Page 24

"I apologize for the breach of decorum, Your Grace," George said softly, his voice regaining its carefully measured rhythm, though the underlying tension in his posture remained taut as a bowstring. "My intention is not to make you feel unwelcome within these walls. However, we must present a united front for Oliver's sake. We cannot allow ourselves to be distracted by - affection - or anything which might harm the image we present to the world. The preparations for our departure to London begin today, and until our carriage leaves this county, your presence must remain entirely aligned with mine."

Helena stood in silence for a long moment as she considered his words and the fury that had flared beneath. And… whatever had caused that sudden hitch in his voice, that moment of vulnerability where she believed he might feel something, anything. She looked into his troubled eyes, searching the harsh contours of his face for any sign of deceit, but found only unyielding, fierce determination that sent an unexpected tremor down her spine.

Sinking back onto the edge of the bed, she smoothed the lustrous silk skirt of her nightgown. Yet as she adjusted her posture against the carved headboard, the fine material slithered lightly across her skin, riding upward just enough to reveal a glimpse of one slender ankle beneath the golden glow of the rising sun.

George stood beside the unlit hearth as his eyes suddenly wavered, no matter how hard he tried to hold her gaze. His eyes followed the glow of sunlight downward to catch the smooth curve of exposed skin.

Helena felt a cold prickle of apprehension along her nape. "Servants will always whisper, Your Grace. What could two maids possibly say that has managed to unnerve the formidable Duke of Cavendish to such a degree?"

"Aside from noticing that we do not share bedchambers and that I treat you with… perhaps less devotion than is expected, they also claim that you shrink away from my touch. In turn, they have concluded that our marriage is a temporary arrangement, enacted solely for Oliver's benefit."

"Is it not?" Helena asked sharply. His words had struck her with the sharp violence of an unexpected slap, driving the breath entirely from her lungs. She gripped the velvet quilt tightly in her fists as the sheer humiliation of the revelation washed over her. To know that the very staff she strove to manage with kindness and dignity viewed her as a transient, unwanted guest in her husband's home burned her pride to the quick.

A temporary Duchess... Is that truly how the world sees me? Is that how he allows them to see me? What does he think of me? Are those words true to him as well?

George leaned over the carved wooden footboard so that his piercing blue eyes locked onto hers. "Going forward, there will be no more solitary walks through the estate, no more independent excursions to the village, and no more cold, distant propriety when eyes are upon us. When we step outside these doors, we shall present ourselves as a devoted, harmonious couple whose unity cannot be questioned by the most vicious tongue in Mayfair."

Helena stared at him, her mind rapidly calculating the dangerous implications of his demand. In the days after their marriage, she could have done that. She could have allowed his hand to rest upon her waist in public. She could have smiled into his eyes and giggled at his words, exchanging quiet, meaningful glances before the ravenous eyes of high society. Yet now, every time he came near her, every time his hand brushed against hers or his deep, velvety voice softened in her ear, her own carefully constructed defenses threatened to crumble entirely. She could not play the delighted, delightful bride while knowing it was a lie. Not any longer.

"If we are to present the façade of a loving marriage, should I expect you to greet me in my chambers soon as well, Your Grace?"

The question hung in the quiet, morning-lit bedchamber like a loaded pistol. George froze as if he had been struck by lightning. A chaotic tempest of hunger, surprise, and vulnerability raged beneath his controlled exterior. His spine stiffened as he struggled not to react.

Helena's breath hitched in her throat. She watched his turned back, seeing the tremor that skimmed through his muscles at her words. A sudden wave of realization washed over her, making her heart leap into her throat.

I would rather stick to the rules he already set, Helena thought in panic, her fingers tightening around her shawl as she pulled it hastily back over her chest. Any more and I doubt I could possibly restrain myself.

"That will not be necessary," George stated, his voice clipped, formal, and devoid of emotion. "I trust that we can present the appropriate image without risking - without violating the rules we set down at the beginning of this marriage."

Helena exhaled softly, her lips curving into a dry smile that did not reach her eyes. "Of course, Your Grace," she murmured smoothly, though her voice hid her true feelings. No matter how I try, no matter how much I hope, things will never be different than before., realizin "Nothing has changed."

"Very well, Your Grace," Helena added, her voice soft yet resolute as she pulled her cashmere shawl tighter over her shoulders. "I shall forego my visit to the village market this week. But do not mistake my compliance for simple submission. If we are to play this grand game of public devotion before the ton, I expect you to uphold your end of the performance with equal commitment. We shall see if the formidable Duke of Cavendish can truly convince the world — and himself — that this marriage is anything more than an arrangement."

"You do not need to concern yourself with my performance, Your Grace. I am a man of my word, and I will surely deliver."

George's stern voice broke whatever tension was left in the air. Helena knew he had much to say, his still-shaking hands a telling sign. But she knew if the Duke was firm, not even the Prince could make him speak a word of what he had locked up in his heart.

"Then I must trust your discernment, Your Grace. I do hope the outcome is within your expectations."

Helena responded with her head slightly bowed. Arguing any further will only make the inevitable more difficult.

George observed her in quiet intensity for a long moment, his expression unreadable, before giving a single, formal nod of his head. "We depart for London on Friday morning. Ensure your retinue is fully prepared."

The rigid boundaries they had erected to protect themselves were crumbling into dust, leaving them exposed to a storm of their own making. Four days passed in suffocating silence. True to his word, George had completely altered his daily routine, though not in the manner Helena had secretly anticipated. Contrary to what he said, George avoided her even more than before.

He avoided the drawing room entirely during the evenings, claiming that pressing land boundary disputes and urgent correspondence from his London solicitors required his undivided attention. The long dining table now sat empty as George took his suppers alone in his gloomy, book-lined study. Their nightly games of chess were quietly suspended without a word of explanation, leaving Helena to pass the quiet hours in her sitting room with only her needlework and her thoughts for company.

On the fourth morning, Helena sat comfortably in a wicker armchair upon the stone porch, wrapped in a heavy velvet pelisse lined with soft fur. Beside her chair stood a beautifully polished cradle, draped in white eyelet lace, where Oliver lay fast asleep, his tiny chest rising and falling in peaceful cadence.

Helena held a circular wooden embroidery hoop in her hands, her slender fingers working a silver needle smoothly through a swatch of cream-colored silk. She was carefully stitching a delicate motif; a miniature crest surrounded by tiny, intricate oak leaves and the sweeping curves of Oliver's initials worked in fine gold thread. It was a painstaking task, one that had always made her find tranquil, yet her mind remained relentlessly tormented by the memory of George's eyes, his sudden withdrawal, and the impending ordeal of their departure for London.

He demands that we present a picture of complete devotion to the world, Helena thought, her needle piercing the taut silk, yet he cannot even bear to sit across from me at the dinner table for an hour. How are we to convince the predatory gossips of Mayfair of our love when we are strangers beneath our own roof?

The quiet scrape of polished leather against stone broke her reverie. Helena turned her head to see Mr. Gibbs stepping out onto the porch with his usual perfectly erect posture, a silver salver held respectfully beneath his arm.

Mr. Gibbs bowed deeply, his expression composed and solemn. "Your Grace, you have a visitor in the drawing room."

Helena paused, her needle hovering an inch above her embroidery hoop as she looked up at the butler in mild surprise. "A visitor? So early in the day? Who is it?"