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Their passion built with agonizing intensity that eclipsed everything else in the universe. Bound together in the quiet sanctuary of the firelit room, they moved against each other in a rhythmic, intoxicating dance. As her hips rocked back and forth, George ground his teeth as he gripped her, guiding her movement against him with possessive strength.

Helena clung to his shoulders, her fingers tracing the broad expanse of his back as she kissed him deeply. A high, sweet moan escaped her throat, vibrating against his tongue as the overwhelming sensation took hold of her. Unable to contain the desperate need growing within her, her hips bucked against his. Her mound slid over the thick wool of his trousers.

God help me, George thought. She has stripped away every defense I ever possessed.

Helena slowly reached up with one hand to frame his face with her bare palm. She looked down into his stormy blue eyes, her own eyes heavy-lidded and luminous with passion. Then, leaning her head back, she began to grind her hips slowly and deliberately against his lap, driving his solid girth firmly against her core through the thin barriers of their remaining clothes.

Her head fell backward, dark hair sweeping down her back like a curtain of silk. A trembling moan shattered the quiet of the room as she surrendered completely to the rhythm they had forged together. George longed to dance to that rhythm himself. To let his pounding heart and throbbing groin drive him higher and higher.

He would not. He would not take his pleasure from the woman who was so strong in some ways and so fragile in others. He couldn't do it without giving her his ruined and useless heart… but there was no reason he could not give pleasure instead of taking it.

"My duchess." His voice sounded low and rough against her ear.

Panting, eyes dark with desire, she looked up at him.

"Trust me this once." He palmed her through the layers of cloth, thumb moving in a dexterous circle. She shuddered, eyes widening with startled delight. He hooked one arm around her back and pulled her closer, dipping his head to kiss her while his hand worked deftly between them.

"Your G-" she managed. Then she threw her head back and all her words were lost in a long, shuddering gasp. George's own breath caught in rhythm with her panting.

He had rules. Carefully created rules, made to benefit both of them and the child they sheltered.

He and Helena had just broken them. He wished he could believe that they could be put back together.

Chapter Nineteen

"The weather appears tolerable," Helena remarked softly, her hands smoothing the folds of the cream cashmere blanket swaddling Oliver in her lap as the carriage lurched smoothly over the slick cobblestones of Mayfair.

She kept her gaze fixed out the window, watching the damp autumn mist cling to the grand townhouses lining the street, refusing to meet the searching look of George seated directly opposite her.

"Does it?" George countered smoothly, his rich voice cutting through the rhythmic clatter of the four pedigree greys and the beating patter against the carriage roof. He sat squared against the dark velvet cushions, entirely unbothered by the suffocating silence that hung between them.

"Yes, I should consider it quite manageable for an early outing, Your Grace," Helena replied, keeping her tone measured to hide the erratic beating of her heart. She adjusted her posture, conscious of how close George's long legs were to her own.

"It is raining," George stated flatly, leaning slightly forward to rest his hands upon his knees, his posture of indifference making Helena's jaw tighten.

"Lightly," Helena insisted, tilting her chin as she finally allowed her eyes to meet his icy blue gaze.

"Quite heavily, I should think," George corrected smoothly, his eyes narrowing just a fraction as he gestured toward the glass pane beside them, where water streamed down in steady rivulets. "The horses are already splashed to their hocks, and I suspect the gravel paths surrounding the Serpentine will be little more than a quagmire within the hour."

"Then perhaps I have misjudged it, Your Grace," Helena conceded softly, her fingers tightening around the edge of Oliver's blanket as a prickle of fury flared within her. How can he sit there discussing something as irrelevant as precipitation as though he did not hold me in his arms last night? How can he speak of damp roads and splashed horses when his touch scorched my very soul only hours prior?

The silence returned, heavier now, saturated with the unspoken words that hovered in the narrow space between their velvet benches. Helena turned her focus to Oliver, who lay nestled securely in her arms, his tiny chest rising and falling in slumber. She ran a soothing thumb over the smooth of his cheek, taking comfort in his innocent warmth while trying to subjugate her own chaotic pulse.

"Did he sleep well?" George asked abruptly, his voice rougher than before as he deliberately redirected the conversation away from the dangerous precipice she had led them to.

"Quite," Helena answered plainly, though her heart pounded against her ribs at his obvious retreat.

"You checked?" George pressed, his blue eyes searching her face.

"Naturally," Helena replied smoothly, smoothing down the corner of Oliver's bonnet.

"Twice?" George asked.

"Three times," Helena said quietly, holding his gaze with firmness.

She looked directly into his eyes, her chest heaving beneath the tight bodice of her dark green carriage dress. After everything that happened last night? After the way you held me against your chest, after the way your hands trembled against my skin, after every silent vow of distance we shattered in the dark? You sit there and cross-examine me, as if a few polite questions about Oliver's sleep could ever rebuild the walls you destroyed yourself?

As if sensing the chaotic shift in energy surrounding him, three-month-old Oliver began to stir in earnest. The swaying of the coach as it navigated the gravel paths, combined with the sudden stillness of their voices, roused him from slumber. He let out a soft whimper, his small, chubby arms wriggling out from beneath the cashmere blanket as he kicked his legs restlessly against Helena's lap.