I had to do a great deal of convincing before Lord Galway accepted. You should be more thankful, Helen.
Well, Mary should be grateful Helen hadn’t thrown the teacup decorated with roses at her snobbish head.
Lord Galway had greeted Helen with the smug, arrogant smile of one who knows he holds your life in his hands. During their initial meeting, it became clear Galway knew of his daughter’s rather brazen…manner. What he required of Helen was her absolute vigilance. Cerise and her virtue must remain intact as she entered society the following year. He hoped to make her a suitable match after, at the most, two Seasons.
But Galway was picky in his choice of a husband for his bratty daughter. Not just any title would do. He had requirements. He lacked patience. At most, Cerise existed as a beautiful tool Galway sought to use to further himself. And ultimately, he agreed to employ Helen because without a wife—Lady Galwayhad died years ago—and the lack of any older female relatives, Lord Galway had few options.
Galway outlined the rules and Helen was promised, upon her acceptance of the position that if she succeeded in shepherding Cerise and her virtue for the next two to three years, an additional sum, a bonus of sorts, would be given. But Cerise must remain scandal free and her virtue intact until her marriage.
Helen insisted Galway put the terms for the additional sum in writing, which he did, albeit reluctantly. She hadn’t trusted him then, nor did she have any more faith in him now. But the document which he duly signed, gave her some sense he’d honor their agreement.
The sum itself was not enormous, certainly not enough to put so much as a dent in the Galway fortune, but the amount would be enough for Helen to finally have a life that belonged entirely to her. One far from distant relations and London. Nothing grand, of course. A cottage. A home in which she would no longer risk being passed around like a rotten egg. The knowledge that she would one day have her own home was enough incentive to tolerate Cerise and ignore the leering, hooded gaze of Lord Galway.
Helen was more than familiar with that look. Mary’s husband, Edward, often regarded Helen in the same lecherous manner though she’d done nothing to encourage him.
She stopped at the edge of the Stout ballroom and slowly turned around, searching for her wayward charge. Good lord, she had to find Cerise or Galway would lose his mind.
Cerise was overly flirtatious and far too confident for a young lady. Worldly in every way she should not be. Even had Cerise not been a great beauty, the enormous dowry attached to her skirts would have attracted every gentleman in London. In short,Helen’s charge was a most dangerous creature, a precocious virgin who begged to be ruined.
After nearly three years of her antics, Helen was quite frankly exhausted.
Galway had wisely ruled out a third Season for his troublesome daughter, so this tortuous existence of Helen’s was nearly at an end. Cerise would be wed by the end of this Season and Helen would have the sum Galway promised, plus her wages.
And a life that belonged to her alone.
Helen came to a sudden stop, skirts swishing along her calves, noting that the hem on this gown, at least five years old, needed to be patched once more. No one else could see the tattered edges of the gown, but Helen could see every crease and patch. The deep blue silk was still one of her finest gowns, which wasn’t saying much given most of her wardrobe was in a similar state of disrepair. Mrs. Hendricks had always provided Helen with a clothing allowance specifically to avoid having her lady’s companion dressed as a pauper when guiding about her granddaughters, convinced the state of Helen’s clothing would reflect poorly onher.
Not for my sake. Never for my sake.
She’d loved Mrs. Hendricks, so it had been a terrible blow, in addition to losing the only home she’d had for a decade, to also realize she hadn’t been loved in return. Only considered…useful. On evenings such as these, when chasing around that spoiled brat—
Lady Cerise. My charge. The daughter of a marquess who I should be honored to chaperone.
Helen was reminded of Mrs. Hendricks and her false affection. But such bitterness would not serve her well tonight, or any other. So she pulled every ounce of ill feeling and hurtback inside, to be tucked away and looked at later, when she wasn’t chasing Cerise.
There, strolling behind a row of footmen all holding trays of champagne.
Cerise had her head thrown back, dark curls dangling in a fetching manner as she arched in blatant invitation to the gentleman standing before her.
Good Lord.
Trailing her fingers over the emerald pendant around her neck, Cerise batted her lashes, while looking up at the man before her. Helen could just make out her throaty, seductive laughter, far more appropriate for a courtesan than the unwed daughter of a marquess.
Cerise, Helen had surmised, would eventually become a trollop, albeit a titled one.
Quickening her pace, hopping up in the air every so often to keep Cerise in her sights, Helen deftly avoided the stray elbow to her side. Or a foot stepping on her own. Cursing her small stature, an inconvenience at times such as these, she ducked beneath the arm of a matron decked out in bright green striped silk and hurried towards Cerise before something insurmountable could occur. Lady Stout’s ballroom, indeed, her entire home, was rife with an extraordinary number of alcoves, niches, corners and nooks. Far too many intimate parlors which dotted the halls stretching away from the ballroom. The lighting seemed intentionally muted. Few servants were stationed once one left the ballroom.
Perfect for assignations.
Helen didn’t care at all for Cerise, who she considered a prime example of what happens when you have far too much breeding, beauty and wealth but lack common sense. Had she been able to hurry the girl before a vicar with a suitable gentleman, she would have. Galway had become intolerablewith his thinly veiled hints at seduction, not to mention his arrogance in general. Helen wanted out from beneath his roof with a desperation that grew every day. Galway had mentioned, more than once, that when Cerise married, Helen might wish to consider a position as a housekeeper at one of his estates.
“Housekeeper,” she muttered to herself, searching between the line of footmen for any sign of Cerise. “Bed-warmer more likely.”
She might be only the poor relation, but Helen wasn’t stupid. He and his brazen daughter could go hang.
Patience, Helen.
Finally she reached the area she’d spotted Cerise’s rose-colored gown, lips puckering in frustration at finding the space now empty. Helen stepped behind the line of footmen, who all shot her looks of annoyance and peered into the dim recesses of the hall. Marching past one of the footmen, she stated primly, “Light a lamp or a candle. Anything.”
