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George turned on his heel and strode out of the circle, ignoring the calls of two lords who sought his counsel on parliamentary matters. He cut through the heavy oak doors, stepping out into the relative silence of the stone gallery.

As George reached the base of the wide staircase leading toward the family bedchambers, a slender figure emerged from the shadows of the north hallway.

It was Helena.

George stopped dead in his tracks at the foot of the stairs. Helena paused three paces away, instantly stiffening as she registered his presence.

Neither of them spoke. The vast gallery was dead silent save for the rhythmic ticking of a grandfather clock standing in the alcove.

George stared at her, eyes searching her pale face in the dim light. He wanted to speak — to step forward, to close the agonizing distance between them, to strike out the harsh words he had thrown at her in his blind jealousy. He wanted to demand that she look at him without that devastating disappointment in her green eyes.

Say something, you fool, his mind screamed at him, his fists clenching at his sides. Tell her you were wrong. Tell her she is not a possession.

But the pride that had governed his entire life held his tongue captive, locking the words deep within his throat.

Helena offered him a bow of her head and stepped past him without uttering a single word. The delicate scent of jasmine hovered in the cool night air as she vanished up the stairs.

George turned abruptly once she had gone out of sight, taking the stairs two at a time. He reached his own bedchamber, pushing open the heavy oak door and slamming it shut behind him. The chamber was dark save for the dying embers in the hearth, which cast flickering, blood-red shadows across the high bedposts and polished mahogany floorboards.

George paced the length of the room like a caged beast, his boots sounding sharp and furious in the quiet room.

"Damn it all to hell!" he muttered, wrenching off his tailcoat and tossing it violently across the room.

He reached up with impatient fingers, yanking at his cravat until the knot tore loose, falling uselessly to the floor. He unbuttoned the collar of his shirt, gasping for air as though the very room were suffocating him.

He walked to the tall lancet window, pressing his forehead against the cool glass as he stared out into the night, but all he could see was the memory of Helena's hurt face when he had called her naïve.

Despite all she has done and sacrificed, I rewarded her by treating her like a foolish child, scolding her actions.

He checked the small mantle clock. Less than five minutes had passed since he had slammed his door shut.

I cannot leave it like this, he realized. I will not allow her to sleep believing I hold her in such wretched contempt.

Chapter Twenty-Five

George held his breath, his hand remaining motionless half an inch away from Helena's door. His heart hammered in his chest, fighting for release.

Just turn the handle. Step inside, look at her, and tell her the simple truth.

The words stuck in his throat even as his desire kept building. He wanted to see her without the noise of the crowd, to catch a single glimpse of her clad in her nightdress again—that soft, transparent fabric against her delicate skin that had haunted his restless night thoughts in Mayfair.

Yet, he pulled his hand back, clenching his fist tightly. Turning away from her door, he decided to seek solace in a heavy glass of dark amber brandy.

Just as George reached the archway, a distinct sound floated out into the silent hallway: a light, bubbling giggle.

George stopped, eyes shifting toward the half-open door at the far end of the passage. He walked to the door, leaning against the frame to peek into the dimly lit room. Inside the carved oak cot, Oliver was kicking, his face illuminated as he smiled and cooed at the gentle shadows dancing above him.

George stared at him, a rare smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Lucky little chap. You lie there without a single care in the world, completely oblivious to the foolish entanglements of adults and the bitter, suffocating weight of a proud name."

The desire for a glass of brandy vanished entirely from his mind. He pushed the door open further and stepped into the nursery. As he drew near, movement in the dark corner beside the cot caused him to pull up short.

Seated upon a low stool tucked deep into the shadows was Helena. She was wrapped in a soft woolen shawl over a simple cream morning gown, her dark hair resting loosely over her shoulder. She sat there in the dark, whispering tales to Oliver to coax him back into sleep after his sudden waking.

Having just forced his unspoken apologies, chaotic emotions, and raw longing down to the bottom of his heart, finding her here in this intimate sanctuary unsettled him greatly.

Helena turned her head slowly toward him, her eyes catching the soft ember light of the hearth. There was no lingering bitterness or cold anger in her expression; only that quiet understanding that always managed to strip away his defenses. She offered him a smile with the same warmth, inviting him to join her beside the cot.

"He laughs whenever you speak," Helena whispered softly.