Helen pushed her way past an expensively dressed older matron who gasped at her rudeness. The lord at her side raised a brow and took another sip of brandy before escorting the woman to the front of the box. Two other heads turned in her direction.
She ignored them all and stepped boldly into his path so he couldn’t ignore her.
Little gnat indeed.
Roxboro was exquisitely turned out. Dressed to perfection. Dare she say, ducal. Far more than any time she’d seen him previously. Not one loose thread or button. Formal wear perfectly tailored to his lean form. Cravat, elegantly twisted sporting a stickpin with a diamond the size of her thumb. Hair slightly shorter than when she’d last seen him outside the modiste shop. A wine glass dangled from one graceful hand, though he didn’t take one sip.
Bergamot caught in her nostrils, hovering in the air and subtly clinging to Roxboro.
A duke can change his shaving soap. Cut his hair. Find a new way to twist his cravat. Doesn’t change his character.
Even so, Helen sensed something wasn’t…quite right.
The tingle along her limbs she experienced in his presence was oddly absent. No hum which made her ache in his direction. He was both the same but different from the man who’d kissed her senseless in the park. So altered, Helen nearly didn’t speak, but luckily, she came to her senses.
“You.” She pointed a finger at him.
A lavishly garbed young woman, a bit plump and plain, stood just behind him—the new duchess,Helen’s mind whispered.
The duke exchanged glances with his duchess before giving Helen a bemused, slightly bewildered look. “I’m sorry, but have we been introduced?”
Have we been introduced? Yes, your mouth has been on mine you bloody cad.
Helen drew in a breath. Her temper, once so easily controllable, roared inside her. She wanted to slap at Roxboro. Kick him. Punch him in his wonderfully flat stomach. Not only for Kate but, Helen realized belatedly, for her.
There was nothing but confusion at Helen’s appearance and adoration for his duchess in Roxboro’s gaze. Difficult to miss. And the pain of it leached over her heart. Because horrible man that he was, depraved duke or not, Roxboro was clearly in love with his wife.
Her steps wobbled, dizzy at the knowledge. Why would he be out stealing. Seducing other women. Why—
“You are vile. I knew you were a libertine,” she finally spat out. “A rogue. But even for you, this is beyond the pale. It isn’t as if you need the money. Good lord.”
Not the speech she had practiced, which was a shame.
There wasn’t so much as a flicker of recognition in Roxboro’s stunning eyes. Not so much as a hint he knew her.
The unease curling around her spine ratcheted up a notch.
“Formerlibertine.” The duke held up his wine. “But I am enormously wealthy, thank you for noticing. Would you like some lemonade, Miss…?”
Helen froze listening to that crisp, utterly patrician accent. There was no rasp of coarseness around the edges. No odd cadence. The man before her was every inch a duke, from his glorious diamond stickpin to his perfectly tailored trousers.
The other guests had all turned in her direction. She was making a scene.
Searing mortification burned her cheeks as her resolve faded. Fear struck her as the duchess marched toward her with a great deal of menace. Protectively, she placed her small, generous form between Helen and the duke, ready to do battle.
Oh. Dear. I think possibly…it isn’t him.
Her eyes widened. How could it not be?
“Who, may I ask do you think you are to invade the Duke of Roxboro’s box during a performance of—” the duchess intoned, snapping her fingers at the duke.
“A Cousin’s Request,” Roxboro supplied helpfully in that crisp, cold ducal tone, eyes sparkling back at his duchess. Helen realized she’d never heard that accent before, only a version of it.
I can’t—
“Yes, well, the play is terrible. I’d forgot the name. But I,” the duchess took a step towards Helen. “Would like yours. I’m the Duchess of Roxboro. Who might you be?”
A sound of distress came from Helen. She pressed a palm to her lips to stop it.
