The hour was now.
Helena was early because balls were dreadfully boring affairs, and she could not be bothered to feign her enjoyment when Lord Hamish was in attendance as well. Which he was. Already, she had suffered a Viennese waltz with him. He had stepped on her hem thrice. And his breath had smelled of fish and whisky. His hand had been far too familiar with her person. The entire affair had left her feeling as if she ought to take a good, comforting soak in the nearest bath.
But instead she was here, in the cavernous library, which had been lit so lowly with a lone gas lamp that the shadows on the walls resembled monsters. The chamber smelled of old leather, mildew, and tobacco. Hardly an auspicious setting, but Helena told herself she did not care.
Dorset was a legendary seducer. He was handsome, as was to be expected for a man of his reputation. Dark haired, much like Huntingdon. Broad of shoulders, lean of hip, long-limbed and tall, with a commanding presence and dark eyes which seemed to be shadowed with sadness. Common fame had it that his heart had been broken by Lady Anna Harcastle, who had gone on to become Marchioness of Huntly.
He was debonair. He was broken. He had danced with her and flirted shamelessly. When she had coyly suggested a meeting, he had not hesitated to accept.
In short, she was certain she had found the man who would be her savior. A few well-placed whispers of gossip, and she was equally sure Lady Clementine Hammond—who had never made any secret of her disdain for Helena, nor shied at the opportunity to bring her low—would be entering the library within the next half hour.
The timing was impeccable and essential. Helena had realized, partly because of the Earl of Huntingdon’s cool reprimands, and partly because of her own conscience, that she could not bear to endure a true deflowering. Kisses, embraces, mayhap a raised hem—she would suffer it in the name of her freedom from Lord Hamish. But this evening’s scandal had been planned, down to the minute. No more than one quarter-hour alone with Dorset before Lady Clementine appeared.
Lady Clementine would be shocked. And secretly pleased. And she would carry her tale to every available ear in London. Helena would feign horror and rebuff any obligatory offers of marriage the marquess might offer. She had it all planned, down to what she would say, down to her affectation of surprise.
Yes, this time, victory—and ultimately, freedom—would be hers.
No one, not even the Earl of Huntingdon, could stop her.
The door to the library opened.
She spun about, and her heart sank.
There, crossing the threshold and closing the portal at his back, was none other than the one man who had been plaguing her for the last fortnight. The man she loved.
If only she could stop loving him.
And if only he would cease his relentless determination to thwart her plotting at every turn.
“Huntingdon!” she said his name as if it were a curse, and indeed, in this instance, it was. “Why are you here?”
He strode toward her. She told herself to ignore the effect he had on her in his evening wear. To ignore his neck cloth, waistcoat, and trousers cut to perfection, the way he made her breath catch. And above all, to ignore his face, so beautiful her heart ached at the mere sight of him, even as fury at his high-handedness rattled through her.
“Need I answer that question?” he asked, as effortlessly as if they discussed something of scant import.
The weather, for instance.
Or the Serpentine.
The rising and falling tides.
The number of guests in attendance. Another crush—surely two hundred. She had sworn he was not a guest this evening. How was he here? Oh, it hardly mattered, did it? For he was before her, tall, handsome…
Infuriating.
“Yes,” she gritted. “You do need to answer that question, my lord.”
“Saving you,” he said solemnly. “That is why I am here.”
Helena twitched her skirts in agitation, then stalked several paces away to put some distance between them once more. “I do not require saving!”
And if she did need saving, it was decidedly not of the form he was offering. She had yet to forgive him for the humiliation of their last encounter, during which he had informed her he viewed her as a sister.
A. Sister.
She still longed to rail at him for such a stinging insult, and likely she would have done at the time had not she made the error of mentioning his dead sister. She could kick herself for her thoughtless words; seeing the way he had reacted still haunted her.
Still, she could not help wondering. How could he feel nothing for her when she felteverythingfor him? Helena vowed she would never understand it.
