His mother’s frown deepened, becoming something structural, like a crack in marble. “And what, precisely, is your judgment?”
He paused, savoring the moment. “That I will not be bullied into matrimony, nor will I entertain any arrangement that offends my sense of—how did you put it, Mother—duty.”
Lord George shook his head, but William caught the glint of respect in his uncle's eyes. “Suit yourself,” he said, raising his glass. “But don’t expect sympathy when the estate is divided up like a roast at Christmas.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” William replied, lifting his own glass in a mock toast.
Dessert arrived. A confection of spun sugar. William declined it, rising from the table with an excuse about correspondence requiring his attention. His mother remained seated, her hands white-knuckled on the tablecloth. Uncle George watched William go, eyes narrowed, as if already plotting the next campaign.
In the corridor, William paused to steady himself. He inhaled the cold air, then exhaled slowly, releasing the tension inside him.
He did not go to his study. Instead, he wandered through the maze of darkened parlors and closed doors, each step taking him further from his family’s expectations and closer to a life governed by his own desires.
Eventually, he paused outside the library, the weight of the world on his shoulders. He pushed the door open and locked it behind him, the click breaking the stillness. Flames danced in the hearth as he settled into a worn armchair, surrounded by the scent of aged paper and leather.
Helena again invade his thoughts. Her playful challenge lingered, the memory of her scent wrapping around him. Her laughter echoed in his ears, and the heat of her presence ignited something within him.
He let the longing swell, filling the quiet space with a warmth that buzzed softly, like a candle flickering in the dark.
Chapter 6
At half past five the next morning William settled into his usual seat in the east-facing study, where tall windows framed the stillness of the city outside. He lit the lamp and turned his attention to the first task, reviewing the mail.
The morning correspondence proved unremarkable. A notification from the Society of Antiquaries, a few polite notes from acquaintances eager to remind him of their existence, and folded into a neat rectangle, a thick cream envelope bearing the monogram of the Morning Post. He opened it with absent-minded efficiency, bracing for the usual reports of parliamentary events and subscription invitations.
The society column occupied the third page, a blend of scandals and gossip, its tone both knowing and disinterested. William skimmed the opening paragraphs—Lady Quenby’s fondness for opera gloves, Lord Ruskin’s poetry—until a phrase snagged his attention.
An incident had occurred at the Ashcombe masquerade, so the column claimed, with more confidence than evidence.
He read the line again, slower:
A woman dressed in crimson was observed engaging in spirited debate and some athleticism with a man whose identity remains unknown. The mask may conceal, but demeanor and wit do not.
William's grip tightened on the paper, his jaw twitching. The scent of ink and cold leather enveloped him. For a moment, the room felt smaller, the air thickening. He forced himself to breathe as the words scrolled before him in silent accusation. ‘Vixen,’ they had written. ‘Crimson.' It was hardly clever.
His first instinct was to destroy the evidence, to burn the column and erase it completely. But he was an Atteberry, and such displays of panic were beneath him and, paradoxically, beneath the threat itself. He reread the paragraph, absorbing each implication, then folded the page and set it aside. The urge to laugh, hollow and incredulous, flickered and died.
With sudden clarity, he realized his body had gone rigid, his spine pressed flat against the leather of his chair, shoulders hunched and jaw locked in a mix of rage and fear. He loosened his grip on the paper with effort, the tremor in his hand lingering.
Helena.
Protect her name. Touch nothing else.
He saw her smile flash behind the fox mask, just as she had looked at him in the conservatory. No, not at him, but through him, as if she could see his undoing. Had she read the column yet? Would she care? He doubted she would be intimidated, but that did nothing to lessen the risk.
He imagined the spread of gossip, the shift from ‘woman in crimson”’ to Lady Fairfax through countless whispers. In a week, or two at most, the suggestion would become an open secret. The name ‘Powis’ wouldn’t appear in print, but it would linger in every drawing room, poised to ignite with a careless word.
William ran a hand through his hair, disrupting the morning’s order, and glanced at the clock. Nearly six. He was expected at the Queen’s Gate rout by eight. The rest of the day loomed with monotony: accounts, correspondence, reprimanding a junior steward. None of it would distract him.
He set the newspaper aside and stared at the cold grate, imagining how the fire would look when lit for the evening’s return. Would it illuminate or merely expose?
He had promised to protect her, a vow he intended to keep, no matter the cost.
* * *
Queen’s Gate at eight, Lady Trevelyan’s rout, was a vibrant scene of light and noise. As a maid passed, a program brushed his sleeve, its margin marked with a tiny fox. He pocketed it without a glance. The air outside was sharp, cutting through layers of fashion and artifice, but inside the ballroom, there was only the crush of three hundred people, each eager to be seen and fearful of being truly known.
William moved through the crowd with the ease of one who had spent a lifetime as both predator and prey. He wore black, as always. It made him a void, defined by the absence of hue. Still, he felt the eyes upon him, the speculative glances and quick remarks that followed him like a shadow.
