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"If you will excuse me, Your Grace," Helena said softly, her tone thoroughly drained of its usual warmth. "I find the heat in this room has become somewhat oppressive. I shall take my leave."

"Cavendish, if you hold that glass any tighter, Glastonbury will be presenting you with a bill for a crystal service before the night is done," Lord Scott rumbled from beside the carved marble fireplace, taking a hearty sip of his wine.

George did not turn his head, his eyes fiercely locked upon the far side of the Purple Room, tracking Helena as the music finally came to a graceful close. The room dissolved into a light rustle of silk and polite applause, but George felt as though every muscle in his frame was stretched taut as a bowstring.

Helena stepped toward Arabella's sofa, her gown pooling as she took her seat, leaning in to converse with the surrounding ladies.

As he watched her, the earlier spectacle with Nathaniel and their hurting conversation gnawed at his heart. He hated the way Nathaniel had danced with her; he hated even more that Nathaniel had elicited her laughter. But it was still her words that made his fingers crack the glass in his palm.

"You look as though you are preparing to lead a cavalry charge directly into the conservatory, George," Caspian murmured quietly, stepping up to his side with two glasses of dark port. He offered one to George, retrieving the empty, pitiful glass with a raised brow. "Drink this before you terrify the remaining dowagers."

"I am entirely unconcerned with the dowagers, Caspian," George growled softly, downing a heavy mouthful of the dark liquid without removing his eyes from Helena.

"Clearly," Caspian replied. "Though if you wish to avoid a scene that will be eagerly reported in every morning parlor from Hampshire to Mayfair, I suggest you turn your attention toward Old Sir William's heir. Thomas Brampton has been attempting to catch your eye for the better part of twenty minutes."

George forced himself to draw his gaze away from the hall, turning toward the circle of gentlemen gathered near the window draperies. Mr. Thomas Brampton, an eager young man dressed in a dark green coat, stepped forward immediately, bowing with modesty.

"Your Grace!" Thomas Brampton exclaimed, his voice ringing with respect. "I was just informing Lord Scott and Sir Arthur of the final conveyancing documents my father's solicitors dispatched to London yesterday regarding the southern valley acreage."

"Ah, yes," George said, forcing his voice out, though his mind remained hopelessly tethered to his duchess. "The Brampton timberlands and the arable lower pastures. My solicitors confirmed the receipt of the draft this morning."

"A monumental transaction, Your Grace!" Lord Scott declared boisterously, raising his glass in a quiet toast. "Three thousand acres of prime timber and rich, fertile soil! An acquisition of that magnitude is sure to place the Cavendish duchy in great wealth for generations to come."

"Indeed," added Lord Althorpe, joining the tight circle of noblemen. "To absorb such vast holdings without taking on a single pound of debt or mortgaging secondary properties is a triumph of estate management. There is not a landowner in the southern counties who does not envy your treasury tonight, Your Grace."

George gave a curt nod. "The land was severely underutilized under the previous management. With proper capital invested in tenant drainage systems and modern agricultural crop rotation, the timber and grain yields will double within three seasons."

From the outer edge of the circle, an unpleasant laugh cut through the murmurs of agreement. Sir Arthur stepped forward, swirling his dark brandy in a silver goblet, his thin lips curved into a bitter, envious sneer that he made no effort to conceal.

"How remarkably industrious of you, Cavendish," Sir Arthur drawled, his small eyes glinting with malicious amusement. "You acquire vast estates, secure prime timberlands, and double your agricultural yields all before breakfast. Indeed, His Grace seems capable of acquiring everything he sets his mind upon with enviable swiftness—whether it be three thousand acres of arable soil, or a young, charming Duchess plucked from complete obscurity."

The surrounding lords grew instantly still, sensing the dangerous shift in the atmosphere.

George turned his head slowly, eyes locking onto Sir Arthur with a lethal intensity that made the older man's sneer instantly falter. The air between them grew so thick that even Lord Scott took a quiet step backward.

"Careful, Arthur," George said, his voice dropping while holding the razor-sharp edge of a drawn blade. "A man who spends his evenings counting another's acquisitions often finds his own estate entirely bankrupt of both capital and character. If you find my management of my property, or my household, so endlessly fascinating, I should be delighted to audit your own ledger books at your earliest convenience."

Sir Arthur's face flushed a deep red, his fingers tightening nervously around the stem of his goblet. He cleared his throat, taking an abrupt step back into the shadow. "I meant no offense, Your Grace. Merely observing your... extraordinary fortune."

"Then observe it in silence," George replied coldly.

He stared into the bottom of his glass, swirling its contents before taking a sip. His mind still returned to Helena's words, burdened once again.

Was that truly how she viewed me? A gaoler, locking her away from the world out of unfeeling arrogance?

"You have not heard a single word Brampton has said regarding the grain tariffs, have you?" Caspian's low voice murmured as the other gentlemen resumed their animated debate.

George looked up, seeing Caspian stare back with a sorry look. He looked past Caspian's head to where Helena sat. Unfortunately, she was not there anymore.

"Caspian, where is she?"

"Who? Helena? She left few minutes ago."

George set his crystal glass down upon a marble side table with a heavy click that nearly cracked the base. "I am leaving."

Caspian tried to reason with him. "The soiree is far from over, George. I can ask one of the maids to inquire of her whereabouts. Retiring now will only give the matrons something new to dissect over breakfast."

"Let them dissect whatever they wish," George spat quietly. "I have no stomach for this room tonight."