The man unlocked the case, carefully removing the book and placing it on a velvet pad where its gilt edge shimmered under the dim gaslight.
William handled the volume delicately, opening it just enough to ensure its flexibility without straining the spine. The paper bore a watermark, each sheet slightly lined, the text in an elegant, clear font. He thumbed through the opening ode and then to the final page, where a previous owner's hand had inscribed a date: 1806.
“It’s a fine edition,” the bookseller said quietly.
“It is.” William closed the book, feeling its weight in his hand. “Wrap it in plain paper. No card, no seal.”
The man nodded and moved to the counter. William followed, anticipation bubbling beneath his calm exterior.
The price would have daunted a less determined buyer, but William did not hesitate. He placed the coins in the tray, accepted the package, and left the shop quietly.
After dusk, William returned to the district housing the dower house. He avoided the main street, instead taking the garden wall at the back and navigating the familiar alleyways with the ease of someone for whom secrecy was second nature. He kept to the shadows, slipping through the narrow postern gate, his boots silent on the gravel.
The house glowed with muted light. Only two or three windows were illuminated, the servants retired, while the mistress of the house likely read by candle or gas. William skirted the rose beds, his breath visible in the chill, and reached the stone bench beneath the east-facing library window.
He set the package down, anchoring it with a smooth river rock. For a moment, he considered adding a note, something clever or dry, but dismissed the idea. She would know it was he who had left it.
He glanced at the lit pane, half-expecting to see her silhouette, but the curtains were drawn. He waited ten seconds before turning to leave, the satisfaction of his act warming him against the night.
Helena rose at dawn and took her tea in the small walled garden behind the house. She draped a shawl over her shoulders, her hair pinned up with minimal concessions to fashion, and set her cup on the iron table with care.
She noticed the package immediately. Even from her seat, the neat wrapping and its perfect placement revealed its origin.
After finishing her tea, she retrieved it, bringing it to the table and sitting down. Her fingers ran over the plain brown paper, feeling the memory of his touch tingling across her fingertips. She untied the twine with precision and peeled back the layers to reveal the book.
Her heart skipped a beat.
She opened the cover, tracing the Greek letters with her nail, then the Latin, then back again. She read the inscription—1806, nothing more—and felt the intimacy of the gesture keenly. The lack of flourish, no possessive declaration, just the text itself, raw and whole, entrusted to her. She swallowed against the rising lump in her throat.
Helena glanced over her shoulder, half-expecting a footman to appear, some witness to her feelings. But the garden was empty, the city unaware of the transaction that had taken place.
Pressing the book to her chest in an unguarded motion, she composed herself, then rewrapped it carefully. As she rose to reenter the house, she carried the volume at her side.
Crossing the threshold, she recited the opening ode under her breath, savoring the words on her tongue, the gift in her heart.
She wondered, not for the first time, what marriage to William would be like.
Chapter 8
The morning room at Powis House embraced sunlight. Six tall windows welcomed the day. The effect was an eternal morning, the light a thin gold that polished the silver tea service and drew attention to every minor blemish on the linen. The room carried the scent of lemon oil, old paper, and a faint trace of camphor, the late Duke’s defense against mildew.
William sat at the table, his posture signaling a stalemate. He had neither tasted his tea nor looked at it. His hands rested on either side of the cup, thumbs pressing against the delicate porcelain as if to prevent its collapse. The only other occupant was the family solicitor, whose suit hinted at mourning and whose whiskers dominated his face.
The solicitor cleared his throat, a sound steeped in decades of informing men of consequence of unwelcome truths. “Your Grace,” he began, “I trust you are well this morning.”
William glanced at the clock on the mantle, then at the solicitor. “I am as well as the hour permits.”
“Very good. Then, with your leave, I should like to address a matter of some urgency.”
William gestured, palm up, inviting the words to settle on the table alongside the untouched toast and unopened letters.
“There is the issue, Your Grace, of the Atteberry bequest. As you know it is in addition to the entailed estates and is more than significant. This matter is not new, but it has gained urgency following the settlement of the last entail.” He carefully drew a parchment from his folio. “The late Duke’s instructions were explicit regarding the conditions.”
William’s jaw tightened slightly, a motion that could have been mistaken for a tic. “I am familiar with my uncle’s affection for posthumous meddling,” he said, his tone crisp.
The solicitor nodded, evidently relieved by the hint of sarcasm. “He was, as you know, a man of foresight.” A faint smile flickered before he continued, “The estate is to be secured by a grant from the Pembroke Trust, conditional upon your marriage to a suitable, that is to say, faultless bride before the conclusion of the present Season. Should you fail, you will be left without the funds necessary to sustain the duchy in the matter to which you are accustomed.”
The word ‘faultless’ lingered, a challenge in the air.
