“Is this what you wanted?” he asked quietly.
She glanced over his shoulder at the crowd surging in to replace the last dance’s drama with new gossip and intrigue. “Not quite,” she said.
He frowned. “Then what?”
She slid her fingers into his, her grip firm and unyielding. “I will be your scandal or your duchess, William. But I will not be your secret,” she said, her voice carrying defiantly.
The words hung, suspended over the company like the cut-glass pendants on the chandelier. A dozen conversations broke off mid-sentence. Even the musicians hesitated, bows hovering above strings, as if uncertain what soundtrack to assign to the moment.
William’s eyes widened, not in fear but in wonder. For a moment, he seemed genuinely at a loss. Then, as the implications ricocheted through the assembly, he lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to her knuckle.
The audience exhaled in unison, a ripple of laughter rising, some nervous, some admiring, and much of it purely scandalized. Lady Harrington nearly swooned, while the gladiator dropped his goblet. Even the Duchess of Suffolk’s ruff seemed to wilt.
Helena stood very still, her hand in his, letting the heat of the moment dissolve every old fear. The choice was made. The mask discarded. Around her, the world shifted slightly, but irrevocably, toward something she could almost call freedom.
At her side, William squeezed her fingers, the pressure a promise and a plea.
“I think,” he said softly for her ears alone, “you have conquered the room.”
She smiled, all mischief and intent. “I would prefer to conquer you.”
“You accomplished that with the first kiss. Merry me, Helena.”
“Yes.” She rose up, pressing her lips to his.
The room erupted, but she heard non of it. There was only the heat of his hand, the wildness in her veins, and the certainty that the night belonged to them.
* * *
They left the ballroom in a wake of gasps and speculation, then navigated the corridors with practiced ease. William could hear the echo of their footsteps, doubled by the pounding in his own chest.
He led her up the main staircase to the family’s private offices, not to the garden or drawing room. The thick carpet muffled her determined stride, and the gas sconces burned low, casting steady light in the shadows. William led her into the study at the end, past a corridor lined with portraits, their painted eyes seeming to track him with approval.
The door clicked shut behind them. The room was filled with the dense smell of leather, ink, and aged vellum. The fire flared to life when he touched the poker to it, casting shadows across the dark wainscot and the rows of books lining the walls. The atmosphere felt different, warm and free from gossip.
Helena crossed to the hearth, holding her hands to the sudden heat, her crimson skirts pooling around her. Her face, wild with triumph, revealed a slight twitch of nerves and a brief loss of breath.
He closed the distance, meeting her in a kiss that was less surrender than mutual capture. The taste of her was a collision of fire and salt, every point of contact charged with the memory of denial. He laughed, half-crazed, when she broke the kiss.
She pressed him back to the desk, her hands deftly undoing his cravat, then moving to the buttons of his waistcoat. He caught her wrists for a moment, needing to look her in the eye.
“Helena,” he said, “are you sure you wish to marry me?”
She kissed him again, slower this time, her hands sliding under the linen to his bare chest. “I have never been more sure of anything,” she whispered. “I love you.”
He pulled her closer, then said, “And I love you.”
They fell together onto the settee. The fire cast their shadows along the wall as Helena straddled him, her skirts fanning around his hips, her hands at his fall, unfastening the final obstacle to his skin. He undid the hooks at her bodice, his breath coming in ragged pulses.
She laughed as the fabric gave way, her hair tumbling around her face. “You’re trembling,” she said.
“So are you,” he replied.
He kissed the curve of her shoulder, the salt of her skin feeding his need as she lowered herself onto him. She arched against him, her nails scoring his back, forcing a moan from his mouth.
She moved against him slowly at first, then with a desperation that threatened to dissolve them both. The room narrowed to the heat of her, the scent of sweat and smoke, the sound of her voice crying out his name.
He came apart with her, the climax a riot of sensation that left him gasping. For a long while, they lay tangled on the settee, her cheek against his chest, the beat of her heart a small, insistent song.
