A giggle sounded, followed by the playful slap at a gentleman’s arm.
Cerise.
Helen could recite every action of her charges “practiced” seduction after chaperoning her for so long. Cerise rarely varied. She had little imagination.
The rose gown flashed in the periphery of Helen’s vision, pulled along as the gentleman led Cerise behind the fronds of what had to be one of the largest ferns Helen in existence. Squinting, she could make out the barest outline of an arch or some sort of alcove behind the fern.
Damn and blast.What was wrong with Lady Stout? Did she want every girl in London to be ruined?
Fuming, Helen scooted under the waving strands of fern, glancing over her shoulder to be sure she wouldn’t be seen, especially by Lord Galway. Lady’s companions were oftenoverlooked or completely ignored and with her small stature, Helen was assured of her invisibility. Her petite form had served her well over the years, after all, no one cared to see the unwanted orphan sitting in the corner chair across the room.
Helen came to a halt. The arch she’d noted earlier was in actuality a niche meant to display art or a Grecian urn which explained the oddly shaped, poorly formed vase it contained. Helen could have created something more tasteful from a pile of mud and ash while blindfolded.
Wealth did not equate to taste.
Another soft giggle lit the air.
Please don’t let me be too late.
Cerise’s companion—who Helen would fight off with her reticule if she must—had his back to her and thus Helen could not immediately identify him. Dark formal wear, the same as every other man in attendance, though his coat wasn’t cut properly. The width of his shoulders pulled awkwardly at the seams when he moved his arms. A proper tailor would have fixed the error. Hair the color of coffee spilled over the edge of his collar.
Possibly Lord Nance.
Nance had dark hair and money problems. Ruining Cerise would be an excellent solution to his lack of funds.
Adoration suffused Cherise’s lovely features, clearly discernable in what little light struck the alcove. Obviously smitten.
Helen made out the low, masculine rasp of the man’s voice though she couldn’t make out the words that had Cerise swooning.
She tried to recall what Nance sounded like and could not. Nor whether the viscount was so tall, but realistically to Helen, everyone was of a height greater than her own. Even Cerise stood several inches above her. But though tall, there was a…bulkiness to this gentleman which spoke of a greater physicality than Nance or many of the other gentlemen swirling about Cerise.
Cerise let out a languorous sigh as a large hand traced the outline of her collarbone, then ran along the edge of the pendant to circle the enormous emerald. Leaning closer, he was mere inches from Cerise’s lips.
“Stop.” Helen choked out, beating back the fern, which kept swatting her in the face. “Unhand her,” she insisted sternly. “This instant.”
Good lord, she sounded ridiculous. But Cerise was seconds from ruination.
The gentleman turned in Helen’s direction, shoulders lifting in annoyance at the interruption. His handsome—far more than handsome…godlike—features showed surprise and a great deal of amusement.
Oh. No. Not him.
Arrogant slash of cheekbone. A jaw cut more perfectly than Cerise’s stupid emerald. Nose aristocratic and stamped with centuries of sniffing disdainfully at the lower classes. And while she couldn’t see them clearly from where she stood, Helen was certain there was nothing but mockery in those distinctive green eyes shot through with silver.
She’d never actually seen his eyes up close, but the gossips were rarely wrong. Not about him.
“I beg your pardon?” he drawled, voice as magnificent as the rest of him.
A prickle went up and down the length of Helen’s arms, pulling at the skin, lifting the tiny hairs along her forearms. No wonder Cerise wanted to be ruined by him. Half the women in London did regardless of his reputation, including the daughter of Lord Canterbell, who according to the papers, he was betrothed to wed.
Which meant he was acad. A rather glorious one.
“Your Grace.” Helen dipped into a perfect curtsey. Notorious or not, the man before her was still the Duke of Roxboro.
“Well,” Roxboro’s tone was deceptively soft and filled with a great deal of annoyance. “What have we here?”
Helen straightened, daring to look into those eyes once more, now that his head was tilted towards the light. Shimmering green, like summer grass, with silver streaks that flashed in the muted light. Rather…startling. No one had eyes like Roxboro in all of London. Or was a bigger sot and libertine.
But her body wasn’t interested in Helen’s opinion of Roxboro. A hum of awareness slid over her, despite the inner voice urging retreat. She was nothing but a small mouse trapped under the paw of a lion, too enthralled with the great beast to seek safety.