Page 3

"Leave us, Mr. Pembroke," George commanded, his voice dropping to a dangerous, gravelly murmur that did not leave room for argument, even as he maintained eye contact with Helena.

"Your Grace, perhaps I should—" the solicitor stammered, hurriedly gathering his papers with trembling hands.

"Now, Pembroke."

The old lawyer did not dare protest a second time. He shuffled out of his chair, bowing nervously toward the Duke, then passed Helena with a brief glance. As the door clicked shut, the room seemed to contract around them, leaving Helena alone with the master of Cavendish Manor.

He thinks to intimidate me with his silence and his ducal title, Helena thought, her heart hammering violently against her chest as she took a deliberate step into the room. Unfortunately for him, a duke's cold glare is nothing to me.

"You display remarkable audacity, Miss Witherford," George said, his tone dry and frosted with icy restraint. "To burst into my private study, unannounced, demanding terms regarding the care of my brother's heir, is a heavy breach of decorum."

"Decorum, Your Grace?" Helena countered. "You speak to me of decorum while you stand in this comfortable room, rather than seeking out the child who needs you? I did not come to Cavendish Manor to seek your permission, nor did I come to bargain for a pension. I came here because this child needed shelter, warmth, and protection." Her lips thinned. "Things that were noticeably absent while his parents perished and his uncle indulged himself in the drawing rooms of Paris."

George's dark brows pulled together, a flash of anger igniting his blue eyes. "Watch your tongue. You know nothing of my reasons for being in France, nor do you possess the authority to question my conduct. You are a former servant in my brother's household. Your duties to the family terminated the moment my brother's body was laid to rest."

"My duties to Lady Charlotte and Lord Edward will never terminate, Your Grace," Helena declared, stepping closer to the desk, her eyes blazing with fire that mirrored his own. "I will fight with every breath I possess to remain beside this child. I made Charlotte a solemn promise as she lay dying in bed; a promise that I would never abandon her son. That I would raise him, protect him, and love him as if he were my own blood. I intend to keep that vow."

George let out a mocking breath, though his jaw remained tightly clenched.

"A deathbed sentiment is an understandable emotional affliction, Miss Witherford," George said. The words were cool. His voice was colder. "However, reality must prevail over dramatic oaths. I have already instructed Mr. Pembroke to secure the finest nursemaids. Oliver will want for nothing. He will be provided with every luxury, every educational advantage, and every protection that my position and wealth allow."

Helena let out a soft, incredulous laugh, the sound bitter and sharp in the warm study. "Your Grace, you speak of nursemaids and advantages as though a child were a horse to be trained for the turf. You may be his legal guardian, but that does not make you the person Charlotte chose to protect her son. Charlotte chose me."

The words struck George fiercely. His towering frame seemed to stiffen, his eyes narrowing into razor-sharp slits.

"Charlotte was a gentle woman, if somewhat prone to emotional excess. Her judgment was clouded by the agony of her final illness," George said, his voice dropping an octave. "And you seem to forget where you stand, Miss Witherford. This is Cavendish Manor. I am its master. Oliver is my nephew, my blood, and now my sole responsibility under the law. You cannot simply remain beneath my roof because you wish it."

"I am well aware of who you are, Your Grace," Helena said softly. "You are the Duke of Cavendish. A man who believes that rank and money can substitute for affection. You believe that by surrounding Oliver with hired hands, you are fulfilling your duty. But a nursemaid works for a wage, Your Grace. A nursemaid will leave when her shift ends or when a better offer presents itself. I am not a nursemaid; I am here because I love this boy."

"And how, precisely, do you propose this arrangement functions?" George demanded, taking a heavy step around the corner of the desk, his presence towering over her. "You are an unmarried woman. Do you have any idea of the scandal that will erupt if I permit you to reside beneath my roof? The ton is a pit of vipers, Miss Witherford. The moment they learn that a bachelor duke is housing an unchaperoned young woman in his estate, your name will be utterly destroyed."

Helena's lips curved into a faint, defiant smile, though her eyes remained dark with lingering grief. Does he truly think the opinion of high society can frighten a woman who has already lost everything?

"My reputation was destroyed three years ago, Your Grace," Helena replied, her voice steady and resolute. "When my father gambled away our estate and died in disgrace, Mayfair turned its back on me in a single night. When my brother fled the country to escape his debts, the very people who once attended my mother's balls treated me as if I were a plague. It was Charlotte who reached out her hand to me. It was Charlotte who gave me a home and treated me with dignity when society called me a destitute outcast."

She took another step toward him, closing the distance until she was standing only a few feet from his towering frame.

"I care nothing for the venomous tongues, Your Grace," she continued, holding his intense stare without a flinch. "Let them whisper. Let them manufacture whatever filthy lies suit their cruel imaginations. My honor does not depend upon the approval of Almack's, nor does it depend upon yours. My honor depends upon keeping my word to my dear friend."

George stared down at her, his muscular chest expanding as he drew in a sharp, agitated breath. He was accustomed to deference. He was accustomed to women who fluttered their fans, lowered their eyes, and spoke in honeyed tones. He had expected a weeping, fragile girl begging for monetary settlement or a comfortable cottage in the countryside. He had not expected this fierce, striking creature who stood like a hero's shield between him and his nephew.

"You are being completely irrational," George growled, his patience snapping like a dry twig under a soldier's boots. "You are asking me to harbor you, an unchaperoned woman, to defy every particle of the ton. If you care for my nephew as you say, consider what bringing him up under such a shadow will do to him."

"I am asking you to be a human being, Your Grace." Helena snapped back, her composure momentarily fracturing. "I am asking you to look at this child and acknowledge that he needs more than grand rooms and hired servants. He needs someone who knows the sound of his mother's voice. He needs someone who can tell him about the parents he will never remember. You owe him that."

"Do not presume to lecture me on my duty to my brother," George said, his voice dropping to a terrifying whisper.

"Then do not act as though Lord Edward's son is merely a legal burden to be managed from a distance." Helena retorted, her green eyes flashing. "You were not there when Lord Edward spent his final hours weeping for his wife. You were not there, Your Grace. I was, and I held this innocent babe while his parents were laid into the cold ground. You have no right to come back from Paris and pretend that your title gives you the sole right to decide what is best for him."

The accusation hit its mark. Helena saw the flicker of guilt that flashed across George's eyes before he managed to lock it behind his stern mask

Before Helena could draw another breath, George charged forward.

With predatory swiftness, he bridged the small gap between them as Helena's breath caught in her throat. Her instincts screamed at her to retreat, and she backed away rapidly until the hard oak paneling of the study wall met her spine.

George did not stop until he was standing directly in front of her, his tall body cutting off the light of the fire and trapping her against the wall.

He did not touch her. Not a single inch of his clothes brushed against her dress, nor did his large hands make contact with her skin. Yet his proximity was suffocating, absolute, and charged with an intensity that made the hair on her arms stand on end. The heat of his body prickled over her skin.