"You are to my family. To everything we've worked to build over three centuries." Helena turned to face her. "Let me be frank with you, Miss Fletcher. My nephew is the last of the Hawthornes. The end of a line that stretches back to the Norman Conquest. Everything his ancestors built, everything they sacrificed, everything they hoped for their descendants; it all rests on his shoulders."
"That's not my doing."
"No. But it will be your doing if you allow him to throw it away." Helena's voice hardened. "He's infatuated with you. Besotted. I've heard the way he talks about you. He would walk away from everything, his title, his estates, his position in society, just for the chance to be with you."
"That's his choice."
"Is it? Or is it a choice you've helped him make, whether you intended to or not?"
Lydia felt her spine stiffen. "I've never asked him to give up anything. I've never…"
"You don't have to ask. That's the nature of infatuation. He'll offer it willingly, eagerly, without ever considering what he's sacrificing." Helena moved closer, her eyes intent. "Let me show you something."
She reached into her reticule and withdrew a small leather case. When she opened it, Lydia saw a lot of money; crisp, new, more money than she'd seen in her entire life combined.
"Five hundred pounds," Helena said. "Enough to start a new life. Travel to the Continent, establish yourself in a trade, and live comfortably for years. All I ask in return is that you end this... distraction... before it destroys both of you."
Lydia stared at the money. Five hundred pounds. Enough to solve every financial worry she'd ever had. Enough to give Thomas a comfortable retirement. Enough to build a life of security and ease.
"No."
The word came out flat, final.
Helena's expression didn't change. "You haven't considered it."
"I don't need to. I'm not for sale."
"Everyone has a price, Miss Fletcher. It's simply a matter of finding it."
"Then you haven't found mine. And you won't." Lydia stepped closer, close enough to see the fine lines around Helena's eyes, the evidence of sixty years of calculation and control. "I love your nephew. Not his money, not his title, not anything he can give me. I love him. The man who tries to make jests when he's nervous and can't shape a hook to save his life and looks at me like I'm the first good thing that's ever happened to him."
"Love," Helena said, the word like it tasted sour. "How romantic."
"It's not romantic. It's terrifying. Loving someone with everything you have, knowing you could lose them, knowing the world is arranged against you." Lydia's voice shook slightly. "But I'd rather be terrified with him than comfortable without him."
Helena was quiet for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then she closed the leather case and tucked it back into her reticule.
"Very well," she said. "I suspected as much. The offer was worth making, but I didn't expect you to accept it." Her voice softened, became almost gentle. "Let me try a different approach, then. Not an appeal to your greed, which you clearly don't possess, but to your love itself."
"What do you mean?"
"You say you love Frederick. I believe you. The question is, what does that love actually mean? What are you willing to do for him?"
"Anything."
"Anything? Even let him go?"
The words hung in the air, sharp as knives.
"I don't understand," Lydia said.
"Then let me explain." Helena moved to the window, looking out at the village street beyond. "My nephew is nearly thirty-one years old. He's spent his entire life preparing for one thing: to be the Duke of Corvenwell. To manage the estates, to sit in the House of Lords, to carry on the family legacy. It's all he knows."
"That's not true. He's more than…"
"Is he? Or is that what you want to believe?" Helena turned back to face her. "I've known Frederick since he was born. I watched him grow from a child into a man. And I've watched him struggle, year after year, to be something other than what his father made him."
"He's changing. He's becoming…"
