, until she finally wobbled into the ladies' withdrawing room.

Helena ignored the incoming stares and sought a private corner where she could rest for a while. A few women greeted her politely, but none offered to sit with her. After a few minutes, finding the hushed conversations around her increasingly tiresome, she got up to leave, finishing the rest of her champagne before she did so, feeling a bit more unstable than before.

As she made her way down the hallway, a group of women approached, and in the center stood a tall, buttery-blonde woman who looked just as miserable as Helena.

"Charlotte!" Helena blurted, barreling toward her, oblivious to the horrified look on Charlotte's face.

The women steered away from Helena, leaving Charlotte to look around at them for help, but Helena already had her in an embrace. They hadn't seen each other since Lady Crockwell's disastrous party well over a month ago.

"It's been ages, Charlotte," she said after pulling away, ignoring the fact that she was seeing double. "I've sent you countless letters."

After composing her mussed gown, all four of Charlotte's eyes regarded Helena coolly. "My apologies, Your Grace—I've been quite busy."

"Well, when you're done being quite busy, you should stop by Carrivick House for tea," Helena suggested, her voice a bit too loud. "It would be a delight to have you."

Charlotte smiled tightly."I truly appreciate the invitation, Your Grace, but I fear my commitments this season will leave me quite occupied."

"I see," Helena answered, dejected, beginning to sway slightly. "Do you think we may speak in private?"

"Now?"

Helena nodded. "Yes. Now."

Charlotte exchanged glances with her cortege, as if seeking an answer from them. "Pardon us, Your Grace," one girl spoke up. "But we've all been promised for the next dance."

In unison, they all turned together, but Helena chose to follow. She desperately needed Charlotte to hear her pleas and apologies—that she hadn't betrayed her. More than anything, Helena wanted her friend back. But Helena, currently inebriated, followed a little too closely and clumsily, inadvertently trampling on the hem of Charlotte's dress with a heavy heel.

With a shriek, both women fell to the ground, their legs battering against one another. Helena's chin struck the back of Charlotte's head as Charlotte absorbed the brunt of the fall, with Helena toppling over her.

Laughter burst all around them. Shrill and cruel. Mortified, Helena looked down at Charlotte who attempted to get herself on all fours but Helena was currently straddling her.

"Get off me!" Charlotte snarled, attempting to buck Helena off as though she were a horse.

Helena slid off her pathetically, struggling to regain her bearings. Her body felt thick and sluggish, and blurred shadows of people encircled her, their faces indistinguishable as they extended hands to help. Overwhelmed, she pushed them away, and with great, uncoordinated effort, managed to stand.

The women surrounding Charlotte quickly formed a protective barrier around her, fussing over her hair, straightening her gown, and murmuring reassurances.

"Charlotte, I'm so sorry!" Helena cried, reaching toward her, but Charlotte's face was twisted with hatred.

Charlotte and her companions hurried down the corridor, nearly barreling through the gathering crowd, leaving Helena stranded amidst a pit of vipers.

They stared at her, these unrecognizable faces, their movements slow and disjointed and their japing smiles growing ever wider.

"Are you well, Your Grace?" Someone asked but Helena didn't know who. The walls seemed to grow closer, the air now sickly with heat.

The champagne she'd consumed threatened to resurface, and Helena shoved past the concerned guests, frantically running in what she assumed was the direction of the exit.

She couldn't be bothered to care that she was making a scene, and thought she heard Lowen call out to her, but she ignored it. Helena flew out of the double doors and into the long stretch of the drive where carriages waited, searching the line for the duke's.

Once she found it, she grabbed at the doors impatiently. A footman leapt down from his perch atop the carriage to assist her, but Helena swung the carriage doors open herself and threw herself onto the seat, sobbing.

Lowen followed closely behind, slamming the door shut. "What on earth happened? Did someone hurt you?"

"I just want to go h-home," Helena sobbed, her voice breaking. She didn't know when the tears had started but they dribbled down her cheeks like a waterfall. She wiped her face with the back of her gloved hands, but more kept coming, blurring her vision.

"First, tell me—did someone hurt you?" His tone was gentle but edged with concern.

Helena shook her head, unable to speak.

A moment later, she heard him pound his fist on the carriage roof. The carriage lurched into motion, followed by the sharp whistle and shout from outside. They were the first to leave, the path clear from the usual congestion of other guests preparing their departure.

Helena remained curled in her seat, her face hidden from Lowen. The tears hadn't stopped, but her body ached from the exertion. She heard him shift beside her, his shadow looming over her in concern.

"Please, Helena. What troubles you?" He asked softly.

This only made her weep harder. His rare moments of gentleness, appearing now only because he didn't yet know she'd humiliated herself. Humiliated him—that's what truly concerned him.

When Helena didn't answer, he didn't press her further. Instead, with the same gentleness, he drew her into his arms. Helena collapsed into his chest, her weariness overpowering the wariness of what would eventually come when he learned what had happened. In that moment, she desperately needed comfort—something she had found little of since their marriage. Though her family wasn't far, they moved in their own circles and it was as Isaac said: Helena had her own life to live.

"Are you in pain? Should I call for a doctor?" His voice rumbled in her ears. Again, she shook her head, and again, he didn't press further, only tightened his hold on her while Helena continued to weep.

It was only when Lowen carried her into her chambers, after barking at the servants to return to their own quarters, that he spoke again.

"Helena, I cannot bear this—tell me what troubles you." His questioning was sharper now but still laced with worry.

"Nothing you won't hear about as soon as you wake." She sobbed, fine strands of hair clung to her damp face. The throbbing in the center of her forehead worsened as she looked up at Lowen, who had set her down on the bed.

Growing a little more impatient, Lowen sighed and sat next to her. "Enough of this—speak plainly."

"I don't want to," Helena said, rising to walk over to the other side of her bed. She stumbled slightly before catching herself on the bedpost. "I am in no mood to tolerate your cruelty tonight."

"Cruelty?" Lowen rose as well but did not attempt to approach her.

"Do not pretend you don't enjoy it," she replied through a fresh wave of tears. A few hung from her chin and she quickly wiped them away. "You take pleasure in tormenting me."

Lowen said nothing for a moment, but his gaze never wavered from hers, and she saw a thousand fleeting thoughts flicker in his eyes. "I have been cruel to you, and I have taken pleasure in it," he admitted to her horror.

A stinging pain pierced through her chest."Why? What did I ever do to you?"

"Nothing."

Helena rested her head against the bedpost, exhausted and half sick. The effects of the champagne began to decline, leaving her ready to collapse.

"So why do it?" She near whispered.

Lowen's hands curled into fists at his sides, his knuckles white as they tightened and relaxed."I thought you too far beneath me to legitimately pursue and even though I agreed to marry you, I feel the need to punish you for it."

"You don't even know me." She said baldly. Too weak and defeated to hold herself upright, Helena dropped onto the bed, still fully dressed in her ballgown, shoes, and jewelry.

"I shall call for your lady's maid."

"No," she interjected, fluttering her eyelids in an effort to stay awake. "Do not wake her. I can undress myself."

"You're already falling asleep," he said, not unkindly, taking a seat beside her again. "At least let me remove your shoes."

"I don't want your help." Helena tried to wriggle away, but he was sitting on part of her dress. Frustrated, she sat up and tugged at the fabric.

Lowen placed a firm but gentle hand on her wrist, stopping her. "You'll tear your gown." He shifted, freeing the hem from under him, then quietly set to work removing her shoes.

After placing them neatly on the floor, he glanced at her again. "Let me help you get ready for bed," he said softly.

Helena offered no resistance, quietly allowing him to lift her legs so he could remove her garters and stockings. With his hands on her thighs, a familiar enticing feeling pulsed between her legs. Suddenly, she roused with the memory of their kiss, and beneath her shift her nipples tightened in anticipation. She let the hem of her gown fall as he gently rolled down the delicate silk of her stockings. His brow furrowed in concentration.

"Do you need help with your gown?" He asked roughly.

"I do." Helena swallowed hard, then slowly and carefully drew herself up onto her knees, turning her back to him. Her breath hitched as she felt his hands on the fastenings at the back of her dress. He worked quickly, and once he finished, he stepped back, allowing Helena to remove the gown on her own.

After tossing it aside, she glanced back at Lowen, who now had his back to her. "Where do you keep your nightgowns?"

Helena said nothing as she began untying her stays, a wicked idea taking root in her mind. It wasn't a particularly good idea, and its influence was at the insistence of the champagne and her own satisfaction. There was one thing she wanted from Lowen now—the only thing she knew he would have no complaint over. Perhaps, the only thing she could do right in this marriage was giving herself to him in bed. She doubted he would find fault in that.

"Helena?" He questioned after her silence.

"In the armoire next to the looking glass." She quickly removed the rest of her garments and suppressed a shudder from the cold bite of air. Her nerve faltered a little now as she waited naked in bed.

She heard him inhale sharply when he turned to look at her. "What are you doing?"

"You said I was beneath you," Her voice cracked a little as she repeated his words but, nonetheless she began removing the pins from her hair, tossing them carelessly to the floor. "Don't you want me beneath you?"

"Not like this." Whether he realized it or not, he drew nearer, the nightgown limp in his fist.

"Why not?" She asked softly, shaking out her hair so it fell in honeyed streams over her shoulders. "You're my husband."

They were face to face now.

"Helena. You don't know what you're doing." Lowen murmured but his eyes drifted down to her breasts and then even further. Helena sat on the edge of the bed with her legs open to him, where his gaze was fixed between her thighs.

" I do." Touch me! Caress me! Kiss me! Her body screamed, pleading, begging, wailing. Could she not even do this right? Was this pathetic ploy for affection working against her as well?

She was about to weep again until she saw her nightgown drop to the floor and felt Lowen's hand cup her cheek, his thumb gently wiping at a stray tear. The pad of his thumb then circled the moisture, trailing it down to her parted lips where she tasted its salt. He then brought it between her thighs, tracing the sensitive pearl with the moistened finger. At the sensation, Helena shivered in response and the ripples of pleasure reverberated down to her wet sex, where she pulsed and tightened eagerly.

Admittedly, she had no idea what to do now but knew it wasn't fair that she was the only one nude so she reached for Lowen's lapels, urging him to remove his coat. He did so hastily, and without fuss, now overtaken by a sense of urgency that excited her.

The buttons of his waistcoat nearly popped off as they both worked to undo them, Lowen threw it to the floor and did the same with his cravat. Helena heard her heart pounding furiously in her ears, thumping in the walls of her chest like a little rabbit. Lowen pulled his tucked shirt from out of his breeches but he didn't remove the garment. Instead, with careful firmness, he pushed Helena back to lay on the bed and widened her legs in preparation.

"I need you now." He growled and climbed over her.

His lips found hers, and Helena surged with delight, pulling him closer so that her sensitive nipples grazed the soft fabric of his shirt. He kissed her with more hunger and ferocity than before—nibbling, sucking, teasing—his all-consuming mouth stealing her very breath away. So lost in the simple pleasure of kissing, she scarcely noticed him propping himself up with one arm while the other unbuttoned his falls. It was only when the sharp plunge of his cock split her in half that Helena had woken from her stupor. Her cry of shock was swallowed by Lowen, who still kissed her ferociously in his daze, unaware of the pain that was tearing her apart. She dug her nails into his back for relief, an action he'd hardly noticed.

Despite this, Helena had no desire to stop. Instead, she hid her face in the crook of his neck while he moved within her. She wondered if her desperation for affection became so depraved that she was willing to let herself be broken in two just for comfort. Trying to ignore the pain, she closed her eyes and concentrated on the steady rhythm of their bodies as one, and the strength of his arms around her, trapping her in a cage of her choosing.

Lowen continued to thrust into her with such long and deep strokes that she felt as though he were stabbing the bottom of her belly. A hand moved to hold the back of her neck, and another seized her buttock. He clutched her tightly, forcing her to widen her legs a little more, then pressed his lips to her forehead, his breath warmed her skin with the sigh of her name.

The pain eased slightly as her body began to accustom to the invasion; the slickness of her sex was audible with each plunge, and the lewd sound of their lovemaking only seemed to encourage Lowen. His thrusts grew harder and faster, and the fingers around the back of her neck tightened until, with a groan of her name and a kiss to her temple, he shuddered and collapsed on top of her.

"Helena, are you well?" Lowen whispered as he smoothed back some of her hair.

Helena nodded wordlessly and inclined her head for a kiss, but he pushed himself off her. Dismayed, she dropped her head back, staring up at the canopy, waiting for him to leave. When she heard no movement, she looked back at him.

With a peculiar expression, he ran his fingers down her inner thighs, examining them closely, the tips stained with blood.

"Did I hurt you?' he asked.

"No," she lied, closing her legs.

Lowen adjusted himself, tucking in his shirt and buttoning his falls. Helena assumed he would leave, but instead, he went to the washbasin, dipped a scrap of towel into the water, and returned to her, gesturing for her to spread her legs once more. She watched as he carefully cleaned her, applying gentle pressure to her most sensitive areas. Afterward, he helped her into a fresh nightgown, then picked the discarded one off the floor and hung it over a chair.

He then blew out all the candles and left her room.

Helena turned onto her side, curling into a ball to ease the ache in her womb. Alone again, she fell asleep only after her tears had dried.

~

There were still faint smears of blood on Lowen's fingers as he left Helena's room. He had thought he managed to wash it all off, but his sins would not be so easily absolved.

He had committed a grave sin against his wife. Everything he had assumed about her, every contemptuous opinion that had formed long before her lips ever spoke his name, now haunted him, echoing with scornful laughter. The consequence of it all was the physical pain he'd caused her—it was so plainly etched on her face. It was one thing to harm her with his words but another to see the evidence on her body.

Lowen collapsed into a chair, facing Helena's door. He should barge back in, make amends, take her in his arms, and comfort her. Yes, that's what he should do. But he didn't. She was probably sleeping, and he had no desire to disturb her again. He would speak with her tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow. He would have Cook prepare a splendid breakfast and an equally splendid supper. In fact, he wouldn't even attend Parliament. He'd spend the entire day with Helena.

Despite his resolute plans, Lowen could not temper the nervous trembling within him. He rapidly tapped his ringed finger on the armchair, the rhythmic sound mimicking the drumming of his mind as he wished for dawn to break, eager to greet Helena with an offering of forgiveness.

The dawn eventually came, but Helena didn't.

She stayed in her room the entire day. Plates of heavily stacked food went untouched, and the only person to enter or leave her room was her lady's maid.

When Lowen confronted the servant about Helena's wellbeing, the alarmed woman merely stammered, "She's feeling unwell, Your Grace." And when he inquired whether a doctor was needed, the servant shook her head and hurried off to her duties.

Irritated, Lowen wanted to press the woman further about his wife but realized he was behaving like a madman. A simple knock on Helena's door would solve everything, but he didn't do that. Instead, he chose to leave it alone and resolved to apologize when she was feeling better.

"Will Helena ever leave her room?" Thomasin asked. As usual, she had invaded Lowen's study out of boredom, this time bringing her sketchbook with her. From his desk, Lowen could see that he was his sister's current subject.

Three days had passed since Helena drunkenly fell on Lady Charlotte—or pushed her down, depending on the account—and three days since Lowen had done what he did to Helena. The former issue hardly mattered to him now; what tormented him was how he had taken Helena's virginity. He had been so smug, so sanctimonious in his assumptions about her that when he entered her—rough and unyielding—he still meant to punish her, even though she had tearfully confronted him earlier about his cruelty.

He was cruel, and he hadn't stopped being cruel. Lowen hadn't seen Helena since that night—not that she wanted to see him. She had turned away all visitors, even her own family. The Hargreaves protested, of course, but Helena had been insistent, claiming that some malady had overtaken her, one that could very well take them too if they came too close.

Lowen needed to see her, to prostrate himself before her and beg for forgiveness until his throat bled. But he didn't know where to begin.

He buried his head in his hands, ashamed of it all.

"Lowen?"

"I don't know, Thomasin," he answered with a sigh, lifting his head to look at her.

"I tried to speak with her last night. I even brought up a fruit tart, but she didn't want it," Thomasin frowned. "She had been crying."

Lowen swallowed hard against the guilt rising within him but said nothing.

"Did someone hurt her?"

I hurt her.

"I don't know—you don't need to concern yourself with it."

His sister raised a skeptical brow. "What do you know?"

"Out," Lowen said, standing and waving his hands in Thomasin's direction. "Go bother your governess."

The time to speak with Helena was long overdue. He had spent three long days hiding behind his shame, pride, arrogance, and many other faults.

Thomasin released an annoyed huff of breath. "Fine."

Alone in his study, Lowen paced in circles around his desk for a few minutes. He wanted his apology to encompass everything he had done wrong to Helena, not wishing to leave anything out for her consideration. He had done a damned lot to his poor wife.

When he finally knocked on Helena's door, the apology he had been practicing eluded him. Rationality and thought were difficult to maintain every time he looked into Helena's eyes. Today was no different; despite her swollen face from crying, she was still lovely.

Helena was seated at her vanity, her long hair loose as her lady's maid brushed it carefully. It was still early in the day, and she must have just woken up. At Lowen's entrance, however, the maid stopped, setting the ivory brush down before excusing herself from the room.

Lowen approached hesitantly. Helena was looking down at her hands, picking at her nails.

"I've come to apologize," he said, a little too stiffly. It occurred to him that he had hardly ever apologized to anyone except Benjamin. However, all of his apologies to his brother had come after his death, and Benjamin could hardly protest or even accept them.

"I should have apologized days ago," he continued. "I don't know why I didn't." Lowen stopped and shook his head in frustration. "That's a lie. I'm sorry. I didn't come because I was ashamed."

Helena remained unmoved, so Lowen crouched beside her and tried to meet her gaze, but she turned her head away.

"What I've done—what I did to you, Helena, it's shameful. You deserved none of it," he said, taking her limp hand in his. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry for hurting you. Please, Helena, look at me."

"I don't want to," she finally replied.

As he held her hand, a tremor of fear coursed through him—the fear that she might never forgive him. Lowen's stomach tightened at the thought, but he refused to let doubt sway him. He gave Helena's hand a gentle squeeze. "I don't need you to forgive me now, but I'm willing to do anything to earn that forgiveness, so that one day you might consider it. Please, I want us to start anew."

The silence stretched between them as Helena considered his words. A tear, like morning dew on a rose petal, slid slowly down her soft cheek, but she made no effort to brush it away.

Lowen brought her hand to his lips, languishing in her sweet smell. "I'm sorry, Helena," he whispered against her skin.

"You want to start anew?" she asked, her voice a little brittle from disuse over the past few days.

"Yes, but only if you wish it," Lowen said. "All I want now is whatever you desire."

He watched as Helena bit her lower lip in consideration. After a moment, she nodded, but still, she did not turn her eyes to him. Lowen was desperate for her gaze, but he would not push her. He would tread carefully, as he should have done all along.

"I want to go for a walk," She said.

"Of course. When? Where?"

"Now," she replied, pulling her hand away. Lowen worried she meant to go without him, but she finally turned to meet his face. "I don't want us to go to St. James or Hyde Park, though. I don't want to see anyone."

All the better, Lowen thought. As always, he wanted Helena to himself. "I know where we can go. There's a lovely heath with fields of flowers and great expanses of open air just outside of town."

Helena nodded. "Thomasin is welcome to join."

Lowen's heart soared with relief and cautious joy. He didn't deserve Helena's kindness, and he had been blind to it for far too long. "She'll be most pleased to come along."

"I shall prepare myself, then," Helena said, picking up her brush.

"Here," Lowen said gently, taking it from her and running his fingers through the silky strands of honey colored hair. "Let me."

Helena didn't object as he combed her hair; instead, she observed him through the reflection of her looking glass, a flush of color rising on her cheeks.