Helena’s face flamed. She had no desire to know about what Aunt Phoebe wore beneath her clothing, but the thought gave her pause. Were there such things as softer fabrics for near the skin? She held a faint memory of some such, of her aunt scolding her for complaining when a small child. How old had she been? Five? Six?
“I think it was to allow air next to my skin, to help the sores heal,” she said uncertainly, recalling Phoebe’s words from so long ago.
Tess gave her a somewhat dubious look but set to work lacing her into fresh clothing, settling the green print dress over Helena’s head with a smile of extreme satisfaction. A dark green fichu was pinned in place, and with matching gloves, she gave quite the striking appearance.
Even her slippers matched. Helena stretched out one leg, to see the effect herself and was positively delighted. What a difference it made to coordinate everything carefully like this.
But it was when Tess settled in to do her hair that Helena found where the girl’s real talent lay. Her nimble fingers flew through Helena’s thick heavy hair. She frowned a little as she began and finally stepped back, to study the effect.
“Please do not be angry at me for asking, My Lady, but why does she want your hair to be dressed so?” she asked, frowning over the way Helena’s hair half hid her face.
“Is it not better so…?” Helena asked, wishing not for the first time that she could just let the hair fall where it may, with no pins to hold it up. Would it not be more considerate of others if it were a curtain to hide behind?
“My Lady, we have time. If you were to trust me…”
Helena bit her lip and considered this. If this did not work out, would there be time for the old style? Helena wasn’t altogether sure, but at the same time, Tess’s judgment regarding her clothing had been accurate enough. At least she felt more confident of herself than she ever had up until this moment.
Helena took a breath. “Do it,” she said, speaking in a rush as terror filled her at her audacity. “Just…do it. As quickly as you can. I cannot be late. Not tonight.”
“Yes, My Lady.”
Tess was worth every penny of whatever she was going to be paid henceforth. Helena’s hair was pinned and curled and pinned again. For the first time in her life, the long column of her neck was exposed, as was the elegant forehead, and the delicate collarbone that was just visible through the lace at her neck.
Oddly enough the rash, which left her skin red and burning, did not seem to matter quite so much. In fact, the radiant visage far outshone the raw patches and bloody welts.
“My lady, you are beautiful,” Tess said as she stepped back to survey her handiwork.
For the first time in her life, Helena wondered if such a thing might actually true.
It fails to matter if it is or not. I feel beautiful, and in feeling beautiful, I can walk into that dinner with my head high regardless of who is at the table.
To her, that would have to be enough. Helena Barrington had girded her loins that she might go to battle. The question was, would the Duke of Durham appreciate the effort…or go home?
Chapter 11
She arrived late to table, much to the consternation of her family and to the delight of the other guests. Though in truth their delight seemed to stem from seeing her at all. Thus far, James had gathered that she very seldom made appearances in public.
Her arrival, though, made the wait entirely worthwhile.
Lady Helena Barrington entered the room with the bearing of a queen. Beside him on the left, James heard the sudden intake of breath from the lady introduced to him as Miss Phoebe Barlowe.
Apparently, Miss Barlowe had been the sister of Helena’s mother, though the two could not have been more different. Where Helena was radiant, as though carrying with her into every room she entered, the sun itself in her eyes, Miss Barlowe’s coloring was so far different with her midnight hair and dark eyes, as to be the opposite entirely, though he supposed some would call Miss Barlowe ‘striking’ if pressed to describe her at all.
Whatever the case, this Helena who stood before them was not the Helena Miss Barlowe was expecting. She remained seated, her wine halfway to her lips as the men rose and bowed, welcoming the newcomer to the table. It was James though that lingered the longest, moving to hand her into her seat, sliding the chair forward and making sure she was content before sitting himself.
It had been the right thing to do. Barrington watched him from the head of the table, smiling beneath his mustache. Helena was seated on his left, so it was an easy matter for him to reach over and squeeze her hand. Helena seemed surprised by this gesture, taking an undeniable pleasure in it, that brought bright color into her cheeks and an added sparkle to her eye.
She was beautiful. She was also his dinner companion, and he could not think of a single thing to say.
“Daughter, I would have you meet James Campbell, the Duke of Durham. James, if I might present to you, my only child Helena.”
The rest of the table had already been introduced. James nodded politely at her and cast about for a safe topic of conversation as those around them slowly picked up the threads of their own discourse.
“Your Grace, I was wondering if perhaps you were planning on attending the Musicale this coming weekend?” Phoebe asked from his other side. This was not the conversation he was hoping for, but there was little he could do without appearing rude. So, he murmured his regrets, trying to remember if this was part of a conversation that had stopped when Helena had come into the room, as he couldn’t be sure.
Manners be damned.
Before she could think of something else to ask, James turned away. Perhaps it was rude to turn his back to her, but was this not part of the deal? Five courtship rituals in exchange for one rose. One rose in exchange for a ship.
I can do this.
What was most puzzling was how much he found he actually wanted to talk to this fascinating creature next to him. He realized he wanted to make her laugh again. He wanted to see her smile.
“I see you came in with less…alacrity than our previous meeting,” he said by way of greeting. “I congratulate you on keeping your feet.”
She flushed. “I usually am quite agile,” she informed him, her eyes rising to meet his. He caught his breath, only to have it taken from him. “Tell me, Your Grace, have you swept many such as I off their feet?”
“I daresay you are unique in that honor,” he said with a short bow, made awkward by the fact that they were seated. “Though it made for quite a memorable experience, did it not, for our first meeting?”
She frowned a little at that. “It hardly qualifies as a ‘first meeting’ when we exchanged no more than three words between us.”
“I came to the house, and you were here. We spoke. Indeed, I must insist that we call such a meeting as that our first. Would you not agree, Barrington?” he asked, seeing that good gentleman following this exchange avidly.
“As host, I shall keep clear of this discussion and attend to this lovely lady seated on my right. Mrs. Prescott, what a pleasure to have you here tonight.” With that, he turned his attention entirely on the banker’s wife, who blushed prettily under the attention and positively preened when Barrington offered her a compliment.
Helena though was not so happy, which was surprising given her role in being the instigator of the whole affair, whether she realized it or not. James decided he was rather going to enjoy this evening and even went so far as to smile at her when she looked this way.
With a quick glance, she saw Phoebe being caught up in conversation with the gentleman on her left and seemed to be paying no attention to either of them at this moment. Helena very pointedly dropped her napkin on the floor between them, giving James a sharp look, followed by an even sharper kick under the table when he failed to respond.
James winced and would have kicked back had she been a man. Instead, he bent forward to retrieve the cloth and hand it to her. Her hand closed on his. “What are you doing?” she hi
ssed, almost in his ear.
“Following the Rules of Proper Etiquette better than you are, I suspect. I might blame it on lack of practice on your part. I hear you fail to take meals regularly with the family.”
Helena’s face suffused with color. “You think that twitting me about my habits regarding meals is following the Rules of the ton?”
“I suspect that the fact that I fail to kick individuals at the dinner table might give me something of an edge there over you,” he shot back, loving the way her hair tickled his nose when she leaned in like that. He offered her the napkin and retreated to his own space.
“What was that about?” Phoebe asked, batting her eyes at him, acting every inch the maiden fresh from her coming out while the server struggled to set down her plate in front of her, a feat that would have been made easier had she not been playing with her own napkin.
The server managed the task and moved on to him, thankfully forcing a break in this particular conversation. Feeling somewhat caught between the two ladies, James turned back toward Helena and found her glaring at the soup set before her.
“Do you not enjoy the soup?” he asked her gaily, starting to enjoy this strange conversation.
“I would enjoy it more, upon this our FIRST meeting if we could come to an understanding,” she said, picking up her spoon.
“So soon? Why we have only just met. And I was under the impression that this was an experiment in the ways of courtship alone, without a demand of commitment now or at the end.”
“You know full well that that is not of which I was speaking!” she cried, nearly upsetting her soup bowl.
“Careful,” he said, moving one hand coming up to save the bowl in time to prevent a disaster.
“You are deliberately misunderstanding me!” Helena flushed when the other dinner guests paused in their conversation, all eyes coming to rest upon her.
James leaned forward to taste his soup, finding it very much to his liking and oddly enough was rather pleased to be dining in such fine surroundings. Since the disaster with the ships, he had been forced to let many of the servants go.
Lucy had gone so far as to cook for them of late, insisting that since he no longer needed a governess, then at the least she should do something worthwhile within the household rather than be just another mouth to feed. Sadly, she lacked any true skill, though she made up for her shortcomings with her enthusiasm.
He quite frankly needed to tell Lucy that if she wished so much to work for him, that she needed to find a position more in keeping with her abilities, but she was long past the ability to act as a maid, and he had little idea what else to suggest. At least she managed the kitchen staff well enough.
“If you are being made uncomfortable by this conversation then perhaps it is because you are feeling forced into it?” James said with a smile in Helena’s direction.
Helena threw down her spoon. “You are enjoying this far too much!”
“And you nowhere near enough, given what this is costing you,” he said softly, returning to his soup with a certain pleasure.
Her face had gone pale, and for a moment he thought he might have gone too far, especially when Helena threw her head back and laughed. It was a sound half hysterical, and near a sob.
Correction. I have most assuredly gone too far.
He had been acting childish for the sole reason that it had been easy to get a rise out of her. But Helena had indeed paid for his time, and so he must need to give it to her, in the way she had intended to gain it.
James shot a glance around the table, eyeing each of the participants of this impromptu dinner party. No one seemed to be paying them any mind, not even Phoebe who had been trapped into a long, drawn-out story that the banker had trapped him with only the week before. He would not put it past her father to be paying closer attention to this particular conversation than he seemed to be.
“Listen…” he said, this time he being the one to drop the napkin so he could speak directly into her ear. “Enjoy your dinner. I will let you be — for now. But be warned, I will honor my agreement, and will expect to perhaps take you for a turn about the garden when we are done here.”
“You wish to walk with me?” she asked, eyes going wide with shock.
“If you can find the appropriate chaperone, I would be delighted to,” he said and found to his surprise that he actually meant it.
Chapter 12
It took Helena a few minutes to figure it out. When she did, she turned on him most charmingly, eyes flashing fire as she set down her spoon with a clatter. “You are having fun at my expense!” she accused him, in an absolute fury.
It really was far too delightful to twit her. “Whatever do you mean?” James asked, leaning a little toward her as the servant removed his empty soup bowl and brought out the next course.
“I mean, that you asked me to walk with you in the garden, through several feet of snow perhaps?”
He laughed. “I was perhaps enjoying tweaking your sensibilities just a tad,” he said, with a wicked smile. “But you are so in earnest to be courted in the proper manner, I could not help myself. Truly, I was a cad, and I apologize, for I would be delighted to walk in the garden with you under more auspicious circumstances. How shall I make it up to you?”
Her jaw was set, her hands twisting the napkin in her lap, to where it was a wonder the fabric held. It took her a moment, a gentle heave of her shoulders as she took a deep breath before looking up at him again. This time it was not anger he read in her eyes but a challenge. “You shall join us in the parlor, I should think. And I will play for you.”
James just kept himself from wincing. While he had a great appreciation for fine music, too many young ladies felt they were accomplished in these arts, only to be far too optimistic regarding their skills. All the same, he had promised to court the young lady, and an evening spent over cards or music was considered the proper entertainment after an intimate dinner of this nature.
“You are an accomplished musician then?” he asked, in truth a little disappointed that this girl’s accomplishments, after all, mirrored that of every other young woman he had heretofore met.
Helena blushed, ducking her head with a modesty that at least seemed genuine. “I know not, as I have had little to compare it to, outside the skills of those who taught me.”
“You are not fond of the musicales put on in our fair city, Lady Barrington?” he asked, knowing many who would eschew the performances given in such a small town compared to the wonders of the London season.
Helena shook her head, and when she answered her voice took on a wistful tone. “I have never been able to judge them for myself, though my aunt has been several times. She talks little of the music though.”
James frowned then, realizing just how little Lady Barrington ever left the house. He studied her downcast eyes and remembered the exuberance when she’d tumbled down the stairs into his arms, the fire with which she fought to attain his courtship. This shy reclusiveness seemed at odds with the woman he knew she could be and made him sad to think she had had so few experiences.
“Then perhaps one of these visits might be best enjoyed at such a performance,” he said softly, hoping to pull the smile back out again, not liking the sadness in her eyes.
Helena’s hand came up to touch her cheek, trying to cover the blemish there, he realized, seeing in the protective gesture what he should have before. Not that he’d been entirely blind to the blemishes upon her skin, but he had been looking past them to the woman beneath.
Now he wondered how much she worried about what lay on the surface. James felt his lips tighten, the stiffness come into his shoulders. Was she as vain as all that? Or simply that wounded within?
The dress and hair had been calculated for this dinner, this he knew. She had appeared in far more plain things on the occasion of their meeting, not that it had concealed her beauty from him. Tonight though, she had been breathtaking and had appeared at table with a refinement that showed
him just how majestic she could be.
This transformation left him unsure, wondering just which version of her was the truest one.
“Will you attend with me?” James asked again when she seemed not inclined to answer, realizing that they were perhaps drawing attention with the intensity of their conversation.
She bit her lip and stared at her plate, as though every bit of attention needed to be on the next course, though she made no move to pick up her fork. “I do not know if I have that kind of courage,” she whispered, the words barely audible over the clink of silverware. Besides he was aware of Miss Barlowe’s quick intake of breath, as though she were listening and finding her niece’s responses not very satisfying.
The Scandalous Deal of the Scarred Lady: A Historical Regency Romance Novel Page 7
