He would see her today. He would not risk her name. But he would risk everything else.
He dressed with more haste than care, selecting a black coat and blue waistcoat, and allowed the valet to smooth his hair into a semblance of order. He ignored the raised brow this time and left the house at a pace just short of undignified.
Consequences loomed large in his mind, but for once, the prospect did not fill him with dread.
Helena had never considered herself a creature of habit, but today her need for control was absolute. She arrived at Gunter’s tea rooms a quarter hour early, ensuring that the private alcove would be properly prepared and that she, too, would be composed.
The room was as she preferred with whitewashed walls, modest gilt, and none of the excessive ornamentation that afflicted so many London parlors. Sunlight filtered through the mullioned window, warming the linens and illuminating the silver. Helena took her seat, arranged her gloves precisely at the edge of the table, and surveyed the array of cups, tongs, and spoons with a general's eye for formation. The order calmed her.
It was impossible to forget the memory of last night—the vivid colors, the rapid beating of her heart. Worse was the clarity with which she recalled the Duke of Powis, the set of his jaw beneath the mask, the pressure of his hand at the small of her back, the velvet in his voice.
She had expected regret, or at least a sharp embarrassment. Instead, excitement swelled dangerously close to hope as she awaited his arrival.
At precisely eleven, William entered—cravat askew, hair rakishly tousled. When his eyes found hers, they narrowed—not with censure, but with a predatory focus that left her breathless.
He bowed, more perfunctory than courtly, and took the chair opposite her. The table between them felt like a borderland, its expanse no wider than a truce.
“Lady Fairfax,” he said, his voice low enough to belong in a confessional.
She inclined her head, refusing the invitation to speak.
The silence stretched, measured in heartbeats and the tick of the Staffordshire clock above the mantel. At last, he cleared his throat. “I apologize for the abruptness of my note.”
She folded her hands. “If I found it objectionable, I would not have come.”
He nodded, a small muscle ticking at the corner of his jaw. “I value your judgment…and your honesty.”
Helena took up the teapot, steady as a surgeon, and poured for them both. “Will you take sugar?”
He glanced at the bowl, then at her, and for a moment she thought he might refuse. “One,” he said.
She gave him two. It was petty, but the act soothed her. He noticed and a ghost of a smile tugged at his lips.
He sipped, eyes never leaving hers. “I am aware that last night was a deviation from what either of us intended.”
Helena snorted, an unbecoming noise but an honest one. “Intended? I assure you, Your Grace, if I had intended anything, it would have been far less interesting.” She watched his reaction, noting a brief flare of color at his cheekbones, quickly controlled.
He set his cup down. “I find myself at a disadvantage.”
“That is a novel sensation for you, I imagine.”
His smile was faint, almost apologetic. “More than you know.”
A shadow fell across the table as the waiter entered, an intrusion both welcomed and resented. The man set down a plate of almond biscuits and retreated with the urgency of one who knows he is not wanted.
William waited until the door closed behind him. “Helena.” He used her name, and it hung between them like a weight. “There is no precedent for this. I am tied to your household as the law sets me near your affairs. As my late cousin’s wife, I am sworn to protect you, not ruin you.” He trailed off, unable or unwilling to finish.
“Not ruin me?” she supplied, with just enough bite to sting. “I’m not so delicate, Powis. I have survived worse than a little indiscretion.”
He winced, and she wondered whether she should pity him or herself. “The world is not kind to women who defy its conventions.”
“I am already what the world makes of me,” she said, the words sharper than intended. “I would rather be damned on my own terms. And I will name them.”
He considered this, fingers tracing a line along the rim of his cup. “And what terms would those be?”
She met his gaze, all pretense of civility evaporating. “Absolute honesty. No promises. No jealousy. No names in public. I choose when and where. No lies. I do not want a protector. I want…” She hesitated, surprised by her own boldness, then pressed on. “I want the freedom to choose my own disaster, and I want passion.”
A silence fell, heavy with possibility.
