“Even though you have been married these past years?”
“And my brother was at war, then in seclusion by his own choice. I doubt his distaste of society has changed overmuch.”
Helena turned to face her, curious. “Why was he in seclusion? Was his heart broken?” She immediately imagined any number of romantic sufferings the duke might endure, then envisioned herself healing him with a sweet kiss to his brow. His gratitude would be so immense that he would beg for her hand and she would be showered with gifts as his beloved duchess.
“He was injured in the war,” Mrs. North said. “And lamed for a time. His gait seems to be improving of late, however.”
A limp! That was almost as romantic as an eye-patch, although it would mean that he did not dance often. Perhaps that was why he retreated from society: he could not bear to watch others enjoying the pleasure he could no longer share.
Helena sighed at the perfection of her own imagining.
Where were all the officers? Surely there were some militia in town other than her brother.
“I understood there was a gentleman of interest last season,” Mrs. North said. “Is he the one you seek so avidly?”
Helena’s thoughts flew. What did Mrs. North know about Mr. Melbourne? Aunt Fanny might have forbidden a renewed acquaintance, so Helena had to tread with care. “I simply would know who is present tonight,” she said with a smile.
Mrs. North studied her. “If there is a specific gentleman of interest, I might be able to ensure that you encounter him.”
“So that I can wed with haste and your responsibilities will be done?” Helena shook her head. “If I do agree to wed, Mrs. North, it will be at the last moment of the season. I could not bear to miss a single party.”
“And if you do not secure a match this year?”
Helena shrugged. “Perhaps I will elope with a dashing stranger.” He would be a handsome man, one with absurd quantities of money, one who had no care for convention and who would see at a glance that she was the sole woman who could ever capture his heart. Helena smiled at the prospect, easily imagining theirs would be a tempestuous and rapid courtship.
Mrs. North shook her head. “Only to find yourself despoiled and destitute in a dirty inn the next morning. You are more clever than that, Helena.”
“I thought you had married a pastor,” she said, studying her chaperone with interest. “What would you know of affairs of passion?”
“What do you think happens to maidens who embark on such adventures?” Mrs. North asked, then continued without waiting for a reply. “They are quickly wed to whatever man will have them after their paramour has ruined and abandoned them.”
“He might not!”
“Dashing men who elope with maidens always do,” she said with conviction. “In truth, it is somewhat disappointing that they should be so predictable.”
Helena did not believe her for a moment.
“You are skeptical,” Mrs. North said with a smile. “And so might I be, had I not wed a country pastor with a living in Cumbria. So close to Gretna Green. Such a man is likely to be the one to perform the office, lest the lady’s friends in town witness her humiliation. I have seen it time and again.”
Helena felt a chill. “Aunt Fanny would not do that to me,” she insisted.
Mrs. North seemingly possessed no doubt. “If your reputation were to be compromised, your aunt Fanny would wed you to a willing suitor so quickly that your head would spin,” She fixed Helena with a look. “The sole matter of import to your aunt is her social standing. Do not be so foolish as to give her the opportunity to choose its maintenance over your happiness.”
She was serious, which only proved that she knew little of how Aunt Fanny indulged Helena. Her warning also proved that she was dour and dull, more so even than Aunt Fanny.
To Helena’s relief, a familiar gentleman entered the ballroom and surveyed the occupants. His gaze landed upon Helena, who stood a little taller at the welcome prospect of his company, and he hesitated. Doubtless, Aunt’s dire warnings still rang in his ears.
But Aunt was not present, and Mrs. North was a fool.
Helena smiled at Mr. Melbourne with an enthusiasm that could not be mistaken.
His satisfaction was evident as he strode directly toward her. He was every bit as marvelous as Helena recalled, a man well worth her interest in the absence of an attentive duke.
Even if Aunt vehemently disagreed. Melbourne was the younger son of a baronet, that title having been too recently created to win Aunt’s approval. The family was not as affluent as Aunt decreed to be necessary and Melbourne’s mother was Scottish, a great sin in Aunt’s view, which made Melbourne utterly unsuitable. He was highly amusing, though, and had permitted Helena to race his gig, plus he had stolen two memorable kisses at Vauxhall Gardens before his departure from town, entreating her to remember him—even to dream of him.
Helena had done both.
Mr. Melbourne was dressed as impeccably as ever, his cravat perfectly knotted and his dark jacket emphasizing his broad shoulders. He wore boots and breeches and as he tipped his hat to her, she thought her heart might burst for joy. His hair was dark and inclined to curl, his eyes were a merry brown, and he possessed the most delightful cleft in his chin. He smiled at her, made some comment to his companion, then strolled toward her with obvious purpose.
