He felt the weight of her words but did not show it. “You are not the first woman to underestimate the hazards of London. I have no interest in curtailing your ambitions, only in protecting you from those who would exploit them. The financial output is to hight for you alone to bear, and the endeavor to risky.”
She exhaled slowly, furious. “Do not patronize me.”
He almost smiled but checked the impulse. “I mean it as a fact. The man who you approached for the Whitechapel school is, by every metric, a scoundrel. I have the papers if you care to see them.”
Her eyes flashed, dark and alive. “That is not the point, and you know it. You might have spoken to me. Instead, you chose to act behind my back as if I were your ward or your property.” She straightened, releasing the chair. “I suppose I should thank you for the lesson.”
He rose slowly, preparing to endure rather than act. “I apologize, Helena. If I have embarrassed you?—”
She shook her head. “You do not understand, do you? It is not about the school. It is about whether I can trust you not to turn every disagreement into an exercise in control.”
He saw the shadow behind her anger. Not just pride but the ache of betrayal.
He reached for her, a motion so natural it surprised them both. She stepped back and held up her hands as if to ward off contagion.
“No,” she said.
He lowered his hand, but not his gaze. “What is it you want from me, Helena?”
She considered, then said, “To be believed capable of error, perhaps. Or to be allowed it.” Her hands trembled briefly, then stilled on the back of the chair. “I cannot be your property, or your project, or your problem to solve.”
He opened his mouth, found no adequate words, and closed it again.
“I loved you, William,” she said softly. “That is the past tense. I do not know if I can continue.”
He sat, the weight of it abrupt and final.
She turned for the door but paused at the threshold, as if waiting for a reprieve or an objection.
He offered neither.
The door closed behind her with a click that, in the empty room, sounded like a verdict.
William remained where he was, eyes fixed on the fossil in his paperweight. He did not move for a long time.
When he finally looked up the study's geometry was unchanged. But the air felt different, as if something vital had been lost and could not be regained.
He found himself unable to remember what, exactly, he had been trying to preserve.
Chapter 10
Two days later, the morning room at Powis House brimmed with sunlight, but the atmosphere crackled with cold judgments. Every inch of its marble-and-wood expanse proclaimed power. The high table by the window bore not tea or ledgers but crisp parchments, a silver-capped inkwell, and a paper knife honed to an unforgiving edge. Around the room, the ducal family and their allies—cousins, uncles, and the occasional sycophantic Viscount—hovered, anticipation etched on their faces. At the head of the room, William stood rigidly, his gaze locked ahead.
The legal men arrived precisely on the hour. Three of them. The chief solicitor, stooped but alert, the junior, with a quill tucked behind one ear, and the third, a figure of anonymity, there to bear witness. William acknowledged them with a slight nod, then turned his attention to the garden beyond the windows. The light outside was brittle, filtered through mist coated glass, mirroring the sensation of fracturing within him.
He listened for the rustle of seating and the clearing of throats to settle. Then, without shifting from his position, he spoke.
“You all know why we are assembled.”
The phrase landed heavily, a rebuke rather than a question. William surveyed the faces before him: Uncle George, pale and smirking. Mother, her lips pressed into a thin line. His other relatives feigning boredom yet observing everything.
The solicitor, Dobson, nodded gravely. “We are prepared to advise on the disposition of the Atteberry bequest, should you have arrived at a decision, Your Grace.”
William’s hands rested on the table, fingers splayed. A muscle in his jaw twitched, the only sign of his struggle to remain still.
“I have,” he said.
He glanced at his family, then at the legal men. Protocol dictated he address the lawyers, but he had always despised protocol. “You have received the terms of the late Duke’s trust. The inheritance of the Pembroke land grant is conditional upon my marrying an approved candidate by the end of the Season.”
