William reached for the plate of biscuits, selecting one and breaking it in half. He offered her the larger portion, a peace offering so transparent that she nearly laughed.
Helena took it, her fingers brushing his. The contact was electric, a crackle that threatened to ignite every nerve.
He said, “Very well. I accept your terms, provided you accept one of mine.”
She arched an eyebrow, more curious than skeptical. “And what is that?”
“No public risk to your name. If we are to be damned, let it be quietly.”
Helena considered this, weighing it against her own desire for autonomy. She decided even a discreet damnation was better than living in obscurity.
“Agreed,” she said, allowing herself a small smile. “I must admit, Your Grace, I did not expect you to be so accommodating.”
He shrugged, the gesture oddly vulnerable. “I have always believed in playing to one’s strengths.”
She finished her tea in a single swallow. “Then we have an understanding.”
“Indeed.” He stood, the movement abrupt. “Shall I escort you to your carriage?”
“Only if you promise not to lecture me on propriety,” she replied, gathering her gloves.
“Never,” he said, and she believed him.
They walked side by side through the foyer, her hand resting on his arm. The air outside was fresh, the city’s noise held at bay by the clarity of the morning. Helena felt the tension drain from her shoulders, replaced by a sense of anticipation she had not known in years.
She turned to him as they reached the waiting carriage. “Tomorrow. Two o’clock. The Holborn Reading Room.”
He bowed lower this time, and the gleam in his eye told her he was already imagining what ‘next time’ might entail.
As the carriage drew away, Helena allowed herself to close her eyes and savor the possibilities. The rules were set, the field leveled. She was no longer prey to fate but an architect of her own ruin. Passion without promises—by choice.
It was, she decided, a far better bargain then holiness or marriage.
Chapter 3
The next afternoon, Helena arrived seven minutes before the hour. Her timing was deliberate—neither early enough to seem nervous nor late enough to cede ground. The private library at Holborn loomed before her, its mahogany walls lined with the spines of books written by men seeking immortality. Pausing at the threshold, her heart quickened before she stepped inside, exuding the confidence of a woman accustomed to significant spaces.
The curtains were closed and a single lamp flickered at the far end, its light filtered through amber glass, dancing with the flames in the grate. She noted the precise arrangement of chairs, the absence of decanters or fruit, and the oversized chaise angled for privacy. Every detail whispered of a host who understood the perils of convenience.
Choosing the chaise nearest the fire, she sat, gloves still on, her posture immaculate.
A soft knock—three quick, one slow—brought her to her feet. She crossed the room, turned the key, and opened the door.
William entered with the careful motion reserved for rooms he did not control. His black coat was unadorned, his cravat a single, dismissive loop. He closed the door behind him, and Helena turned the lock.
“Lady Fairfax,” he said, his voice tailored for her ears alone, low and seductive.
“Your Grace.” A slow smile curved her lips, her eyes half-lidded. “You came.”
“I always do.” The edge in his tone was deliberate. He crossed to the fire, opting to stand rather than sit. He regarded her with undisguised hunger. “You have me at a disadvantage.”
She extended her hand. “Not yet.”
He took her hand, holding it as if she might vanish. They both waited until she withdrew. “You could have refused.”
“I was advised,” he replied, “that you are not easily dissuaded.”
“Your informant was correct.” She tugged at the thumb of her glove, peeling it away finger by finger, her gaze locked onto his face. Her bare hand was pale, nerves dancing just beneath the surface. “Did you bring your nerve?”
