She saw Declan.
He stood just outside the door, hands open like claws at his sides, jaw clenched, eyes like daggers. Their gazes met, and the look of desperation and anger on his face made her eyes swim with tears. He made a barely perceptible half nod of You can manage, and Keep calm, and I’m here. She blinked in understanding, feeling a surge of longing so deep she almost reached out to steady herself on a chair.
But she mustn’t stare; she mustn’t do anything but appear impervious to it all. She was impervious to it all.
She breathed carefully and turned from Declan’s strong, familiar face to the pale, weak-jawed profile of Lusk.
In the chair beside the table, Lusk said in a loud, showy voice, “You’re an arse, Bearington,” and leaned forward to give the mirrored device a spin.
“You must say the words!” called the woman dressed as a tropical bird.
“Mirror, mirror on the table,” droned Lusk, “show me my mate if you are able.” He sat back in his chair, lacing his hands behind his head. “It was always a stupid game,” he muttered, but the room burst into applause, stepping in to watch the spinning mirrors streak the room with a whirl of refracted candlelight and the blurred reflections of ecstatic faces.
When the spinning mirrors began to slow, Helena realized that one mirrored surface would always reflect Lusk’s face, seated in the adjacent chair. The other mirrors hung on small hinges that changed their angle with the force of the spin. They reflected a range of random points around the room—the faces of other guests, or the pink-papered wall, or a chair leg, or someone’s elbow. The slower the device spun, the more clearly the reflections could be seen. While it spun, a new reflection came into view every half second, along with one fixed reflection of Lusk’s bored, half-lidded face.
She saw the face of his friend, his expression distorted into a monster’s leer; the carpet; half of a gutted candlestick; the enrapt face of one of the women; the bulging bodice of still another woman. Every reflection was met with hoots of laughter. On and on it went until, at last, the device creaked its final revolution and the mirrors were still. Collectively, the room leaned in, watching the mirrors as if they would reveal the secrets of the world. Helena held her breath.
When the spinning finally stopped, the reflections in each mirror revealed the following: Lusk’s face, an empty goblet, someone’s leg, the carpet, and finally Helena.
The room burst into a wild eruption of approximated boos, laughter, hisses, and the word Oy!
Helena, shocked at the paleness and trepidation seen in her own reflection, stepped to the side.
“Sodding bad luck, Victoria!” someone crowed. “The mirror never lies!”
“Now be a good girl,” the man called Bearington sang, “and kiss your mate! There you are, none of those virginal nerves here. Christ, can someone get her a drink? She looks like she might swoon.”
Two laughing women were suddenly behind her, herding her in the direction of the duke’s chair. Helena dug in, but they swept her along on a wave of tinsel and petticoats. Before she could pull away, the women propelled her into Lusk’s lap. The room erupted again into laughter. Helena recoiled, scrambling to get up, but he latched an arm around her waist and held her to him.
The pinch of his bony fingers flooded her with panic. She went stiff, lurched, and finally opened her mouth to scream. He squeezed harder, forcing the scream into a yelp. She coiled her strength, ready to lurch again, but Lusk leaned his head into her ear and whispered, “Get out of here.”
His tone was flat and irritated and he jolted her with his hands when he spoke.
What?
It was the last thing Helena had expected him to say. But had he really just ordered her to go?
All around them, his friends hollered and toasted. Someone spun the mirror again, and the room was a swirl of dizzying light.
Helena tried to turn her head, to look into his eyes. He evaded, leaning into her ear a second time. “Did you hear? Take your bloody groom and go.”
She was about to jerk away when she heard a gasp and the room fell silent. A goblet dropped and shattered. Helena looked up.
Declan.
He walked to her as if the room was empty. The crowd saw only him. Their faces were lit with fascination. He was unknown, of course—a towering, muscled highwayman. His expression was taut with silent fury. He looked only at her. Helena stared, choking back a sob. She pulled out of Lusk’s grasp, and he let her go.
She wanted to run to Declan—it was her only thought—but a cautionary word rose behind her.
“Discretion,” Lusk whispered.
A reminder and warning.
The three of them were being watched by a roomful of people who wanted nothing more than a riveting story to tell.
Helena slowed her step and raised her chin. She walked to Declan but did not touch him. With her eyes, she said, I am alright. He hesitated. She nodded at the door and put one foot in front of the other. He fell in beside her and they walked from the room.
Once outside, Helena navigated the ball through burning eyes. She would not cry, but she also would not remain. Her time at this ball had come to an end. She felt Declan fall back, following but not flanking. She must pretend to be alone. Inside, she ran; outside, she was simply wafting through the ball. She circumvented the dance floor and ascended the steps, weaving through revelers.
At the top of the stairs, she fixed her eyes on the front door. Footmen stepped up to offer her pelisse, but she ignored them. When a butler fumbled with the door, she reached for the knob and threw it open herself. She was down the steps in an instant, gulping in the cold night air.
She turned left without thinking and walked to the end of the block. Carriages idled in the road, their grooms and coachmen smoking or throwing dice. Helena kept moving, turning first one corner, and then the next. When, finally, she outwalked the last of the carriages, she stopped. She was panting, energized by exertion and misery and fear.
“No. Not here,” clipped a voice behind her, Declan’s voice, and then suddenly he was there. He took her by the hand and led her deeper into the dark. They went another half block, and the sidewalk opened up into a small square, bordered with an iron fence. Declan swung the gate and led her inside. She followed along, exhausted now, dazed, her steps dragging.
“Not yet,” he said, leading her deeper into the shadows, away from the last streetlamp.
Finally, when the sounds of horses and carriages and barking dogs faded, and the dark chill of the park closed in around them, he stopped. He took a deep breath, checking around them. He turned to her.
“Helena,” he whispered.
She fell into his arms and he swept her to him.
“Why?” she cried, the tears falling freely. “Why is this my lot? What sort of family would subject their daughter to this?”
He squeezed her, tucking her against his strong chest, his chin on her head. He dug his hands into her hair and wrapped a secure arm around her waist. She burrowed in, leeching his strength and his warmth.
“They do not know you,” he said.
“They know that I am uncooperative and embarrassing and annoying. It’s almost as if my stubbornness ignited their stubbornness, and we were locked in a kind of spiral. They could not allow me to prevail.”
“I cannot believe their stamina, honestly,” he said. “Why not simply shackle your sister Joan with the duke?”
“Because my grandmother left the forest and cottage and river to me. If Girdleston wants the river for his mining boats, Lusk must marry me to get it. Joan will have only a dowry. What would Girdleston want with a pot of money when he could make an endless fortune instead?”
“I’m so sorry,” Declan sighed, kissing her hair.
“The sad thing is, Joan would likely do it. She would marry Lusk and find a way to survive as his wife. Not Camille, thank God, but Joan covets the title of duchess as much as my parents. To make matters worse, we are indistinguishable to Lusk. He doesn’t
care which unsuitable girl he marries for money. And oh!” she exclaimed, pulling away. “He knows!”
Declan peeled off his mask. “Knows what?”
“Declan, in the moment you came for me, Lusk told me to run from the room. He whispered in my ear, ‘Get out of here.’ ”
Declan’s face went white.
She held up her hands. “He told me to go to you, in particular.”
Declan took a step back. “No.”
“Yes.”
They stared at each other in the dark. She continued, “He’s always been an enigma to me, but I promise you, he knew I was miserable, and he sent me away. He sent me to you.”
“Was he angry?”
“I don’t know. He wasn’t happy. But . . . but I almost felt he was more irritated with his friends. He was barely sober, as always. His breath reeked.”
Declan began to pace. “Is it possible that we’ve evaded Girdleston with our . . . our connection, but not the bloody, sodden duke?”
“Connection?” Helena repeated. “Is that what we have? Good God, Declan, I told you tonight that I love you.”
“Listen to me,” Declan said, spinning to take her by the arms. “If Girdleston discovers that I am working against him and not for him, then we are . . . we are finished. I will be sacked—”
“I know—the money. You’ll not get the money.”
“It’s more than that,” he growled.
“How? How is it more than you being sacked and not getting the money? I’ve told you I’ll look after your fami—”
He shook his head with such defeat and agony she stopped.
“Declan, what?” She watched his profile slump. He breathed in, slowly closing his eyes.
“There are things you do not know,” he said. “But your focus at the moment needs to be only saving yourself, not me. I will not make your lot worse.”
“This is worse,” she said simply, speaking more to herself than him. “I thought tonight could not be more terrible than it already was, but you . . . are making it . . . worse.”
“I know,” he said. “But your challenges are great enough without taking on my problems as well.”
“Your problems are my problems,” she said.
“No,” he said, “they are not. They are mine, and I have tried very hard to keep them from you. I’ve tried so very hard to not entangle my cocked-up life with yours, but I have not . . . been able . . .” he mimicked her same angry gusts of speech, “. . . to keep away. From you.”
She spun from him and came to stop on the edge of the clearing. The night was cold; she felt it suddenly to her bones. She began to shake. She wrapped her arms around herself. She stared into the murky green shrubs.
“Did he hurt you?” Declan asked softly. He came up behind her. “When you were pushed onto him.”
“No.”
“Their behavior was unforgivably cruel,” he said. “I risked everything by going in, but I refused to leave you to their ridicule and . . . and whatever came next.”
She fell against him again and he held her. After a moment, he said, “I cannot believe Lusk gave you a way out.”
“The duke hates me,” she yawned. “But his hatred is the least of my problems. If nothing else, it means we rarely have to interact. Before I met you, I considered his hatred to be one of the few things I had working in my favor. It fortified me: at least he doesn’t press himself on me. But now?” she asked, looking up, searching for the comfort of his familiar brown eyes. “Now I am fortified by my love for you. It is far better. To enjoy love instead of thinking, At least he won’t touch me.”
He whispered her name—soft, so softly. She went up on her toes and lifted her face. She didn’t have to wait. He descended immediately, a reflex now, his lips as known to her as her own. He began soft, and she followed, receiving; she was too exhausted to do more than allow him to lead.
They fell into a kiss that vanquished every bad thought of the night and every terrible fear for the future. They were consumed with each other; their hands grasped like they were sliding down a cliff. Their bodies pressed so tightly together they breathed as one.
A stone bench sat on the edge of the clearing and Declan swept her up and carried her to it, dropping down. One minute they were standing, and then she was in his lap. She wrapped her arms around his neck, climbing him, and he scraped her skirt into a bunch at her waist. He scooped her bottom against him and devoured her mouth.
She squeezed him, the anxious coils of her insides finally slipping from their heavy knots. She could feel Declan’s heartbeats inside his chest, too fast to count. It was a drumming she could listen to all night—all her life. How she wished she could leap over the obstacle of escaping Lusk and dive into a future with Declan. This wasn’t greedy, was it? He was conflicted about their rank, he had some extenuating circumstances, but she knew they could sort it out.
If only she wasn’t forced to extricate herself from Lusk first. Just when she thought she could resent her betrothal no more, the impending dukedom felt like a closed door with a double lock. If only they could—
Helena stopped.
She ran the sequence in her head again.
Oh my God, she marveled. Why hadn’t I thought of this before?
“Declan,” she said breathlessly, pulling back.
“Hmm?” he said, kissing her.
“There is one way to make certain that I cannot marry the duke.”
“Marrying him off to one of these other girls,” he recited.
“Yes,” she said, kissing him again, “but if that doesn’t work.”
“It must work,” he moaned.
“It might,” she said. She gave him a hard kiss. “But regardless of what happens with the other girls, the Duke of Lusk cannot marry me if I’m married to someone else.”
Declan went still.
She finished it. “He cannot marry me if I am married to you.”
Chapter Twenty
The seventh and final potential duchess was a baron’s daughter called Miss Tasmin Lansing. Most mornings, she was said to ride her horse in Hyde Park, and Declan and Helena had planned to approach her on Saturday morning while the household recovered from the masquerade.
It was meant to be the simplest and most straightforward of all their duchess encounters. The equestrian-minded men and women of London routinely rode in the park, many in the company of their grooms. Helena could approach Miss Lansing as any young woman might reach out in casual friendship to another.
Declan had never dreaded a meeting more.
The masquerade ball had not been a disaster so much as a cascading torrent of freezing panic that plunged him under again and again. The final dip had nearly killed him.
After Helena’s . . . well, it wasn’t a proposal of marriage so much as her announcement of the next, most natural course of action.
Ultimately, she’d been too exhausted and too cold to carry on discussing it, and they couldn’t remain away from the masquerade for more than an hour. When she’d had enough, he’d walked her as close to the party as prudence would allow. From the shadows, he’d watched as she slipped back inside.
Her plan was to locate her sister Joan, remain close, and bide her time until a carriage to Lusk House departed. Declan hadn’t left the street until he’d seen Nettle tuck her into a carriage with her mother and sister.
And he had not seen her until now, when he was meant to accompany her to Hyde Park. Their discussion would, undoubtedly, resume. Declan hadn’t slept all night for dreading it.
“Good morning, Shaw,” she said cheerfully, mounting the gray mare he’d saddled for her. They met in front of Lusk House, Helena in a snowy ivory riding habit, black gloves, and cream-colored hat. She was accompanied by her sister Camille.
Declan had not expected company, and he had the fleeting hope that her sister would ride with them until Helena approached Miss Lansing. With Nettle there, too, Helena couldn’t speak freely. He would have more time to think, to fortify, to
finagle the plan in such a way that his family was provided for and she was free of Lusk but also not married to a mercenary. Avoiding prison felt like a very distant and very vain hope at this point, but if he had more time, perhaps he could discover some way to provide for everyone else.
More time was not in his future. Within moments of loping into the park, Helena said, “Camille wishes to explore the trails around the Serpentine. Nettle? Would you mind looking after her?”
“Very good, my lady,” said Nettle, and Camille took off like a shot. The older groom dug in his heels, trying to keep up.
Declan watched them ride away like coins sinking into the sea. They were not coming back.
“Tell me,” Helena said. No preamble.
“What?”
“All the reasons.”
“Helena,” he began.
“And do not tell me I’ve not considered all the ramifications of life as your wife. My regard for you from the beginning has been very clear.”
She wouldn’t look at him. Her eyes were trained on the open field of green winter rye.
He remembered that he was meant to be escorting her as her groom, not riding beside her as a companion, and reined his horse to follow a few paces behind.
“Where, I ask you, am I meant to find a vicar to marry us with no license?” he began. What choice did he have but to answer her? “And what of the banns? I haven’t the money for a special license.”
I haven’t the money . . .
How many times would he be forced to say these words to her until he was able to work as a free man again?
“I’ve heard some priests in the Roman Catholic church would marry us without the banns,” Helena said. “We needn’t keep to the Church of England.”
“A Roman Catholic priest would not do it,” he said, but he realized he had no idea if this was true. His family was of Irish descent and his religion was, in fact, Roman Catholic, but faithful church attendance was hardly part of his life. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been to church.
A Duchess a Day Page 21
