She glanced towards the water. The crowd gathered would soon disperse, and some would wander this way, including Cerise. Helen could not be seen with the Duke of Roxboro, though considering the way he watched her with such a cold, detached look, he didn’t want to be found in her company either. A lady’s companion. A chaperone.
The knowledge stung.
Wobbling, she backed another step back from him. “I—” Helen averted her gaze. “Beg your pardon. This should not have happened, Your Grace.”
“It appears we agree on the matter, Miss Cosgrove.”
The teasing was gone. The flirtatious manner. The chilly accent was once more firmly in place. She had hoped he might protest. Just a little.
“Then we must also agree,” she lifted her chin. “That while it is true I do not know your situation; I also do not care to.”
“Good.”
No excuses. No apology. No justification for his betrothal to Lord Canterbell’s daughter. No attempt to convince her to become his mistress. Helen had an entire stream of rebuttals for each, but none were required.
“You are about to be wed, Your Grace. And we met while you were attempting to seduce—”
“Not that again.” Roxboro gave her a bored look. “I’m aware of my circumstances, Miss Cosgrove. You do not need to belabor the point, which has been made.” He jerked his chin in the direction of the crowd. “Run back to the cabbage head. You are dismissed.”
Dismissed? Helen’s fingers clenched at her skirts. “You are vile, Your Grace.”
“All true.” He waved his hand in the direction of the crowd. “Go on.”
“I wish you well on your marriage.”
“How lovely. I bid you good day.”
Helen opened her mouth, but no words came out, the shock of having been kissed senseless then dismissed like some…servant had left her speechless. If she had a rock, she would chuck it at his arrogant, condescending head.
“I hope you amused yourself, Your Grace.”
“Why do you think I come to the park, Miss Cosgrove? You aren’t the only little dove floating about.” He winked at her.
Was it possible to die from mortification? Sheer stupidity? Roxboro and his disregard might be worse than Owen calling herdevoid of physicality, whatever that meant.
“Run along.” Roxboro moved into the shadows between the trees, a look of complete disinterest on his face.
How perfectly humiliating.
Helen spun about on one heel, so horrified, she could hardly maintain a steady gait she marched away. Roxboro with his charm and blinding looks had seduced Helen with little effort. Had he asked, she might have lifted her skirts without protest.
All of which made her…hate him.
More than a little.
“You loathsome scoundrel,” she bit out over her shoulder, determined to have the last word.
“Far worse than you know,” came his reply, floating over the grass.
Helen stomped down the hill, furious, body still aching for…him. She cursed Roxboro, wishing his manhood would fall off. Pitied Canterbell’s daughter at having such a despicable man for a husband. Castigated herself a thousand times over for secretly wishing—well it didn’t signify. Roxboro was a terrible, horrible person. Using others for his own amusement. Taking advantage of Helen’s…baser instincts which she wasn’t even sure she had until recently.
So immersed in imagining how a powerless lady’s companion might extract revenge on a vile duke, Helen nearly ran headfirst into Cerise.
“Miss Cosgrove.” Cerise acknowledged her though it was hardly a greeting. Her petulant tone left no doubt she’d been wishing Helen had fallen into the Serpentine or been carried off by bandits. “You were instructed not to follow me about like a lost Pomeranian.” Cerise glanced up at the stand of trees Helen had just vacated.
“The race is over, my lady,” Helen stated, praying Roxboro was gone or at least, no longer visible. Cerise was convinced the duke would call upon her. Since the Stout ball, she’d taken great care to dress exquisitely every day before floating down the stairs to receive callers. She’d perch on the settee with an openbook in her lap—ridiculous because Cerise never read anything except the gossip columns—and gaze hopefully out the window.
Roxboro had no intention of calling upon Cerise. He referred to her as a cabbage and barely recalled her name, only the necklace Cerise had worn the night of the Stout ball. Yet he’d kissed Helen. Twice.
