William’s gaze narrowed. “I see. And how, precisely, is faultless defined in this instance?”
The solicitor cleared his throat, less out of necessity than as a prelude. “The language of the will is particular, Your Grace. It specifies a lady of reputable lineage, unimpeachable character, and, I must add, no previous alliances or attachments.”
William’s grip tightened on the cup, the fine china emitting a quiet sound. “No widows,” he said.
“None, Your Grace. Nor any woman of ambiguous standing.”
A long pause stretched, measured by the slow cooling of the tea and the mounting pressure behind William’s eyes.
The solicitor pressed on, striving for discretion. “It is widely understood that the Trust will interpret this clause to mean an unblemished debutante, preferably with connections advantageous to the House of Powis. The Season is nearly half spent.”
William inclined his head in a mock gesture of gratitude. “I appreciate your candor.”
He could see, beneath the veil of professional etiquette, that the solicitor longed to say more and wanted to acknowledge that the clause was a relic of spite, a condemnation of all that William valued. But the solicitor’s face betrayed only restraint, his hands folded with the patience of one who had witnessed too many men reduced to compliance by family obligation.
William cleared his throat, and the ensuing silence felt heavy. “And if I fail to comply?”
The solicitor’s expression remained unchanged, but his pupils constricted. “The grant would revert to your nearest male cousin, Lord George’s son, as matters stand.”
“Thomas,” William said, the name sounding like an insult.
“Yes, Your Grace. He is…” The solicitor searched for a word and let the sentence drop, finding none.
William turned his attention to the garden beyond the windows. The grounds were immaculate, yet the new grass exhibited a restlessness, a refusal to conform to geometry. He watched the gardeners at work, their livery too green for the season, their movements a continuous erasure of anything untidy.
He returned his gaze to the solicitor. “It is unfortunate, then, that the candidate pool is so constrained.”
The solicitor allowed himself a wince, quickly masked. “I took the liberty of drafting a list of suitable candidates, Your Grace. Should you desire it.”
William’s lips barely moved. “Set it with the other papers.”
“Very good, Your Grace. And if I may, time is of the essence. The Trust expects confirmation of your intentions by the first of June.”
“Understood.”
The solicitor stood, bowing awkwardly. He gathered his folio and moved toward the door, pausing only long enough to glance back at William’s unreadable face.
Once alone, William sat motionless for a full minute, the ticking clock the only indication that time had not stopped. He exhaled, long and silent, and let his hands fall away from the cup.
He considered the absurdity of the situation. A man who had spent his life as a rogue now threatened with losing everything for failing to acquire a bride of perfect pedigree. The logic of it was flawless. The cruelty, remarkable.
He did not think of Helena. Or rather, he did not allow himself to think of her as anything other than an abstraction, a point of data, a variable in the equation he had to solve. He recalled her wit, her disdain for protocol, the way she had laughed at him for being too careful. He thought, with a bitterness that was almost sweet, of the clarity of her gaze and how utterly it had ruined his appetite for anything less than her.
He reached for the list of candidates, unfolded it, and scanned the names. There were five, each a perfect example of breeding and virtue, each as empty as the space between the lines. He set the list down, then folded it with a violence that left creases in the paper.
Suddenly, he stood and crossed to the window. The light had shifted, a new layer of gold illuminating the garden and the gardeners as they worked. William pressed his forehead to the glass, the chill a small mercy.
Without meaning to, he began to count the days remaining in the Season. It was a calculation he had performed countless times, usually in anticipation of release. Now, the arithmetic was different. Each day was not a reprieve but an extinction.
He watched as one of the gardeners paused, straightening to wipe his brow, and their eyes met through the glass. The man looked away.
William remained at the window until the cold forced him back to himself. He straightened his cuffs, reset his face to an expression of disinterest, and prepared to face the day’s obligations.
He had, he reminded himself, always preferred a challenge. But this one felt less like a puzzle to solve than a sentence to serve.
Helena had always viewed the drawing room of her dower house as a stage, and today she occupied its center. The afternoon light, filtered through budding leaves and etched glass, cast intricate patterns on the damask and made her tea service shimmer. She chose her seat deliberately. Not the settee, which invited confidences, nor the high-backed chair by the hearth, which suggested distance, but the window seat, offering both a view and a retreat.
Her guest, Mrs. Winthrop, a widow of several seasons, entered with an air of boundless, if occasionally misguided, goodwill. Clad in pale lavenders and forget-me-not blue, she wore gloves so white they nearly obscured her hands. With a peculiar talent, she produced a handkerchief embroidered with the initials of every hostess she visited. Helena found herself torn between charm and strangeness.
