Helena did not pause at the threshold. She had not come to admire the décor or indulge in the suspense of a new arrival’s unmasking. Her entrance had been planned with military precision The carriage timed to avoid street congestion, her arrival fashionably late, the invitation clutched in her hand rather than a modest reticule. She wore red. Crimson, to be exact, a shade designed to provoke discomfort among the sea of white and pastels. And she wore it with a severity that allowed no rival.
Most strikingly, she wore no mask at all.
This, more than the color, drew attention from the assembly. The initial reaction was disbelief, followed by a ripple of delight as gossip spread. Helena could feel it, a vibration in the air, as if her name had become a tuning fork for the room. She heard herself mentioned within three steps.
“Lady Fairfax, is it not?”
“Audacious, even for her”
“One must suppose the rumors are true, then.”
The voices overlapped, a chorus of judgment and jealousy, but she met none of them as she surged forward, her chin set at an angle that dared interception.
The room itself was a marvel. Every alcove occupied, every staircase filled with spectators. The guests had outdone themselves. Masks feathered and beaded to the point of absurdity. Costumes ranging from the sublime, a Duchess of Suffolk in full Tudor regalia, her ruff threatening to bisect anyone nearby, to the ridiculous, a minor baronet had come as a Roman gladiator, leaving his wife in the unflattering position of the vanquished lion. But none drew as much sustained attention as Helena, whose simple lack of disguise rendered her the most inscrutable figure of all.
She made her way to the ballroom with deliberate slowness, each step a signal. The crowd parted, not in deference but in fascination. Here and there, familiar faces turned away just a fraction too late. Lady Harrington, who mouthed a silent “brazen,” and Lord Ridley, who watched her as a fox might watch an oncoming trap. Helena gave them nothing. Not a glance, not a smile, only the click of her heels on the marble and the soundless, lethal progress of a woman with nothing to fear.
She found William exactly where she expected him, stationed at the far end of the gallery, hands clasped behind his back. He wore a mask, a simple crescent of indigo velvet, which only accentuated the clarity of his gaze. He watched her approach with the stillness of a man who knew exactly what he wanted.
Their collision was inevitable. Helena drew up before him, leaving just enough distance for discretion; then, after a beat, closed it with a single, measured step.
“Your Grace,” she said, letting her voice carry.
He inclined his head but did not offer his hand. “Lady Fairfax.”
They stood for a moment in silence. Even the quartet seemed to falter, as if awaiting instruction.
Helena looked him over, from the sharp line of his collar to the barely visible bruise at his jaw—her doing, she remembered, from two days prior. “You are not dancing,” she observed.
“I rarely do,” he replied.
“But you will with me.” She lifted her chin, challenging the room as much as him.
A flicker at the corner of his mouth, the ghost of amusement. “You are determined to be noticed.”
“I am determined,” she replied, “to be known.”
He considered this, then extended his arm. “Shall we?” The mask made his expression unreadable, but his voice was almost tender.
They entered the waltz at the periphery, as if intruding on a conversation already in progress. Helena fit against him with ease, and every eye in the room tracked their orbit, hungry for confirmation or catastrophe.
The music swept them into a slow spiral. For the first few bars, neither spoke. Helena could feel his heartbeat through the fabric of his sleeve, sensing the effort it took for him to maintain his composure.
“You are making a spectacle,” he said just above her ear.
She smiled. “I am only accelerating what was already in motion.”
He drew her closer, not improper but not strictly correct either. “There are rules, Helena.”
“Then let them be rewritten.”
Their progress carried them past the dais, where the host and hostess, both ancient and serene, watched with polite horror. At the next turn, Helena caught the eye of Lady Harrington, who looked as if she might faint from the intensity of her own righteousness. Beyond her, a cluster of young debutantes gossiped furiously behind their fans, their eyes wide with the possibility that someone could live so flagrantly outside the boundaries and still command the floor.
The music shifted, the tempo quickening, and Helena let herself be carried along. She had never felt so alive, so exposed, and so unwilling to retreat. For the first time, she was not defined by absence or omission, widow, outlier, but by the bright, undeniable fact of herself.
When the waltz ended. She released William’s hand but did not step back.
He looked down at her, the mask slipping just enough to reveal a softness she had never seen in him.
