His gaze found Helena.
It seems I have had excellent fortune in my timing.
Alicia's cheeks flushed prettily.
We were not expecting to see you, Your Grace.
Then I must beg your pardon for intruding upon your rescue of my sister, he said. I am told her playing was in grave peril.
Not grave, Helena said before she could stop herself, only slightly inconsistent.
Ah, he murmured, amused. I know the feeling.
It went on in that manner. Light, easy, the conversation weaving between them all.
Yet each time Helena offered a thought, she felt his attention settle with a kind of quiet satisfaction, not ostentatious, not showy, simply present.
It did not go unnoticed.
As they prepared to leave, a lady of Marianne's acquaintance arrived, a Mrs. Pharaoh, plump and pleasant, with a talent for filling silence.
She greeted Marianne, exclaimed over Alicia's gown, and then with the cheerful bluntness of someone who meant no harm, turned to Lady Ashford.
You are most fortunate, Lady Ashford, to be so much in the Everre circle this season, she said. Why, everyone is quite certain His Grace means to choose among your girls.
Lady Ashford's fan fluttered wildly.
We have no expectations, I assure you. His Grace is civil to us. Nothing more.
Of course. Of course, Mrs. Pharaoh agreed, patting her arm as if the whole thing were a joke they shared. Still, these things become almost understood, and naturally people assume—
Her eyes flicked briefly toward Alicia, lingering on her sparkling eyes, her youthful color.
Well, it is the way of the world, is it not? The blossom most in view is the one most likely to be plucked.
Her gaze slid almost unconsciously over Helena's quieter figure, and away again.
The words were not cruel. They were matter-of-fact, almost kind, that made them somehow sharper.
Helena lowered her eyes to her gloves, smoothing a non-existent crease.
Yes, she said quietly, more to herself than anyone. It is very often the way.
On the drive home, Lady Ashford was almost giddy, her mind clearly racing ahead.
You must not let your head be turned, Alicia, she said, while her eyes glittered with hope. Nothing is certain, but if there were ever a time to be particularly amiable—
I shall only be myself, Alicia answered, though her tone held a tremor of excitement. If that is pleasing, I shall be glad.
Helena sat beside them, hands folded.
Something inside her gave a slow, pained twist.
Not jealousy exactly, but a sense that the chair she had only just begun to occupy in her own heart was being quietly moved back again.
Of course they assume it will be Alicia, she thought. Why should they not? She is sunshine and I am shade.
That night, alone in her small bedchamber, the soft noises of the house settling around her, Helena sat at the little writing desk beneath the window.
The moon cast a faint line of light across the blank sheet of paper before her.
She dipped her pen, hesitated, then began to write.
My dear Lady Marianne,
You have been wonderfully kind in including me in your circle these past days, and I hope you will believe me when I say that your music has been a true delight.
However, I find that I must beg to excuse myself from your next gathering. An old acquaintance in the country has written to me of a need for companionship, and I think it right that I go to her for a time.
I would not wish to disturb the easy arrangement of your evenings by appearing and disappearing without consistency.
Please convey my regards to His Grace and accept my heartfelt thanks for your thought of me.
Yours with sincere esteem,
Helena Ashford.
She sanded the letter, sealed it, and set it aside for the morning post.
As she blew out her candle, the room plunged into darkness, but her mind did not.
She lay awake long after the house had gone still, listening to the echo of Adrien's words in the conservatory.
If I should be seen to seek your company—
She turned her face into the pillow, as if that might muffle memory.
He must be free to sit where the world expects him, she told herself. And I—I must learn once again how to vacate my seat.
Across the city in his own quiet study, Adrien Blackthornne unfolded a letter from his sister.
Marianne's hand was brisk, but her message was not.
Helena Ashford declines our next invitation. She speaks of some vague duty in the country, but I suspect her true errand is to spare the feelings of everyone but herself.
If you mean to let this go, brother, then do so with a clear conscience.
But if you do not, I suggest you consider who precisely is being displaced this time.
He read the lines twice.
Then very slowly he set the letter down and stared into the shadows gathering in the corners of the room as if they might yield an answer.
For the first time in many seasons, the most eligible duke in England had the distinct sensation that a chair he very much wished occupied was about to be left empty, and that this time he could not bear it.
Morning came gray and soft.
The sky smeared with cloud as if the day itself were uncertain.
Helena rose earlier than usual, the restlessness of a broken night driving her from bed.
She dressed without much thought. Simple morning muslin, her hair in its usual smooth knot.
The letter to Marianne lay on her desk like a small waiting decision.
When she went downstairs, the house was only half awake.
The maid was laying the fire in the breakfast room. Somewhere a door clicked. A distant broom swished.
Helena slipped quietly to the front hall, the sealed envelope in her hand.
Molly, she called softly.
The little maid appeared from the side passage, wiping her hands on her apron.