Minerva had had her five nights; he’d already forgotten her existence.
In that instant, she knew that no matter how much of a fool she would think him if he accepted Helen’s transparent invitation and offered her his duchess’s coronet, she wouldn’t say a word against his decision.
On that subject, she could no longer claim to hold an un biased opinion.
Turning away, she wondered how long she would have to endure in the drawing room until the tea tray arrived.
The answer was, a lot longer than she wanted. More than long enough to dwell on Royce’s iniquities; from his continuing obliviousness, her time with him had come to an absolute end-he’d just forgotten to tell her. The fiend.
She was in no good mood, but clung to the knots of others as they chatted about this and that, and hid her reaction as best she could; there was no value in letting anyone else sense or suspect. She wished she didn’t have to think about it herself, that she could somehow distance herself from the source of her distress, but she could hardly cut out her own heart. Contrary to her misguided hopes and beliefs, she could no longer pretend it had escaped involvement.
There was no other explanation for the deadening feeling deep in her chest, no other cause for the leaden lump that unruly organ had become.
Her own fault, of course, not that that made the dull twisting pain any less. She’d known from the start the dangers of falling in love-even a little bit in love-with him; she just hadn’t thought it could happen so quickly, hadn’t even realized it had.
“I say, Minerva.”
She focused on Henry Varisey as he leaned conspiratorially close.
His gaze was fixed across the room. “Do you think the beautiful countess has any chance of learning what no one else yet has?”
It took a moment to realize he was alluding to the name of Royce’s bride. She followed Henry’s gaze to where Helen all but hung on Royce’s arm. “I wish her luck-on that subject he’s been as close-mouthed as an oyster.”
Henry glanced at her, arched a brow. “You haven’t heard anything?”
“Not a hint-no clue at all.”
“Well.” Straightening, Henry looked back across the room. “It appears our best hopes lie with Lady Ashton.”
Assuming Lady Ashton’s wasn’t the name in question…Minerva frowned; Henry, at least, didn’t see Helen as even a possibility as Royce’s chosen bride.
Across the room, Royce forced himself to keep his gaze on Helen Ashton, or whoever else was near, and not allow his eyes to deflect to Minerva, as they constantly wanted to. He’d walked into the drawing room before dinner, anticipating another delightful evening of enjoying his chatelaine, only to find himself faced with Helen. The very last woman he’d expected to see.
He’d inwardly sworn, plastered on an unruffled expression, and battled not to seek help from the one person in the room he’d actually wanted to see. He had to deal with Helen first. An unwanted, uninvited irritation; he hadn’t understood why the hell she was there until he’d heard her story.
Susannah. What the hell his sister had been thinking of he had no clue. He’d find out later. For that evening, however, he had to toe a fine line; Helen and too many others-all those who knew she’d been his recent mistress-expected him to pay attention to her now she was there.
Because as far as they knew, he hadn’t had a woman in weeks. He didn’t have a mistress at Wolverstone. True, and yet not.
With everyone watching him and Helen, if he so much as glanced at Minerva, someone would see-and someone would wonder. While he was working toward making their connection public through getting her to convince herself to accept his suit, he wasn’t yet sure of success, and had no intention of risking his future with her because of his ex-mistress.
So he had to bide his time until he could confirm Helen’s status directly with her. As she was the senior lady present, he’d had no choice but to escort her into dinner and seat her at his left-in some ways a boon, for that had kept Minerva at a distance.
He hoped-prayed-she would understand. At least once he explained…
He wasn’t looking forward to that conversation, but then again, Minerva knew him very well. She would hardly be shocked to learn that Helen had been his mistress, and was now his ex-mistress. In their world, it was the ex- that counted.
Even with his outward attention elsewhere, he knew when Minerva left the room. A quick glance confirmed it, and sharpened the inner spur that impelled him to follow her.
But he had to settle matters with Helen first.
And Susannah. His sister swanned past beyond Helen; she caught his eye-no difficulty as it was fixed on her-and winked. Hiding his reaction behind an easy expression, he left Helen to her conversation with Caroline Courtney; reaching out he closed his fingers about Susannah’s elbow and drew her with him as he strolled a few paces.
Once they were sufficiently apart to speak privately, he released her and looked down as she looked up at him.
She smiled with childlike-childish-delight. “Well, brother dear, are you happier now?”
He read her sincerity in her eyes. Inwardly sighed. “Actually, no. Helen and I parted when I left London.”
Susannah’s face fell almost comically. “Oh.” She looked thoroughly disconcerted. “I had no idea.” She glanced at Helen. “I thought…”
“If I might ask, what, exactly, did you tell her?”
“Well, that you were here and alone, and having to make this dreadful decision of who to wed, and that if she came up, perhaps she might make your life easier, and, well…those sort of things.”
Royce inwardly groaned, then sighed through his teeth. “Never mind. I’ll speak with her and straighten things out.”
At least he now knew his instincts had been right; Helen wasn’t there to share just a night of passion. Thanks to Susannah’s poor phrasing, Helen now harbored higher aspira tions.
He let Susannah, rather subdued, go and returned to Helen’s side, but had to wait until everyone else finally decided to retire to take her to a place where they could speak privately.
Leaving the drawing room at the rear of the crowd, he touched Helen’s arm, and indicated the corridor leading away from the hall. “This way.”
He led her to the library.
She passed through the door he held open for her, and came to a momentary halt; she was too experienced not to realize the significance of the venue. But then her spine straightened, and she walked further into the room. He followed and closed the door.
A candelabra on the mantelpiece was alight; a small fire blazed cheerily in the hearth. He waved Helen to the wingchair to one side of the hearth. She walked ahead of him to the fireplace, but then swung to face him, hands clasped before her, fingers twining.
She opened her mouth, but he held up a hand, staying her words.
“First, let me say that I was surprised to see you here-I had no idea Susannah had written to you.” Halting on the other side of the hearth, he held Helen’s blue gaze. “However, courtesy of what my sister wrote, I accept that you may be laboring under a misapprehension. To clarify matters-” He broke off, then let his lips twist cynically. “To be brutally frank, I’m currently negotiating for the hand of the lady I’ve chosen as my duchess, and am entirely uninterested in any dalliance.”
And if she’d thought she had any chance at a more permanent connection, she now knew better.
To give her her due, and as he’d expected, Helen absorbed the reality well. She was a natural survivor in their world. Her eyes on his face, she drew a long breath as she digested his words, then she inclined her head, her lips twisting in a rueful grimace. “Good Lord-how very…awkward.”