He held her eyes for a moment longer, as though committing the words to memory.
No, he agreed softly. They are not.
Alicia, sensing the conversation drifting where she could not comfortably follow, set down the teapot with a gentle clink.
Your Grace, I have heard that your estate at Evermeir is quite magnificent. They say your gardens rival Kew itself. Do you spend much time there?
He answered her courteously, of course. He described the lake, the old oaks, his steward's pride in a new variety of rose.
Yet even as he spoke, his gaze strayed back to Helena, returning to her as though she were a point on the horizon he needed to keep in sight.
Helena felt it each time, like a touch she could not quite believe in.
After half an hour, he rose, making all the proper compliments, assuring Lady Ashford of the pleasure of the visit.
Then, as he turned to take his leave, he paused.
Lady Ashford, he said, my sister, Lady Marianne Weatherbe, holds a small gathering at her house two evenings hence. A musical evening, very modest in scale, with none of the crush of Lady Harbury's entertainments.
Might I prevail upon you to allow both your nieces to attend as her guests?
Alicia's eyes shone.
We should be delighted, Your Grace.
Helena's heart gave a small panicked leap.
Another room. Another table. Another opportunity to be shifted like an afterthought.
Adrien's gaze found hers once more, as if he heard the thought.
It would be a great favor to my sister, he added. And this time it was unmistakably directed at Helena. She has lately discovered the comfort of quieter company.
Helena bent her head, her voice barely above a murmur.
Then I should not like to deny her that comfort, Your Grace.
He smiled, something subtle and satisfied in the curve of his mouth, and took his leave.
Only when the door closed behind him did Helena realize that she had just agreed to place herself once more in the center of the world she had carefully learned to avoid, this time at the express request of the man who had unknowingly taken her seat.
The evening of Lady Marianne Weatherbe's musical drew near with a peculiar mixture of dread and reluctant curiosity for Helena.
It felt less like an invitation and more like a test of what she could not have said.
Lady Ashford seemed determined to treat it as a campaign.
The better pearls were brought out, ribbons rearranged, hems repressed.
Alicia's hair was dressed in soft curls that framed her face like a painting.
Helena, by contrast, had her hair twisted into its usual smooth knot, though her aunt did pin in a pair of small silver combs that had once belonged to Helena's mother.
They give you a touch of distinction, Lady Ashford allowed, adjusting one comb with fingers that softened for a moment. You must not disappear entirely.
Helena caught her own reflection in the mirror. Blue muslin again, a little finer than the day dress, the silver combs glinting modestly.
She looked like a woman attempting politely to exist.
The Weatherbe house was large without being ostentatious, its facade softened by climbing ivy.
Inside, candlelight glowed warm against paneled walls, and the hum of conversation was decidedly gentler than at Lady Harbury's.
There was no crush of bodies, no sense of people jostling to be seen.
Instead, small clusters of guests stood at ease, as though they had come to listen rather than perform.
Helena's shoulders eased a fraction the moment she stepped inside.
Lady Marianne Weatherbe herself came forward to greet them.
She was perhaps ten years older than Helena, with the same dark, clear gaze as her brother, but warmed by ready sympathy.
Lady Ashford, Miss Ashford, Miss Helena, she said, naming each carefully. My brother has spoken of you. I am so glad you have come.
Helena felt her cheeks heat.
I hope he has not said too much, Lady Marianne.
On the contrary, Marianne replied with a small smile meant only for her. He is not often intrigued. When he is, I listen.
Alicia, hearing nothing alarming in that, laughed lightly.
His Grace must find everyone intriguing, with so many people forever wishing to entertain him.
Marianne's eyes sparkled.
My brother is not so easily entertained as that, Miss Alicia, but I suspect you already know this.
They were led into a drawing room transformed for the evening.
Chairs arranged in welcoming rows rather than rigid lines.
A pianoforte placed near the hearth, its polished wood gleaming.
A few music stands clustered nearby held scores in Marianne's neat hand.
Helena found herself seated not at the very back as she might once have chosen, but in the second row.
Marianne, with a seemingly accidental touch, had guided her there before turning to greet another guest.
Alicia was just ahead of her, perfectly placed where every arrival might see her profile.
The company is quite select, Lady Ashford whispered, eyes darting about with satisfaction. Look there, that is Sir Thomas Hargate and Mrs. Denby, whose niece married a marquis. We are in good company tonight, girls.
Helena's attention, however, was pulled inexorably toward the doorway just as Adrien entered.
He was not announced with ceremony.
This was his sister's house, and he moved through it as though he belonged as naturally as a man moves through his thoughts.
Yet his presence was unmistakable.
The room shifted around him, conversation dipping, then rising again.
He greeted his sister first, bending to kiss her cheek, exchange a few quiet words.
Then, with none of the languid delay so many gentlemen affected, he came straight toward the Ashford ladies.
Lady Ashford, he said, inclining his head. Miss Alicia. Miss Helena.
He said Helena's name last, but there was a weight to it, a certain care that made it feel like the true destination.
I hope you do not regret accepting my sister's invitation, he continued, his gaze resting on Helena. I assure you, her evenings are rarely hazardous. There are no lilies, at least.
The corner of Helena's mouth curved despite herself.