For a moment, he felt an irrational resentment that the lesson was over. He wanted to pull her back, to finish what she had started, to bury his hands in her hair and his mouth on her skin. But he knew she would only give as much as she wished and no more.
Helena unlocked the door, then paused at the threshold, looking back over her shoulder. “Next time,” she said, “I expect progress.”
He bowed, unable to suppress his smile. “I shall revise.”
She left him in the afterglow, his hands tingling and his heart pounding. He watched the door close behind her and realized, with a start, that he was already counting the minutes until their next rendezvous.
That night the Atteberry family dining room displayed old money and older grievances. At the long table, the shine of silver and crystal was amplified by an excess of candelabras, their flames flickering with every passing servant. The walls, adorned with generations of stern ancestors, offered neither warmth nor forgiveness. Even the soup arrived with an air of condescension, as if it pitied the modern palate.
William entered two minutes before the hour, his cravat crisp and his boots reflecting the efforts of two valets and one nervous footman. His mother, the dowager duchess, was already seated at the head, her posture so correct it seemed almost unnatural. At her left, his uncle George, Lord Engle, stirred the potage with the resigned aggression of a man who resented every aspect of his diet, his station, and possibly his nephew.
William slid into his seat, smoothing his cuffs. He could still feel the warmth of Helena’s skin, the taste of her laughter, and the way she had disrupted his self-control with a whispered correction. Her touch lingered just beneath the surface, even as his face displayed the expected blandness of an Atteberry at supper.
“William.” His mother’s voice cut through the air, sharp and precise. “I trust your afternoon was productive.”
He inclined his head. “As ever, Mother.”
“We heard you were at Lady Harbury’s musicale,” Uncle George interjected, raising an eyebrow. “Reading, was it? Or something more exciting?”
William smiled, a slight upturn, more defensive than welcoming. “I find that reading often suffices, Uncle.”
“Pity.” Uncle George set down his spoon with finality. “There are those who believe you would benefit from a broader range of stimulation.”
“Your concern for my welfare is noted,” William replied, his tone polished.
The first course was cleared, and the room filled with the rich scent of roasted pheasant. The footmen moved with nervous precision, each step a careful dance to avoid mistakes that could lead to immediate dismissal.
Mother waited until the plates had been served before continuing. “I received a letter from Lady Harrington this morning. She wonders if you are well, having not called these past two weeks.”
William carved a piece of pheasant with focused attention. “I have been otherwise occupied.”
“She mentioned,” his mother continued, “that her daughter, Penelope, has returned from Bath. She is much improved by the sea air, I gather.”
“I am delighted to hear it,” William said, taking a bite.
Uncle George snorted. “The Harringtons own half the land from here to Market Bosworth, William. The girl is not brilliant, but she is promising. The chit would make you a fine duchess.”
William sipped his wine, masking his irritation. “There are other considerations beyond geography and potential, Uncle.”
Mother’s lips thinned, her disapproval palpable. “A proper match this season would resolve many issues. The late dukes demands, for instance. If the inheritance is to be secured?—”
He set his fork down, the clink against the plate slicing through the air. “We are not in want, Mother.”
She glared, the candlelight reflecting in her eyes like a warning. “Want is never the measure. Duty is.”
William felt the familiar tension rising in his chest, the tightness that signaled either confrontation or submission. He chose neither, allowing the silence to grow heavy, a tangible weight pressing down on the table.
Uncle George pressed on. “You’re not a child, William. You must know that the family’s future is not merely a matter of preference.”
William considered this, then turned to his uncle, his voice steady. “If the family’s future relies on my ability to marry into the Harringtons, I suggest you start planning our demise for I will not marry Lady Penelope.”
His mother gasped, a practiced sound, and Uncle George allowed himself a tight, satisfied smile.
The meal dragged on, each course an opportunity for passive aggression. Mother listed eligible women as if reading from a directory, each one more tiresome than the last. William responded with polite noises, but his mind wandered to the library at Holburne, to Helena’s palm on his throat, to the lesson she had administered with precision.
He wondered if she would laugh to see him here, all dignity and diplomatic deflection, enduring the slow torture of inheritance. He doubted she would pity him. He suspected she would mock him for being so easily cornered.
Unable to tolerate much more he said, “I appreciate your concern for the family’s interests, but I must follow my own judgment in this matter.”
