What was Helena doing at that moment? Was she distracted, or had she already cataloged and forgotten her conquest? He doubted it.
Rising, he crossed to the mirror, inspecting the fading bruise on his neck. Small and almost delicate, yet the memory behind it was anything but. He touched the mark, then let his hand fall. Returning to his chair, he attempted to work once more.
Hours slipped by, marked only by the sun's slow journey across the bookshelves and the occasional tick of the defective clock. By noon, anticipation had settled into a physical ache. By two, he found it impossible to feign interest in the affairs of the dukedom.
At four, the footman returned.
William was not waiting at the door. He heard the knock, the muted exchange in the corridor, and then the letter—her letter—was placed in his hand.
He took it to the desk, sat down, and stared at the envelope. It felt heavier than his own, folded twice and sealed with a strip of deep blue wax. He broke it open with a trembling thumbnail.
Inside was fine linen wrapped in a handkerchief edged in lace, still warm with her scent. He unfolded it and read.
Dearest W.,
You asked what pleases me. I could mention the taste of you, the feel of your mouth on my skin, but that would be a deception. What truly pleases me is this: that you want to please me.
I have been cold for so long that I had forgotten the vocabulary of desire. You have reminded me, and I am in your debt.
Next time, I want to hear you say my name, not as a courtesy, but as a necessity. I want your voice in my ear when you come apart. I want to see how much you can bear before you break.
Is that enough, William? Or shall I continue?
Yours, for now,
H.
He read the letter twice, then three times, the words dissolving and reshaping in the quiet of the study. He closed his eyes, heat rising in his cheeks and tightening in his chest.
He pressed the handkerchief to his lips, inhaling her scent. This was madness, and yet he had no inclination to stop.
He reached for the brandy, but it was unnecessary. He was already aflame.
He folded the letter, slipped it into the inner pocket of his waistcoat, and sat in silence for five minutes, then ten. At last, he stood, adjusted his cravat, and left the study with a sense of purpose he had not known in years.
Chapter 4
The carriage approached Lord Pembroke’s estate smoothly, the wheels gliding over the newly mown drive with only a slight murmur from the gravel. William sat with his hat on one knee and a tightly gloved hand that blanched at the knuckles. He kept his eyes fixed on the landscape beyond the glass, where lawns rolled in neat waves, interrupted by patches of narcissus and early crocus. The air outside was exceptionally clear, and the house at the crest of the lawn shimmered with an almost aggressive optimism.
He arrived seven minutes early, a timing that felt oddly symmetrical. The footman opened the door, and William stepped into the sunlight.
The house party had gathered for fresh air and fresh scandal, though only the former could be mentioned openly. William allowed himself to be swept along, nodding to Lord Pembroke and exchanging brief pleasantries with a Viscount. The gardens served as both arena and gallery, with every path acting as a corridor and every bend providing a stage for encounters or retreats. The guests matched the fine day. The women in soft muslins and printed lawns, the men in pastels and embroidered waistcoats, each more eager for attention than the last.
He drifted through the crowd, aware of his own detached presence. The perfectly tailored dark coat made him seem like a shadow among the festivities. Guests parted unconsciously or looked through him as if he were an unwelcome specter. He preferred it that way. He had never enjoyed idle chatter, and his reputation for severity, or worse, for boredom, protected him from the worst of it.
He noted that Helena was not immediately present. He dismissed this first as an accident, then as a strategy. She was not a woman to be found loitering among the roses or giggling with the debutantes beneath the trellis. He made a circuit of the grounds, ignoring the housekeeper's thin-lipped stare as he passed the orangery, and finally discovered Helena by the ancient sundial that crowned the western slope.
She stood still, a column of pink against the grass, the wind ruffling her sleeve. He watched as she bent to smell a flower, her backside delightfully rounded. He let the moment linger before approaching.
“Lady Fairfax,” he said, his tone formal despite the anticipation warming his blood.
She turned slowly, a deliberate reflection of the courage she had shown in the library. “Your Grace. I wondered if you would come.”
“I am reliably predictable,” he replied, meaning the opposite.
She glanced at the sundial, then at his gloves. “I confess I am almost impressed.”
He inclined his head, unwilling to offer more than that.
