“You know Haynesdale,” Nicholas said with some impatience. “You have known him all your life.”
“At a distance, only,” she complained. Helena was seventeen years of age, the product of his father’s second marriage to a woman much younger than his own mother. Helena had inherited the striking good looks of her mother—in fact, her coloring was so different from Nicholas’ own that people were always surprised that they were siblings. Both, he supposed, resembled their mothers in more ways than one. Helena had hair so dark that it was almost black and clear blue eyes with thick dark lashes. Her cheeks were always slightly pinkened and her lips were like a perfect rose. She was tiny and delicately wrought but had an enthusiasm for life that would not have been readily contained in a woman twice her size, or twice her age.
In this, she resembled her mother, Lavinia. That woman had unleashed a tempest in their father’s heart and subsequently his life. Lavinia had been a highly excitable woman—of whom Aunt Fanny had heartily disapproved—and Nicholas did not doubt that Lavinia would have exhausted their father in short order. Instead, her insistence upon driving a curricle and racing it rather inexpertly (and, it must be said, their father’s indulgence of this) had led to their untimely demises. Helena had been only two summers of age at the time. Another five years had passed with Helena in Aunt Fanny’s custody, before Nicholas found it within himself to sell Southpoint and buy his commission.
There were moments when Nicholas found Helena as wearying as her mother had been. He rather fancied there might be a sequence of such moments in his immediate future, unless she was wed and soon.
Then some other unfortunate man would endure those wearying moments. Perhaps the company of Helena in the bed would be sufficient compensation for the trial. Nicholas could only hope as much.
“This is the most vexatious detail about so many years between us,” Helena continued as she spread jam thickly on her scone. “I could never dine with your friends before you left for war.” She flicked an accusing look at Nicholas as if this convention was his fault.
“I have only the one friend these days.”
Her eyes danced. “Fortunately, the Duke of Haynesdale is the most interesting one.”
“Helena!” Aunt Fanny said. “You will not be forward with His Grace.”
“I would be if I had the chance,” Helena said under her breath, judging quite rightly that her aunt would not be able to hear her defiant words. Aunt Fanny was becoming deaf. Nicholas liked to think that she had feigned deafness so many times in the past decade that truth was beginning to resemble fiction.
“What was that?” she demanded sharply of his sister.
“I would dance with him if he asked,” Helena said more loudly, her eyes shining with mischief. Nicholas bit back a smile. The last thing his sister needed was encouragement.
“Of course, you would,” Aunt Fanny chided, returning to her compôte with purpose. “It would only be polite, though perhaps not a prudent choice. Those Haynesdales cannot be trusted in the least.” Her stewed rhubarb began to disappear in a most methodical fashion. “I think you should decline him the first time he asks.”
“Aunt! That would be rude!”
“I have always found Haynesdale to be a most trustworthy friend,” Nicholas said, fearing his suggestion would be declined before it was even uttered aloud.
Aunt Fanny harrumphed. “No doubt you see him at his best. No doubt his mother contrives to win your support and insists that her son do as she demands. No doubt…”
“I do not believe Haynesdale does anything anyone asks,” Nicholas noted.
“I like him better all the time,” Helena murmured and Nicholas nudged her foot under the table. She gave him a sparkling smile.
“What did you say?” Aunt Fanny demanded fiercely.
“I like this jam better than last time,” Helena said with feigned innocence.
“Good. I advised you to try it daily for a week before deciding upon an opinion,” Aunt Fanny said. “You are always too hasty in your choices and blackberries are excellent for the constitution…”
“I had a notion this morning, Aunt,” Nicholas dared to say when his aunt had expounded thoroughly on the constitutional benefits of blackberries. She glanced up with suspicion. “The duke reminded me that his sister was recently widowed and has come to live with him in town.”
Aunt Fanny frowned at her butter knife as she spread the highly beneficial jam in her turn. “Sister? I don’t remember a sister.”
“Mrs. Eliza North is several years younger than the duke,” Nicholas said, feeling the weight of Helena’s bright gaze. “She was married to a pastor some years older than herself.”
“Yes!” his aunt crowed, wagging the butter knife. “I recall the gossip well. He had only two thousand pounds a year, but she insisted she loved him.” She smiled, savagely spreading the jam. “Love! What nonsense. Her mother was quite disappointed, as I recall.” It was clear this memory gave Aunt Fanny a measure of satisfaction. “Two thousand pounds and a duke’s daughter! She was not even foul to look upon!” Aunt Fanny chuckled to herself as she recalled her enemy’s humiliation and bit into her scone with gusto.
“Haynesdale is concerned that his sister will be at loose ends during the season,” Nicholas continued. “He doubts she has any inclination to wed again as yet.”
“I should think she would be glad to do so,” Helena said softly. “After a pastor.”
“What was that?”
“How sad she must be,” Helena said clearly. “To be without her lord and master.”
“Even Eliza DeVries should not be compared to a trained hound, Helena,” Aunt Fanny chided. “Mind your manners.”
