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Ian ducked from an approaching blow. If he got out of the fight unscathed, he doubted he would be able to escape past the crowd of onlookers. But that was a future problem. His priority was to escape unscathed.

Ian tugged the painting off the wall and, using it as a makeshift weapon, he hit the viscount over the head.

He now stood at the corner of the corridor, his back to the staircase landing, his eyes on the open door of the study.

Images flashed before his eyes.

When he had hit the gun out of the viscount’s hand, it had flown in this direction.

The viscount lunged at him, and Ian dropped to the floor. The assailant flew past him and must have landed on the staircase landing.

His arms outstretched, Ian found the gun with his fingertips. He grabbed it and jumped to his feet, pointing the gun in the direction of the viscount.

Except he wasn’t pointing a gun at the viscount.

Or at least, not just him. Flanking him on either side were his wife, Lady St. John, and his cousin-in-law.

Helen.

* * *

Helen was so tired and drained from the encounter with Ian that when she got to her chamber, she sat on the corner of the bed and stared into nothingness. She didn’t argue with imaginary Greyson anymore. She didn’t try to come up with excuses for why she did what she did. In fact, her mind was blank.

When she finally stood from the bed, it seemed like it had been forever. She looked around the familiar room but everything seemed foreign to her eyes. She hadn’t realized it until this moment, the room may be the same, but she had changed a great deal in the past few weeks since meeting Ian.

Ever since she moved into this house—no, even before that, when she was still married to Greyson—her biggest concern was to not bother anyone.

She didn’t argue with her husband when he didn’t allow her to go to balls, she didn’t argue with him when he thought it was time for her to leave. She didn’t even protest when he took lovers to his bed.

She was too complacent, just so she wouldn’t be a bother. And she placed all her wishes and desires on hold.

There was a valid reason why, she assured herself.

But this explained why now, when she’d finally done something for herself, when she’s actually enjoyed herself and acted selfishly, it felt wrong.

It felt foreign to her nature to be… happy.

Helen stood and walked over to the washbasin in her dressing room.

Her thoughts were jumbled. She needed to get a good night’s rest and then…

And then what?

Was she going to go to Ian and profess her love?

What if he rejected her?

And what if he did?

It was better than not knowing. It would be daring. It would be foolish.

She knew they couldn’t be together. Not in the way she desperately wanted.

She was unable to bear children, and her illness prevented her from being a proper wife—not that he had ever offered. But even if he had, she didn’t want to risk repeating the path of her first marriage. Only this time she would be the one leaving Ian to grieve.

She didn’t want that for him. He deserved so much better.

But they could be happy for a while.