Roxboro.Her lips pressed together.
Helen’s life hadn’t been blissful exactly, but at least matters were tolerable until his arrival. Now Cerise was threatening her in addition to Galway and the future she’d planned so hard for seemed further away than before.
This was entirely the duke’s fault.
Roxboro was wed now if the paper she’d hidden in her skirts and taken from Cerise’s room was correct. Even now he was headed to his country estate, new bride in tow. According to what she’d read, Roxboro wouldn’t return to London for weeks, uncaring of the havoc he’d wreaked on Helen and her future.
And why would he?
Her finger trailed over a length of Belgian lace, pretending to be absorbed in the pattern, which was lovely and likely took weeks to create. Roxboro dismissed her in the park. Pushed her aside like a pebble under his shoe. Helen had a terrible habit of assuming she was of some importance to others. A flaw of hers. She knew this, but still, all she could see was Roxboro.
Literally.
Helen blinked. Roxboro was still there. Staring at her through Madame Laurent’s front window. She glanced around the modiste shop which wasn’t crowded. No one else seemed to see the Duke of Roxboro standing just outside.
He tilted his head, motioning for her to come out.
Shocked, Helen stuttered, “I believe I’ll get some air,” to one of Madame’s assistants. “Should Lady Cerise require me. I’ll be just outside.” She bustled out the front door, wondering if she was hallucinating. She must be. The papers said Roxboro had gone to the country.
Stepping outside, she peered down the street, but saw no one, only an elderly gentleman with a dog.
Shaking her head at her own foolishness, Helen was about to re-enter the modiste shop when her skirts caught on something.
Not something.Someone.
“Come here, little gnat,” the raspy whisper came from the entrance of a shop beside Madame Laurent’s. A tobacconist who was closed due to illness, according to the sign on the door.
“What—” she at Roxboro. “Are you doing here? You are just wed and should be in the country.”
“I forgot my trunks,” he whispered back, eyes shining down at her like bits of lichen stuck to a rock. “I had to return for them.”
“That makes absolutely no sense.” The last word came out in a little shriek as he pulled her into the dim recess of the doorway. Helen’s heart pounded wildly in her chest. “You claimed you would never approach me again.”
“I don’t recall.” He grinned at her, absolutely breathtaking and far too sure of his welcome.
Roxboro’s proximity to her caused that persistent, insidious hum to slide under her skirts, stroking Helen in the most tempting way. “Won’t your new duchess notice your absence?”
“You are overly concerned with my duchess.”
“I think someone should be.” No matter how Helen tried to stop it, that glorious tingle echoing over her skin, heat searing her from where his fingers touched Helen’s waist. She leaned closer, before catching herself, and pulling away, eyes widening at the sight of his…coat? Gaudy and trimmed in gold piping. Worn at the edges. Not ducal at all.
Roxboro’s fingers tightened, sliding to caress Helen’s hip through the fabric of her dress. The touch was possessive. Intimate. Just like the connection that had so unexpectedlysprung up between them. Felt first at the Stout ball and now blossoming with each meeting.
“Your circumstances have not changed,” she stated bluntly, alluding to the words he’d spoken to her in the park. “Nor should you be here.”
“Nothing is exactly as it seems, little gnat,” he said quietly, his lips brushing along her temple, sending small shocks of pleasure down her spine. “And you are correct in both instances.” His fingers slid into her skirts, tugging gently. “I needed to see you. Against my better judgement.” Mouth ghosting over her cheek, the tip of his tongue licked at her skin.
Helen sagged against him, already intoxicated and Roxboro hadn’t even kissed her.
“Miss Cosgrove.” Margarite, Madame’s assistant walked outside looking for her. “Miss Cosgrove.”
“We’ll be seen,” Helen murmured, turning in the direction of the modiste shop once more, though her heart leapt at his words. “Go away.” She kept her eyes on Margarite, hoping the girl wouldn’t wander in the direction of the tobacconist’s shop.
The light touch on her skirts receded. The ache at his nearness abruptly disappeared.
She spun about to see that Roxboro had gone, vanishing like morning mist. Helen peered down the alley between the two buildings, but there was nothing except a bit of dust and mud. Pity he was a duke. Roxboro had the fine makings of a thief with his manner of moving about so silently.
Helen breathed through her nose. Several times. Until the blush felt on her cheeks faded away. She prayed Madame’s assistant hadn’t seen her with Roxboro, but there was nothing in the girl’s face to suggest it.