Chapter Ten

L ifting the locket around her neck, she opened it up to see Jason's hair inside. Surely he would understand that she was comforting a friend today. A friend who was hurting deeply. Unbidden, the thought of him holding another young woman flashed into her mind. Helen wouldn't have liked that at all. She would have been as jealous as a lioness fighting for the attention of the male lion in her pride. But Jason was a man of the cloth. It was not only in his nature, but in his business to mourn with those who mourn and give comfort to those who stand in need of comfort.

She slid the golden snake cuff up her arm. If she had to go to Glastonbury's ball, she would at least go as Medusa. Her ballgown was white again—alas—but trimmed in gold fringe, which gave it a Mediterranean look. Now if only she could turn men to stone. Particularly those who wished to dance with the daughter of a duke and pay her false compliments on her beauty and wit. She wasn't witty. She was blunt to a fault.

Sighing, she got into the carriage with her mother, Frederica and Samuel. She smiled when she saw a spot of drool on Samuel's shoulder. His valet, Mr Dunford, would be horrified that his master went out looking like that. Samuel must have given Arthur one last hug before leaving him with his nurse. Frederica entwined her fingers with her husband's and leaned her head against his shoulder. Helen would have liked to do the same with her mother, but Mama was not the cuddliest of persons. She was more like a hedgehog.

Oh, how she missed Becca!

Becca was the best cuddler in the entire family and they could communicate with each other without words. But she would need to learn how to get along without her little sister. Becca wanted to have suitors, get married and leave the nest. It was only a matter of time. Helen wished to stay near Hampford Castle and Ashbury for ever. Why did she, a snake, always love birds that flew away from her?

‘Now, Helen, try not to look as if you are being tortured while you are dancing,' her mother reminded.

She groaned and made a face at her mother. ‘Dancing in circles for hours is civilised torture.'

Frederica giggled, taking her husband's hand. ‘Not with the right partner.'

Helen made a fake gagging noise. Frederica and Samuel only smiled at each other knowingly. Oh, they were so disgustingly in love. She both hated it and longed for such a relationship herself. She and Jason loved each other and maybe they would be the same way, once they were married. Or they could continue on as the dearest of friends.

This thought disturbed her peace for some reason.

Helen entered Glastonbury's town house. Even though he and Lady Dutton lived together openly, they did not perform the social solecism of having his mistress greet the guests. Mantheria—who did not live with her husband and hadn't for several years—stood beside his wheeled chair. She smiled and shook hands with the other guests. They were such a mismatched couple. It was no wonder that they had not worked out.

Glastonbury was still handsome, but he was much too old for Mantheria, whose youth and beauty rivalled any young debutante in the ton . But despite his failed marriage with her sister, Glastonbury treated Helen like an affectionate uncle. He never acted bored when she talked to him about snakes for hours. Nor did he mind scouring all of Greece to help her find and study the different varieties that were indigenous there. He was a dear.

Her eldest sister grinned when she saw them. She lost all her dignity and threw her arms around Mama, then made her way through Frederica, Samuel and finally to Helen, whom she squeezed extra tightly. ‘I am so glad that you're all here.'

Pointing to her snake cuff, Helen leaned down and hugged Glastonbury, too. ‘I absolutely love it. I wear it everywhere.'

‘You are dauntless, Helen of Troy. Those who do not know that must learn it to their own peril.'

Helen smirked down at him. ‘My company is certainly perilous.'

He chuckled. ‘Of course you are. Go and destroy entire cities and civilisations.'

Touching the turquoise serpent around her neck, Helen wandered away from her family, hoping to escape unwanted dance partners. But she'd forgotten about Lady Dutton, Glastonbury's mistress, who was like an aunt to her. Lady Dutton was fifty-five, with more grey in her hair than black. She had a short, curvaceous figure and smiling eyes. She tugged along with her a man who looked younger than Becca. He had thin legs like a stork and a long giraffe-like neck that he hadn't grown into yet.

‘Ah, Lady Helen, please allow me to introduce my nephew, Lord Dutton. He is most sincerely hoping to dance with you.'

Helen scowled at her older friend, as if to say, Not you, too!

Lord Dutton looked as though he had swallowed an ostrich egg. His Adam's apple bobbed uncontrollably. He hated this as much as she did.

Helen held out her gloved hand. ‘It would be my honour.'

She danced the Roger de Coverley with him and then Mama found her. Alas. Her mother had lined up the next five dances with partners, including the supper dance with Lord Watford. Mark's cousin was the eldest son of the Earl of Glencannon and held his father's secondary title, Baron Watford. Helen couldn't quite understand why he kept dancing with her. She had made no effort to hide her dislike of him.

Happily, the supper dance had not been a waltz, but a country dance. After a half an hour of hopping and twirling, Helen was hungry and distempered. She took Lord Watford's arm and he led her into supper. Standing close to him, she couldn't help but breathe in his scent. It was entirely different than his cousin Mark's. She could detect the ethanol in his cologne, its sharp alcoholic smell. There was also a flower, possibly a hibiscus. And the final note was vetiver, giving him a more manly smell. Scents were important in her family. Her mother was a perfumier, after all.

They got their plates and sat down. Helen decided that if she was eating, she didn't have to make conversation with him.

‘I was surprised to see your sister greeting the guests,' Lord Watford said. ‘My mother said that she and the Duke have been separated for many years.'

Helen set down her fork with a clatter. ‘Yes. But they have remained friends because of their son, Andrew.'

‘If they are friends, perhaps they should still live in the same house.'

She sneered at him. ‘I don't think Mantheria, nor Lady Dutton, would much like that. However, we have travelled with them several times and have found accommodations in the same hotels or adjacent houses.'

‘A wife should be obedient to her husband. The Bible says so.'

Helen snorted, choking on her beef. Coughing, she hit her chest to clear her throat. ‘And how many ladies wrote books in the Bible?'

‘None, of course.'

‘Well, if they had, I can assure you that they would not have written that a lady should be obedient to her husband. Perhaps they were only writing about the cultural and social norms of their own societies. Would you like to be obedient to your wife?'

He stiffened. ‘That's preposterous. The male is the protector and provider. The female owes her husband her obedience in exchange for her home.'

Helen laughed out loud in his face. ‘You do not know your natural history, then. In many species, it is the female who is both protector and provider. The she-wolf hunts beside the alpha male. The female lion leads her own pride and protects her territory and her cubs. The female spotted hyena is larger than the male and dominates the clan. She is also in the front line of every fight. African elephants have a female matriarch who leads them to water. And both ring-tailed and black-and-white-ruffed lemurs are female led. Shall I continue?'

‘They are but animals.'

‘Humans are animals, too, and often more barbaric than any other creature. We destroy with our voices, as well as with our limbs and teeth.'

Lord Watford laughed, but there was no mirth in it. ‘You truly are an original, Lady Helen. I can only be glad that there are not more women like you.'

‘There are. They just don't always bother correcting pompous males of the species like you.' Helen stood up and left the supper room.

Narrowly avoiding her mother, she slipped away to the library. She'd visited Glastonbury's house several times and knew where all the principal rooms were. Opening the door, she was surprised to find that it already had an occupant—Mark. He was sitting on a sofa, reading a book.

Mark glanced up at her. ‘I did promise to come to the ball. I didn't promise where I would be.'

Helen smiled, taking a seat beside him, breathing his lovely scent of leather, ash and musk. He smelled like a male of the species should. Humans often underestimated the power of scent, but to most species it was essential not only to their survival but to their power structures within the clans and their mating.

‘How are you liking the party?'

She yawned. ‘It's tedious. I'm not a night owl or a nocturnal creature. I just want to go to sleep.'

‘No one is stopping you.'

For a moment, she wished she were a cat and could curl up in his lap and go to sleep. Yawning again, Helen lifted her legs on to the sofa and laid her head in Mark's lap like she would have Becca's. She felt his legs stiffen, but he didn't ask her to move. Rubbing her face against the soft material of his trousers, she closed her eyes and promptly fell asleep.

Mark knew that he could not hold his breath for much longer. Exhaling, he watched to see if Helen stirred. She didn't. He watched her back rise and fall at a steady pace with her breathing. Her delicate head was resting primarily on his one thigh, but the top of her head and her silken white curls were on his other leg. Helen's features were even more fairylike in sleep. She could have been Queen Mab or Titania. She made him feel poetic.

He hadn't expected her to lay on his lap when he told her to sleep. But he should have. Helen had slept on his leg before and it had set his body on fire as it did now. Mark was no longer the cold, unfeeling shell of his former self. Helen made his blood boil. She made him forget the pain. Forget that he was a cripple. Forget that his friends were gone and buried in a foreign land. Forget the nights he woke up screaming and strangling his blankets. Forget that his brother would never ruffle his hair, or call him a fortune-hunter again. Even though second sons had to pay attention to a lady's dowry before they could court her.

Mark no longer needed to marry a fortune. He'd inherited his elder brother's estate and the responsibility of providing an heir to the earldom.

A child.

When he'd first received the title his mother had spoken to him about the importance of marriage—particularly to his cousin Niamh—and begetting an heir as soon as possible. James had been thirty and unmarried when he died. Mama begged him to not let another year pass before finding a wife.

Mark was now seven and twenty. His thirtieth birthday was not too far off. Not that he planned to marry anyone. He could not trust that he wouldn't scare a wife out of her wits during one of his night terrors. Or worse, injure her. And when he was awake, his melancholia made him feel like a perpetual rain cloud.

Mark had thought his body and heart were done with women after Waterloo. But the only woman who stirred his blood lay sleeping on his lap. Tentatively, he reached his hand out and picked up one of her errant curls. It felt as soft and silky as a spider's web. A comparison that Helen would have appreciated. Releasing the curl, he could not stop his hand from touching the rest of her hair. He stroked her hair softly. She let out a small moan, but did not open her eyes. He continued to run his fingers through her hair, revelling in the power of touch.

Mark didn't think Helen was pretending to be asleep. The steadiness of her breathing and the sweet little noises her mouth made when he stroked her hair were too natural.

The door to the library opened and Pelford checked at the entry. Mark felt as though his hand was caught in the biscuit tin. Helen's head was in his lap and his fingers in her hair.

‘Thank heavens. She's here. I got distracted for only a moment and she escaped the dinner room.'

Mark felt his face suffuse with heat as he held both of his hands in the air as if being waylaid by a highwayman. ‘It's not what you think. She's simply tired. I have not compromised her in anyway.'

‘I do not blame you, Inverness,' Pelford said heavily, walking towards them. ‘Helen's personality is a force of nature. One can only try to survive her storm mildly weathered. If anyone did the compromising, it would be her.'

Pelford touched Helen's shoulder. ‘Wake up, my sweet snake. Your mother and sister are worried and about to call in the Bow Street Runners to find you.'

Helen blinked her eyes open, sitting up. She stretched out her arms over her head, yawning. ‘Oh, Samuel did you have to wake me up? I was having such a nice dream. I was flying and then you made me fall.'

‘Terribly sorry, but you must come back to the ballroom at once. Your absence has been marked. You need to dance with eligible young men.'

Helen huffed. ‘I don't want to dance with them—they're boring. They only want obedient wives and social hostesses.'

Pelford chuckled, holding out his hand to her. ‘Which you will never be, Helen. If you want, I'll dance with you.'

She accepted his hand and got to her feet. ‘That is very good of you to offer and you are by far the best dancer in the family, but you're my brother now. I'd much rather dance with Mark.'

His heart stopped.

Helen glanced over her shoulder at him. ‘Will you dance with me?'

Mark clenched his teeth, shaking his head. The phantom itch returned. ‘I cannot dance, Helen. I don't have two legs.' Or a whole heart.

She smiled at him. ‘Then you will not have two left feet.'

He could only stare at her blankly. She had made a joke about his missing limb. No one had done that before. Everyone else had pitied him. A laugh escaped his throat. Mark shook his head.

‘Is that a no?' Helen asked.

Mark put his hands down on to the sofa, to lift himself to standing. ‘I don't think it can be a yes.'

Helen turned on her heel to look at her brother-in-law. ‘Samuel, command him to dance with me. You were a colonel. Surely that ranks higher than a captain in the army?'

Pelford's lips twitched. ‘Usually, it is the man's choice. But very well, I know better than to try to argue with you. Inverness, I order you to waltz with my sister-in-law.'

Helen giggled and grinned at him.

Mark couldn't help but smile back. Pelford was right. Helen was a force to be reckoned with. He offered his hand to her. ‘For you, I shall make a fool of myself.'

She placed her hand on his. ‘You couldn't make a fool of yourself, for there is nothing foolish about you.'

Limping, he escorted her down the hall and back to the ballroom. A waltz was playing. Mark felt sweat trail down the back of his neck. He didn't want every member of the beau monde to see his infirmity. To know that he was crippled both inside and out.

Helen didn't stop until they were on the edge of the dance floor. She turned her hand, so it was no longer on top of his, but clasping it. Her other hand, she placed lightly on his shoulder. Mark slowly reached out and took her waist. It was soft and curved and completely feminine. Helen didn't move, didn't sway, but waited for him to lead, which was not at all what he expected. He was sure that she would take the lead in any dance.

The first step back with his wooden leg, he took slowly, careful not to fall and bring her down with him. She followed him forward, waltzing at a snail's pace. Yet somehow, they were able to perform the correct figure. He led her through another box step, this time his hand firm on her waist. It was wonderful to hold her there. To feel her core strength. Her lithe body near his. He almost felt alive again.

Squeezing his hand, she smiled at him. Her expression of happiness was effervescent and contagious. He couldn't help but smile back at her. Other couples waltzed around them, quickly and efficiently. There was nothing quick or graceful about their dance, but he wouldn't have traded these moments holding Helen for his entire Scottish castle.

The music ended too quickly, like all fairy reveries do.

Mark offered her his hand again, leading her to where her mother stood near the Duchess of Pelford.

‘Ah, Lord Inverness,' the Duchess of Hampford said with a polite nod of her regal head. ‘I have learned that you are my neighbour. We should be delighted to have you over for a dinner party some time. Is there a night that you are free?'

He usually avoided such invitations, but this time he didn't want to.

Helen leaned her head and whispered in his ear, ‘Beware, Mama is a cannibal. She eats eligible young men. Especially tasty young earls.'

Mark valiantly tried to hold in his laugh, but it was a battle he could not win. The Duchess did not give him a stern look, but did give one to her daughter.

He bowed his head. ‘I am free any night next week, Duchess, and would be honoured to accept your invitation.'

The Duchess nodded majestically. ‘I shall send you a card.'