Helena Ashford had never seen her name look so small. It sat there inked in a delicate slanting hand on the cream-colored place card. Miss Helena Ashford. It was positioned at the far end of the Viscountess of Harbury's grand dining table, close enough to the wall that the footman would have to angle his arm awkwardly to serve her, and partially shaded by the sweeping arrangement of house lilies.
If one wished to invite someone and yet almost not invite them at all, this was precisely the place to put them.
Helena folded her gloved hands tightly around the fan in her lap, the painted sticks biting faintly into her palms. She told herself that it did not matter, that at six and twenty she was far too old to care where she sat at dinner, but the words fluttered inside her like loose papers in a draft, never quite settling.
You must not look as though you are about to be executed, my dear, her aunt murmured beside her as they waited in the drawing room, the gentle murmur of conversation flowing around them. You know, we are very fortunate to have received an invitation at all. The Viscountess's tables are quite sought after.
Fortunate, Helena repeated, a smile thin.
The invitation had arrived that very morning, hours after her cousin Alicia had been triumphantly waving hers by the breakfast table for nearly a week. Helena's card had come with a harried note in the Viscountess's hand, a last-minute opening. Would Miss Ashford be so good as to help complete our number for dinner?
Help complete our number, as though she were a candlestick pulled from some dusty cupboard to balance the mantelpiece.
She had not meant to see the note. Her aunt had left it open upon her writing desk, and Helena, sent to fetch a spool of thread, had glanced down by reflex. The words had burned themselves into her.
Now in the drawing room, Alicia rustled past in sea-green silk, cheeks flushed with excitement.
Try not to sigh quite so much, Helena, Alicia whispered with sisterly frankness. It makes people notice you are standing alone.
I am not sighing, Helena answered, though she was, and I rather thought no one noticed me at all.
Alicia only laughed, already turning toward a group of whispering young ladies at the other end of the room.
Helena watched her go, their gowns a bouquet of color in the lamplight, and felt that familiar hollow where envy and affection tangled together.
The doors to the dining room were thrown open with ceremony. The butler intoned names. Couples began to process through in an orderly chain of silk and black coats.
Helena, unescorted, waited until nearly the end, passing beneath the crystal chandeliers alone like a small boat lagging behind a fleet.
When she reached her place at the table and saw that lonely little card by the wall, something tightened in her chest.
She took her seat quietly, smoothing her skirts of modest dove-gray satin. Her dress was well-made, carefully altered by her own hand to reflect a slightly newer fashion, but it did not whisper or glow as the others did.
Her aunt had insisted it was perfectly suitable. Helena could not help but hear the word suitable as another way of saying forgettable.
The conversation flowed around her like a river in which she sat as a stone. Laughter burst at the center of the table where Alicia sparkled between a captain of dragoons and a baronet's son.
Snatches of their talk floated down. Opera, horses, a scandalous waltz at Almack's, only to dissipate before they quite reached Helena's end.
Wine, miss, a footman murmured at her elbow.
Thank you.
She took the glass, her fingers brushing the cool crystal, grateful simply to be acknowledged.
As she lifted it, she caught two matrons across from her casting swift, assessing glances her way.
Who is the young lady by the lilies? one whispered behind her hand. Some cousin of Lady Ashford's, I believe. Quite on the shelf, poor thing, but useful for filling out a table, no doubt.
Helena did not hear the exact words, only the soft, pitying tone and the faint turn of a lip.
Her cheeks heated, and she lowered her gaze to the untouched soup before her. The room seemed suddenly too warm, the fragrance of the lilies clawing.
She could leave now, she thought wildly. Slip away, plead a headache, disappear back into the quiet safety of her aunt's house. Would anyone notice? Would anyone mind?
Her heart fluttered foolishly. No, that would be childish.
She had learned long ago to endure such evenings with a calm face. Yet a faint dizziness threatened at her temples, the murmur of voices blurring to a hum.
As the servants began to clear the first course, Helena pushed back her chair a fraction.
Pray, excuse me, she murmured to no one in particular. The heat.
She rose carefully, leaving her napkin folded upon the table and her little place card standing like a sentinel by her empty plate, moving as unobtrusively as she could.
She slipped through the partially opened door that led to a dim side corridor, where cooler air drifted from an unshuttered window.
She drew in a slow breath, resting her forehead briefly against the pane. The glass cooled her skin, steadied her.
Somewhere beyond in the main hall, the butler's sonorous voice carried faintly. His Grace, the Duke of Everre.
There was a stir audible even through the wall. A ripple of surprise, excitement, chairs scraping, the Viscountess's higher tones rising in welcome.
The Duke of Everre, Helena thought dullly. Of course he would not have been present when they had processed in, or half the ladies would have fainted from anticipation.
He was England's most eligible gentleman if the newspapers and Alicia's breathless chatter were to be believed. Wealthy, unattached, remarkably handsome, and according to rumor, determined never to marry.
Helena straightened her shoulders. She would wait a few minutes until the commotion settled, then quietly reclaim her insignificant seat. It did not matter who had come. Her life, she knew too well, did not intersect with dukes.
Inside the dining room, however, the Viscountess of Harbury was experiencing a small, exquisite panic.
One more guest, one exceptionally important guest, and the carefully balanced pairs at her table were suddenly uneven.
Your Grace, she simpered, fluttering her fan, as Adrien Blackthornne, Duke of Everre, bowed over her hand. What an unexpected honor! We had quite despaired of you.
I must beg your pardon, Lady Harbury, he replied, straightening, his voice smooth and faintly amused. My business in town detained me longer than I anticipated.
No matter, no matter at all, she assured him, eyes darting down the length of the table, searching. Every seat was filled. Laughter and conversation bubbling, except she saw it, the chair by the wall, pushed back slightly, its napkin neatly folded, the place card gleaming pale in the candlelight.
There, she said, relief flooding her. There is a seat free. Pray be so good as to take it. We shall adjust the courses at once.
But is it not— began one of the gentlemen nearby, glancing toward the empty setting.
Nonsense, the Viscountess said briskly, fingers closing over the fragile card before she quite looked at it.
With a decisive movement, she bent it backward so that the name could not be read, and gestured to the footman.
Remove that if you please. His Grace shall sit here.
Adrien Blackthornne followed the direction of her hand, his gaze taking in the small island of emptiness amidst the glittering company.
For the briefest moment he wondered about the person who had occupied it. The careful fold of the napkin suggested someone who chose order over carelessness.
Then the thought slipped away beneath the weight of politeness and expectation.
He inclined his head and moved toward the chair, the murmuring guests parting to make way for him, eyes bright with curiosity.
The chair that had belonged to Miss Helena Ashford scraped softly over the polished floor, and the most eligible duke in England sat down in her empty seat.
Adrien Blackthornne had long ago learned the art of moving through a room as though nothing in it touched him. It was a useful habit for a man who attracted attention merely by existing.
Yet, as he settled into the empty chair by the lilies, he felt a faint sensation of having stepped into a space that had not been meant for him.
The soup, Your Grace, a footman murmured.
Thank you.
Adrien inclined his head, accepting the plate.
A faint impression lingered, the ghost of a presence. The napkin folded with precise care. The chair pushed back as if vacated hastily, not idly left unused.
He glanced at the small bent place card the Viscountess had so decisively turned over.
Someone had been expected to sit here. Someone had perhaps been sitting here.
Around him the table adjusted to his presence like a living thing. Conversation tilting toward him. Brightness turned up a degree.