He let Helena set the distance, matching her movements. She was easy to spot, her hair, her posture, and her clear disdain for everyone present, but she was equally skilled at pretending not to notice him. They circled each other in the crowded room, maintaining a distance that felt neither random nor safe.
At one point, he caught a glimpse of her profile, laughter spilling from her lips at something the Marquess of Brunsford had said. Her gown was blue this time, severe and high-necked, as if to mock the memory of the masquerade. Yet her eyes, when they met his across the room, remained unchanged—bright, hungry, unyielding.
He inclined his head in acknowledgment, but she did not return the gesture. Instead, she resumed her conversation with sudden intensity, underscoring her indifference.
Anger simmered within him, predictable and pointless.
A new waltz was announced, and the guests shifted toward the dance floor. William positioned himself near a pillar, indulging in the luxury of observation. The room swirled with color and sound. Ladies in jewel tones, men in military or political attire, chandeliers casting sharp patterns onto every surface.
He watched as Helena accepted a dance from Lord Fitzwilliam, a young man with more ambition than grace. She endured the attention with a calmness that bordered on contempt, yet he noticed the tension in her jaw and the way she scanned the room every few seconds.
He told himself he was imagining it, that he did not, should not, matter enough to occupy her thoughts. But the urge to observe was irresistible.
After the dance, Helena slipped into the card room, and William seized the opportunity to make his own circuit of the ballroom, keeping a safe distance of three or four bodies at all times. He spoke with Lady Harrington, who regarded him with the wary amusement of someone who had been both admirer and adversary. He accepted a glass of punch, barely tasting it, and listened to the Viscount of Ridley lament the state of the Royal Navy.
All the while, he tracked Helena, paying more attention than he should to her location, her company, the fleeting expressions that crossed her face. He noted when she left the card room and the precise moment she made her way to the far end of the corridor, toward the small salon favored by those seeking air or privacy.
He anticipated her next move. When she slipped into the corridor, William was already there, his posture casual but his senses alert.
She intercepted him halfway between music and silence, her footsteps measured yet purposeful. He braced himself, masking his anticipation with a facade of indifference.
“Your Grace,” she said, her voice low. “I expected you to offer me a dance, at the very least.”
He did not smile. “I thought it best not to draw attention.”
Her brow arched. “How considerate of you.”
He looked past her, toward the window at the end of the corridor. “May I speak plainly?” he asked.
“Please do.” She tilted her head a fraction.
“There is talk about the masquerade. Someone has taken note.”
She laughed, a sharp sound that cut through the air. “Let them. No one can prove it was us.”
“We have everything to lose,” he replied firmly. “You would be ruined.”
“I am a widow and permitted toi be discreetly wicked.” She stepped closer, her perfume enveloping him. “Is it my reputation that concerns you, or your own?”
William forced himself to remain composed. “Yours. Always.”
For a moment, silence surrounded them, heavy and thick. Then, quietly, she said, “You are a coward, William Atteberry.”
He exhaled slowly. “Perhaps. But I promised to protect your name, and I intend to keep that promise.”
She flinched.
He caught the slight tremor, though she masked it quickly. Then her chin lifted, and the light caught her features, rendering her almost unrecognizable.
“Very well, Your Grace,” she said, her tone icy. “You have made your point. I will not inconvenience you further.”
With that, she turned and vanished down the corridor, leaving him alone with the echo of her words.
William stood still for a minute, his knuckles white against the banister, before he dared to move. Every nerve in his body screamed to hold her, to apologize, to explain the consequences of his decisions. Instead, he forced himself to remain, fingers pressed hard against the polished rail.
Helena returned to her dower house in the early hours, a cold light filtering through the carriage windows and pooling at her feet. She stepped out as soon as the wheels stopped, her skirts gathered high and her jaw set tight. The footman scrambled after her, offering a brief bow, but she brushed past without acknowledgment.
The house was silent, the stillness a rebuke rather than a comfort. She ascended the stairs with determination, her heels echoing on the wooden steps. Her lady’s maid hovered at the threshold of her bedchamber, unsure whether to offer help or retreat.
