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"You are uneasy," George stated flatly, stepping closer so that only she could hear his words. He tilted his head, searching her emerald eyes. "You were calm enough while holding the boy, but the prospect of pushing past those doors has altered your composure. What troubles you, Helena?"

"I fear the coming gazes as they would be unnerving and disdainful."

The admission hung between them. George knew precisely what she meant; the society ladies of Mayfair, transported to Hampshire, would be watching her every movement, dissecting her gown, evaluating her manners, and silently questioning whether a woman of her modest background truly deserved to wear the Cavendish emeralds.

George immediately bent his right arm, offering her his elbow as he took a solid step toward her. "Then allow me to shield you, Your Grace. Take my arm and let them direct their disdain toward me. I assure you, there is no matron in all of England capable of unnerving the Duke of Cavendish."

Helena looked at his offered arm, then up into his fierce, unblinking face. A teasing smile touched her lips as she drew herself up to full height, wrapping her silk shawl around her shoulders. Right when a small grin of triumph formed on George's face, Helena turned her shoulder away from him.

"I think not, Your Grace," Helena replied. "If I attach myself to your sleeve before we have even reached the gallery, society will conclude that I am entirely incapable of standing upon my own two feet. I shall not afford them the satisfaction of seeing me cower behind your broad shoulders."

George froze, his arm remaining extended in mid-air. He stared at her, eyes narrowing slightly as they searched her face for any anger or offense. He found nothing, save for a mischievous challenge designed to reclaim her own strength before facing the crowd.

George slowly lowered his arm to his side, accepting the rejection. His tone carried a hint of sarcasm and dominance. "As you wish, Your Grace. If you prefer to brave the lion's den unassisted, I shall not force my chivalry upon you. Though I reserve the right to intervene should the lions prove excessively boisterous."

"I expect nothing less, Your Grace," Helena said serenely, her posture relaxing as she gestured toward the door. "Shall we proceed?"

The Purple Room at Glastonbury Park was a masterpiece of refined luxury. Unlike the vast ballrooms of London townhouses designed to accommodate hundreds, this grand drawing room was designed for intimacy, elegance, and lively conversation. Dark oak beams carved with intricate floral motifs supported high vaulted ceilings, while the walls were upholstered in violet silk damask that reflected the warm glow of two massive brass chandeliers. A marble hearth roared at the far end, throwing light across groups of plush velvet sofas, gilded card tables, and polished rosewood sideboards laden with crystal decanters of sherry and punch.

A delicate chamber quartet played a lively Haydn divertimento, the sweet notes of the violins weaving seamlessly through the low hum of thirty or forty guests. Ladies in magnificent satin gowns of amber, crimson, and deep blue fanned themselves lazily as they conversed with gentlemen in dark tailcoats and crisp cravats.

Yet the very moment the liveried butler stepped to the entrance and announced, "His Grace, the Duke of Cavendish, and Her Grace, the Duchess of Cavendish," the vibrant atmosphere of the room underwent an instant shift.

Conversations did not cease entirely, but their pitch noticeably dropped. Heads turned. Lorgnettes were raised behind hand-held lace fans, and several prominent gentlemen paused mid-sentence, their sharp eyes fixing squarely upon the doorway.

George stepped into the room first, his chin raised, eyes sweeping the crowd and daring anyone present to offer a single disrespectful look. Beside him, Helena stepped across the threshold on her own, her chin held high, her emerald gown catching the candlelight.

However, the moment she took her first three steps into the bustling room, the sheer density of the crowd and the overwhelming weight of scrutiny hit her like a wave.

She took another step forward, intending to navigate toward Arabella near the hearth. George watched her carefully, a small frown forming on his face. Suddenly, a liveried footman bearing tall champagne flutes in a tray veered sharply around a sofa to avoid a passing gentleman. The footman nearly collided directly into Helena, missing her silk skirts by a mere inch. Helena gasped softly, stumbling half a step backward to avoid the tray.

Before she could regain her balance, Sir John, a boisterous, middle-aged baronet who had consumed far too much sherry, turned around abruptly from a nearby card table, gesticulating wildly with his hands as he laughed at a companion's joke. His arm brushed forcefully past Helena's arm, sending her spinning slightly to the side and nearly knocking her delicate pearl-embroidered reticule straight out of her hand.

A sudden flush of heat rushed to her cheeks as she felt the calculating eyes of three nearby matrons lock onto her. The room seemed to shrink around her, the laughter sounding louder, the moving bodies pressing closer, and the unspoken judgment closing in like an inescapable wall.

George moved right beside her, offering his right elbow once more, leaving the choice entirely in her hands.

He said nothing. He did not need to. The silent availability of his arm was a fortress waiting to receive her.

Helena did not hesitate for another second. She eagerly slipped her gloved hand through George's cocked elbow, her slender fingers tightening firmly around his sleeve as she anchored herself securely to his side.

The instant her touch connected with his arm, George felt a surge of heat ride straight through his veins, settling deep within his chest. He simply adjusted his stance, bringing his arm closer to his side so that her hand was pinned securely against his ribs, covering her delicate fingers with his left hand.

"Steady, Your Grace," George whispered, his thumb rubbing a soothing circle against the back of her glove. "You are entirely safe. Now, let us remind these people precisely who we are."

Helena let out a breath she didn't know she held, her trembling frame instantly settling as the warmth of his presence enveloped her. "Thank you," she whispered softly, her voice rich with genuine emotion.

George squared his shoulders, turning his formidable gaze toward Sir John, who had finally realized his blunder and turned pale beneath the icy stare. "Sir John," George said, his voice ringing out. "I trust you intend to exercise greater care with your movements this evening, lest you forget the proper respect owed to my wife."

Sir John bowed frantically, stumbling over his words as he backed away. "Forgive me, Your Grace! Forgive me, Her Grace! An unpardonable oversight on my part, I assure you!"

George nodded, guiding Helena forward.

Arabella, standing near the hearth in a magnificent gown of rose velvet, beamed with delight, stepping forward to greet them with open arms. "Helena! George! You have finally graced us with your presence! I was beginning to fear Caspian's little race with Timothy had scared you off entirely."

"Not at all, Arabella," Helena said, her voice regaining its melodic charm as she smiled. "Your home is magnificent, and the evening promises to be truly lovely."

Caspian stepped up beside his wife, carrying two flutes of champagne, handing one to Helena. "You look remarkably settled, George. I see you have adjusted to the duties of an escort with your customary iron discipline."