“Go,” Helena said sharply. “I require nothing further.”
The girl vanished, leaving Helena alone, accompanied only by the echo of her heartbeat. She peeled off her gloves, her fingers flexing as if preparing for a fight. The blue, severe gown followed, discarded in a heap at the base of the bed. Stripped to her chemise, she approached the desk, her hands trembling not with cold, but with something more intense.
She stared at the blank page, the inked quill poised above it, and did not move for a long moment. The evening replayed in her mind like a nightmare. The orchestrated distance, the moment in the corridor. She had seen the turmoil in William’s eyes, and she despised him for his cowardice almost as much as she despised herself for still wanting him.
She had been a fool to think she could give her body and not her heart. She lifted her chin with defiance. Her eyes stung at the realization, but she could not deny it. She loved him. Helena would not let him go without a fight.
She chose a book, the slim volume of Horace he had once admired, and threaded a blue ribbon at page twelve. On a blank visiting card, she drew a tiny fox and nothing more. Wrapping them together, she sealed the parcel and summoned the footman. “Deliver this to Powis House,” she instructed. “Into His Grace’s hand. No intermediaries.” The man paled but nodded, disappearing down the hall nearly at a run.
Helena slumped in the chair, staring at the ink on her thumb. She hated how it made her feel: abandoned, humiliated, and most damningly, hungry.
She waited, her eyes fixed on the clock as time ticked past.
An hour later, she stepped outside.
The garden folly behind the house lay forgotten, the air sharp with the fading scents of jasmine and wisteria. Wrapped in only a thin shawl over her chemise, she embraced the chill, pacing the flagstones with her arms crossed, every nerve tingling.
The nearly full moon hovered low behind a veil of clouds, casting shadows that danced across the grass. She recalled every word about clandestine meetings and lovers courting danger and she felt the pull of ruin.
She heard the crunch of gravel before she saw him. He emerged from the darkness with a fluid grace that ignited a desire to strike him. Without a hat and his coat open, he seemed untouched by the cold. His hair was disheveled, and stubble shaded his jaw. He looked, she realized, as wild and unrestrained as she felt—one impulsive word away from unraveling.
She let him approach, locking eyes with something that might have been hatred if not for the simmering heat beneath it.
“You received my note,” she stated, presenting it as a fact rather than a question.
He halted a step away, hands at his sides, the moonlight glinting in his eyes. “I did.”
“And you came.”
A flicker of a smile almost graced his lips. “I have no will in the matter.”
She pondered this and stepped closer until their bodies nearly brushed. “Is it easier in the dark?”
He looked down at her, his expression resolute. “No. But it is safer.”
She reached up, fingers splayed, pressing her palm against the side of his face. He flinched but remained still.
“You are a coward, William Atteberry,” she whispered, her voice trembling with fury and longing. “You hide behind duty and reputation as if they were shields, but you are as weak as I am.”
His hand caught her wrist gently. “I am trying to protect you.”
“I do not want protection,” she replied. “I want you.”
The words ignited a spark between them. He drew her hand down, pressing it to his chest, where his heart raced beneath the fabric. “You have me.”
She kissed him—no preamble, no hesitation—their mouths colliding with urgency.
His arms locked around her, pulling her close, so close she could feel his heartbeat and the tremor in his hands.
They stumbled backward, her feet tripping over the uneven stones, until her back struck the cold marble of a garden statue. William pressed her against it, his thigh between hers, the heat of him searing through the silk. She arched against him, savoring the roughness.
His hand found the hem of her chemise. He slid it up her leg, fingers tracing slow circles on her thigh. She shivered, not from the cold but from the thrill of being in his arms.
She reached for his waistband, fumbling with the buttons, urgency driving her hands faster than her skill. He laughed softly, then buried his face in her neck, kissing the hollow beneath her ear.
“Here?” he asked, his voice hoarse.
“Here,” she replied, guiding him closer.
