He nodded sharply. “A fair desire.”
She expected protest, or at least a question—What of love, of necessity, or the machinery of lineage and inheritance? Instead, he surprised her.
“Sometimes I envy your freedom, Helena.” His eyes flicked away, then back. “The title was never mine by birthright. I was intended for the Church, or perhaps the army. Instead, I inherited a chain of obligations I neither sought nor enjoyed. My life is an abacus of other people’s requirements. Even this,” he gestured between them, “is dictated by you.”
Helena found herself at a loss. She stood, smoothed her skirt again, and crossed to the sideboard, ostensibly to refill her glass. The movement brought them within three feet, the line between them suddenly tangible, as if they were two poles in a broken compass.
She poured a measure of sherry and offered the decanter to him. He shook his head.
“Does this change things between us?” she asked, her voice more vulnerable than she liked.
He regarded her over the rim of his glasses, his eyes glinting with something she could not name. “Only in that I understand you better now.”
She leaned against the mahogany, letting the cool surface steady her. “You are not disappointed?”
He laughed, a short, dry sound. “I suspect you have already decided which outcome would suit you best.”
She considered this, then allowed herself a small, rueful smile. “You are quite right.”
He stepped away from the mantel, closing the distance between them. “Would you like me to go?”
The question was gentle, almost tender.
“No,” she said, and did not elaborate.
The sun had dipped, casting fresh shadows through the lace and creating a lattice of gold across his cheek. He reached out as if to touch her face, then checked himself and lowered his hand.
“Then I will stay,” he said.
They stood like that, two figures locked in an intimacy that was neither romantic nor adversarial, but deeply honest.
Helena realized she was no longer smoothing her skirts.
She lifted her glass, and for the first time, toasted him. “To time,” she said. “Ours, at last.”
He smiled, slow and dangerous. “To time,” he replied. “May we enjoy it while it lasts.”
“How cryptic.” She laughed, raising her glass.
They drank. The silence that followed was companionable, the first of its kind.
In the thinning light, hunger sharpened into resolve. Not a future, but an evening. Two equals, at rest and at arms, together by their own choice.
She wondered, not for the first time, whether that would be enough.
She suspected it would. Leastwise for her.
William strode through Piccadilly with the purposeful gait of a man on an important errand, his steps measured. At Hatchards, the musty scent of old paper enveloped him, the quiet ambiance whispering of a place that revered ideas.
The bookseller, a man whose mustache often overshadowed his smile, nodded in recognition. “Your Grace.”
William acknowledged the courtesy with a slight nod before beginning to browse the shelves.
He passed the obvious attractions, the new novels, colorful atlases, and stacks of treatises on agriculture, until he reached the glass-fronted case of rare poetry. Here, the air felt different, colors muted, as if even the dust respected the weight of the works. William’s reflection appeared alongside him in the glass, a silent companion marked by faint shadows beneath his eyes.
The bookseller approached, keys jingling softly. “Something specific, Your Grace?”
William scanned the shelves, his gaze landing on a slim, blue-black volume. “The Sappho, if you please. Greek and Latin, side by side.”
