Chapter 2

"Have a good day, girls." Helen smiled, waving goodbye to her friends as she was helped out of the hackney they'd shared on their outing.

"You too, dear Helen." Joana, one of her bosom friends, smiled.

"Will you be attending the Haversham Ball in the next couple of weeks?" Ariadne, her other bosom friend, asked.

"I am not certain yet," Helen told them, and seeing the hackney driver's impatient look, she waved to them. "I'll write to you both once I decide."

They blew her kisses as the carriage rolled away, and Helen smiled as the sun kissed her face. The day had been nothing short of perfect, and she could not wait to tell her sister, Margaret, all about it.

One of her favorite places to spend time in London was Gunter's Tea Shop. She was sure that most debutantes and young women of marriageable age would argue that a visit to the modiste or the theatre was more riveting and engaging as well as proper if one wanted to secure a husband. But Helen believed there were very few things better than the refreshment she got from having ice at Gunter's plus the even more rewarding benefit of hearing the latest gossip circulating among the ton.

And she could trust her friends to have in-depth knowledge of that sort. They were reliable in that way, residing always in their London homes as compared to her, who often returned to her family home in the country at the end of the Season.

The latest story was about the Duke of Blackhill, who was better known by the moniker the Ruthless Duke. Apparently, after years of studiously avoiding the institution of marriage, he had decided to get married. It was a general consensus among the ton that it was not going to be difficult because even with the multitude of scandals attached to his name, he was still a prime catch with a dukedom that went back several generations. He was second only to the royal family, and there was no young lady who wouldn't kill to be associated with a dukedom, not to mention possessing the most coveted title of Duchess. Well, none but her, of course.

The marriage in itself wasn't what had caused such a stir amongst the ton but his plan. Somehow, word had gotten around that he was apparently not going to choose his bride from among the debutantes but would be honoring an arranged marriage contracted many years before.

That was what had caused such a stir within the ton, as in one fell swoop, he had dashed the hopes of several debutantes and ladies who had always dreamt of acquiring the title of Duchess.

The ladies of the ton had declared their determination to hate the Duke's betrothed simply for daring to land the Duke without so much as lifting a finger, which amused her greatly, as her friends—Joana, daughter of the Marquess of Kilburn, and Ariadne, daughter of the Viscount Yardley—were of the same opinion.

Helen well understood their plight even though she didn't share their obsession with the Ruthless Duke. She understood the anger that came with disappointment from losing things longed for, even worse when it is granted to a seemingly undeserving person on a silver platter. She simply hoped whoever the unfortunate damsel was would be someone with a spine who could handle their censure.

"I still do not understand what you two see in him to make you act so… uncharacteristically weird." She laughed after a sip of cool strawberry-flavored ice.

Joana rolled her eyes while Ariadne gasped.

"Have you seen his eyes? Or his jaw? Or his broad shoulders?" Ariadne asked with a whisper, because if she were to be overheard, she would never survive it.

"All normal parts of any man."

"The Duke has no normal parts," Joana gushed, still whispering. "He's extraordinary."

"Mhmm. His smoldering stare across the room makes me feel all hot inside."

Helen frowned in wonder at her friends, wondering if she herself perhaps was starting to develop challenges with her eyes.

While Helen admitted that the Ruthless Duke was undeniably handsome—if you were partial to the dark brooding male type compared to the more popular blonde Adonis type—she could not ignore the fact he had such a dark aura about him that screamed danger.

Even without knowing his history, it was obvious to everyone who cared to look that he was a man with a dark past and not strictly of an amorous nature.

Although he was also known to be a ruthless rake, she figured he hadn't even had to work hard to earn much affection. Apparently, his dark looks drove women insane and made them lose all sense of propriety. Young widows, matrons, and a few ruthless debutantes threw themselves shamelessly at him if he so much as nodded his head in greeting or smiled at them.

Not that he smiled often. He just curled his lips in a mocking smirk of amusement at the antics of members of the ton when he attended some of their flamboyant affairs. She could not even fault him for that because she had pretty much done the same when she was witness to it.

"Remember when my mother introduced us at the Spring ball in Cheshire court?" Ariadne gushed. "I thought I'd die when he kissed my hand."

And that one encounter had firmly sealed the love she had for the Duke in her heart. She had felt so special that she had wept when he had kissed Joana's hand just two balls later."

"I know." Joana sighed. "His lips were so soft, and his voice so deep."

The two of them got into an argument that made Helen laugh, drawing attention to them.

"You two are absolutely too much," she teased.

They shot her matching glares, but her words caused them to proceed on another long tirade about him.

Even with his dark charm, he tended to lounge at odd corners of the ballroom while casting disinterested looks at the members of the fairer sex that batted their eyelashes relentlessly in his direction. His disinterest strangely enough did not protect him from becoming involved in several scandals that would probably have been more damning if not for his powerful title.

Unfortunately, his propensity for scandal scared the more sensible mamas of the ton, who warned their daughters of the dangers of being caught with him—ruination being a prime example. This invariably led to most of the debutantes avoiding him. His brooding temperament didn't help his cause. Most of those girls just fresh off the schoolroom were scared of him, and he appeared not to care.

Frankly, Helen didn't envy his future bride because it was obvious he was a cold, calculating man, and she strongly preferred a softer, considerate, and loving man for a husband.

She reckoned a man who was rumored to have thrown his family out and disinherited them would not be kind to any failures of his wife, and knowing her headstrong tendencies, any marriage with a man possessing the Duke's temperament would be disastrous.

Helen wished him good luck in his new life with his bride and hoped strongly that she would change him. She would admit that she was curious to see who the future Duchess was. Knowing the capricious attention span of the ton, she was certain there would soon be some other gossip to occupy them before the week ran out.

"Good day, Madam," their butler, Mr. Biggins, greeted while taking her coat when she finally stepped into her home.

"Good day, Mr. Biggins," Helen replied with a cheerful smile. "Is Father in?"

"I believe so, Madam," he answered. "I saw him earlier in the drawing room."

"All right," she replied, before heading towards the drawing room, removing her gloves as she went. When she got closer, she could hear her father's voice

"… don't know why you could not be more like your sister. You are already three-and-twenty, already firmly on the shelf. Instead of trying to find a good match, you prefer to consort with the wallflowers. The suitors you do get, you reject them offhand for the most obnoxious reasons. What is wrong with you, dear girl?"

Helen opened the door and walked in to see her sister sitting on one of the sofas, her spine ramrod straight and her hands primly folded in her lap. Margaret was looking straight ahead. Helen recognized that look; Margaret had zoned out like she always did whenever their father scolded her.

Compared to Helen, who was a firecracker in her own right, Margaret was calm and was usually called an ice queen because of her eerie ability to mask her true feelings, but she was Helen's sister, and as such, Helen knew her better than most and could vouch for the fact that Margaret was flesh and blood.

She just wasn't the social butterfly that Helen was and was most comfortable among the wallflowers at the fringes of the ballroom at every ball.

Helen was very sure it was not due to a lack of dancing skills, because her sister was an exceptional dancer, rivaling Helen, who was known amongst the ton as the queen of the dance floor.

Margaret had always been reserved, but in the past year, Helen had noticed that she retreated even more and more into her shell.

Helen had her suspicions that it had something to do with heartbreak, but for some reason, Margaret refused to confide in her, so she kept her suspicions to herself until Margaret deemed it fit to open up.

It also didn't help that her father had taken to criticizing Margaret for her unmarried state, and unlike his usual self, Helen had noticed he was even more on edge these days

"Father, what is it this time?" Helen scolded. "I thought we agreed that you would stop the comparison between my sister and me. I am hardly the yardstick for female virtue, so cease the scolding. It is still much too early for that."

"But—"

"No, Father." She shook her head, sighing at how red he was. "You are overexerting yourself, and now your whole face is red. Calm yourself and have some tea."

She urged him to relax on the sofa, signaling to a drawing room maid to prepare a tea service and placing an affectionate kiss on his weathered cheek.

"I'm just worried about her living life alone." He sighed, giving his older daughter an apologetic look. "Forgive me, Margaret, if I come across as overbearing. I only want the best for you and your sister."

"All is forgiven, Father," Margaret said, her lips curling into a rueful smile.

"I just worry so much about you two. Ever since we lost your mother…" His voice broke off into a sob, bringing tears to their eyes. "I don't know how long I will live, and I want you girls to be well settled with well-placed gentlemen to take care of you when I am gone. I don't trust that your cousin, Thomas, will take care of you."

"Father, you are not going anywhere, at least not any time soon, and we will be fine. Trust me. You raised strong women, you know," Helen said while rubbing her father's shoulder in reassurance.

But she quite understood her father's fear. Even with her acting like she cared little for society and her future, she was not oblivious to the way society treated women who were not attached in a way that suited them. There were very few respectable occupations an unmarried female could take up in the event they came to ruin, and Helen could never trust her cousin, Thomas, who was her father's named heir to his title and estate, to care for them when he did inherit the title.

Thomas, who was two years older than Margaret, was a drunkard and dissolute skirt chaser. He spent most of his time getting roaring drunk and wenching in taverns. He had even propositioned Margaret to be his mistress if she remained unmarried when he inherited on one of his visits to their townhouse, so Helen knew that none of them would be safe in his care.

It was unfortunate that fate didn't see it fit to grant a male son to her father and mother, who had died in childbirth trying to give him an heir. Helen suspected that her father still suffered unresolved guilt about their mother's death, but he hid it well.

Helen poured the tea and added a cube of sugar and a splash of milk, sharing the latest gossip she had heard.

"You truly don't believe that about him, do you?" Margaret asked, taking a sip of her tea.

Helen smiled at how elegantly her sister moved and sat a little straighter, trying to emulate her.

Margaret, with her chestnut-brown hair, green eyes, and slim frame, which she had inherited from their mother, looked like a woodland creature and moved as elegantly. As a child, Helen had been endlessly jealous that she had not inherited their mother's looks.

Helen had inherited her short and curvy frame from her father's side of the family, as well as his dark hair and blue eyes. Those were her favorite features.

"I do not, but all of Society seems to think that of the Duke of Blackhill," she told her sister.

"It isn't nice to judge someone you barely know." Margaret sniffed. "For all we know, he could just be shy."

They shared a laugh at that, but their laughter subsided when a knock sounded at the door. Mr. Biggins walked in looking downright startled.

"A caller is here to see you, My Lord," he announced, visibly buzzing with excitement but still looking spooked.

Helen wondered what could have spooked him so.

"A caller? I'm not expecting anyone." Their father frowned. "Girls?"

"We didn't invite anyone."

"Who is it, then?" her father asked. "I'll have to give him a piece of my mind for…"

"The Duke of Blackhill is here to see you, My Lord."

Helen's eyes widened, as did her sister's and father's.

Speak of the devil, and he really would appear.

What was the Ruthless Duke doing in their house?

She shot her sister a questioning look, which her sister returned. When Helen looked at her father, there was an interesting change in his demeanor. He shifted in his seat a little uncomfortably.

"Send him in," he instructed, rising from his seat.

They rose too as the man himself was led in, looking every bit regal in an elegant coat that framed his body nicely and accentuated the broadness of his shoulders and narrowness of his waist. There was not one strand of dark hair out of place, and his dark green eyes glittered like emeralds as he gave them a polite smile. He looked every inch the perfect gentleman and nothing like the man he was rumored to be.

Helen had known he was handsome when she had randomly seen him in ballrooms, but having him here in her home and so close… her cheeks flushed as she became well aware of his masculinity. When his eyes met hers, she looked away quickly.

Her friends had been right, after all. His jawline was impeccable. She stole a quick glance at him and found his eyes on her sister this time, and a weird feeling crawled into the pit of her stomach.

"Honeyfield," he greeted her father with a tilt of his head. "It has been an age since I last saw you."

"Your Grace," the Viscount returned with a short bow. "Indeed, it has. Last I saw you, you were still refusing to wear your knickers."

They shared a laugh.

"And lest I forget the lovely flowers in your home." The Duke smiled. "You two are indeed as beautiful as I was informed."

Helen and Margaret curtsied politely.

For some weird reason, Helen reddened even further. When she turned to look at her sister, Margaret also had red cheeks.

"Thank you, Your Grace," Margaret answered.

Helen, remembering her manners, thanked him as well when her father shot her a glare.

"You are welcome to our home, Your Grace," her father said, leading him over to one of the sofas. "What brings you by?"

Margaret called for a tea service to be brought in while she sat, not feeling the courage to speak for the first time in her life.

The Duke waited till Margaret had finally sat down before taking a seat. Whatever the Duke of Blackhill was, he was a gentleman through and through.

"Honeyfield," he started. "I'm here to discuss a contract between you and my father, the Fifth Duke of Blackhill."

Helen noticed that her father suddenly dropped his gaze and made a studious point of looking everywhere but at the Duke.

"I see you remember, so I'm spared the hassle of refreshing your memory," the Duke said, a triumphant smirk playing on his lips.

Her father laughed awkwardly. "That was a deal your father and I made a long time ago after I saved him from losing his head over a card game in a local tavern." He laughed. "I thought it became void when he died."

Interestingly, no one laughed along with him. The Duke just watched him with a stony expression while Helen and her sister just looked on, confused.

"It didn't," the Duke said seriously. "My father's man of affairs presented it to me two nights ago on the date stated in the contract."

"Still, it was nothing official," the Viscount argued.

"It had both your seals."

The Duke's words held a note of finality that resonated around the room.

"You can't possibly mean to hold me to that promise. That is ancient history between your father and I," the Viscount argued.

"But then again, it was not just a promise but a contract," the Duke said tonelessly. "I could show you the proof if you want."

He made to pull out something from his jacket pocket, but the Viscount tried to still his action.

"That will not be necessary…"

But the Duke had already pulled it out of his jacket pocket and extended it towards him.

The Viscount hesitated, piquing Helen's curiosity, which drove her to collect it to pass to her father, but not before reading through it. Her eyes widened as she realized it was a betrothal contract to one of her father's daughters, which meant either she or Margaret would be the future Duchess that all of Society would hate.

"Helen!" her father scolded, extending his hand and snatching it from her. But the brief glimpse she had had was enough.

It was the irony of the highest kind how she was so used to gossiping about people that she didn't really know, but now her family happened to be the main characters of one of the popular stories that made turns in the ton—it was quite a unique experience.

Even then she paled in fear for her sweet sister, Margaret, who would no doubt be the bride of the Duke. Of all the ways in which her sister could finally be married off, this was the worst, in her opinion.

If it were some other gentleman, she might have been open to arranging a meeting between them to see if they would be well-suited, but not the Ruthless Duke.

He was too cold, calculating, and intimidating for her mild-tempered and nonconfrontational, sweet sister. If Helen let her get married to the Duke, she knew he would intimidate Margaret until he crushed whatever was left of her fragile spirit.

The Duke needed someone who could match him in temperament and challenge him, not someone who would easily agree to his dictates.

Her sister deserved someone who was kind and mindful of her mild nature, not someone as ruthless as the Duke. She could never allow it simply because two men decided to sit and decide their children's future even before they were of age.

She turned and marched angrily towards the Duke.

"I don't care whatever arrangement you have with Papa, but you are never marrying my sister. I will never allow it!" she snapped, and from the heat in her face, she could tell she was already red in the face.

Anger flowed red hot in her bloodstream, and even though she knew she was behaving at the height of impropriety, she didn't care. If she even scared him off considering either of them for marriage, she would be much happier.

"Helen!" her father scolded, visibly embarrassed by her behavior.

The Duke just stared at her with a blank look, then slowly rose from his seat to his full height. He looked down at her with that trademark smirk of his, green eyes glinting dangerously.

She felt his eyes roam down her frame, the intensity of his appraisal leaving a heated trail from the crown of her head to her shoe-clad feet. If he was aiming to intimidate her, he was succeeding because he towered over her with his impossible height against her diminutive frame. She imagined she looked like a child stomping her feet while throwing a tantrum.

"Your Grace," her father started. "I…"

The Duke's eyes on him stopped the words about to come out of his mouth. With his eyes on her father, she was granted some respite from being the target of his intense gaze.

"I apologize for my daughter's rudeness," her father finished, finally finding his voice with a pointed glare at her. "May we retire to my study to further discuss the situation?"

"All right," the Duke conceded. "After you, My Lord."

Helen watched her father step out of the room in disbelief. He had just dismissed her protest by moving the meeting to a private space where they could decide when he would send Margaret to the chopping block that marriage to the Duke would be.

"You will never have my sister," she spat just before the Duke stepped out of the room.

He turned back to her, his eyes lit with dark promise.

Helen reddened and looked away, but not before noticing his trademark smirk directed at her.

"Interesting," he muttered.

She sank back onto the sofa in an ungracious heap, but she didn't care, even though her handmaid would scold her for wrinkling her dress.

"Betrothal? To the Duke of Blackhill?" Margaret whisper-yelled, her voice unusually high-pitched.

Helen turned to see that her sister's face was white with shock and fear.

"I can't marry the Duke," Margaret said, wringing her hands. "Why would Father draft a betrothal agreement without informing us?"

"I don't know," Helen answered, equally as distraught. She stood up, walking over to sit with her sister. "I think it was drawn up when we were still infants, and he didn't tell us because he thought that it was void since the former Duke died."

"Well, I can't marry him," Margaret cried, tears streaming down her face. "I… I love someone else."

"Who?" Helen asked, surprised, trying to identify anyone her sister had been close to, and her eyes widened when it finally clicked. "Lord Wesley?"

Margaret didn't answer, but the look on her face and the way she looked away, blinking away tears, was answer enough.

How was Helen supposed to console her sister, who was in love with a married man?

Rubbing Margaret's shoulder in consolation, she murmured, "You won't have to marry the Duke, I promise."

* * *

It wasn't every day that people stood up to him, and he would admit that Miss Helen looked adorable while she confronted him. James' words hadn't been sufficient to describe the cherubic face on top of a body made for sin. At the sight of her full pink lips in a defiant pout, Alexander instantly felt the insane urge to kiss her. He had had to pinch himself to rid himself of the thought.

That was no way to think of a wife he was just marrying to sort out problems outside the marriage bed.

He liked the fiery spark he saw in her, though. It would serve her well against his family when he finally introduced them to her.

He was shocked to see that she had been the damsel that had caught his eye all those months ago at a ball he had been forced to attend by his best friend. He could tell she recognized him too but said nothing. He had watched her often at balls they'd attended, and the bright aura she carried around herself had captured his attention when some thought her too loud.

But then that was what made him notice her, at first. She was the only gleam of fun he had gotten from attending all those dull affairs to maintain the image of the dukedom and maintain public appearances for the sake of his business pursuits.

But then, he would have never imagined marrying her if it was not for the insistence of Lord Frampton that he preferred working with married gentlemen.

Finding out about the contract had helped Alexander kill two proverbial birds with one stone. Besides, it was time he got married, and there was no better time than the present to do so. He would marry the belle of the Season and gain the use of her hospitality skills to win the contract that would catapult his business dealings, and that was all that mattered.

It helped that she was beautiful, even though he didn't have any intention of claiming his marital rights, no matter how tempting she looked.

Tempting, indeed. With sweet visible curves, her dress accentuated the softness of her body.

It was no wonder he spent several minutes staring at her. He was grateful that Lord Honeyfield had called his attention, or he would have given away his lust.

When they got to the study, the Viscount offered him some whiskey, but he declined. His mind was already muddled where Helen was concerned, so he would prefer to keep it as clear as possible.

"Your Grace, I acknowledge that it was presumptuous of me to think that you would not hold me to the contract, but you must understand that this agreement was between your father and me. I didn't think that you would want to follow your father's wishes, since young people these days prefer to choose their partners themselves."

"Well, I have my reasons for deciding to go this way. Besides, it is a well-known fact that you raised your daughters into well-mannered ladies despite the loss of their mother. I simply want the best," Alexander said, smiling softly. "And I know this marriage will not just be beneficial for me but for you as well. I know about your near financial ruin. I promise to support you, despite the rumors you may have heard about me, and very well if she pleases me."

There was nothing like adding subtle flattery and playing on a man's greed when one wanted to deflect suspicion, and it had the desired effect.

The Viscount visibly relaxed and smiled in obvious pride.

"Well, Margaret is a well-mannered young lady with a good head on her shoulders. She is calm and nurturing but perhaps not the best when it comes to social gatherings. She will outgrow it with time. The two of you would do well together."

"You seem to be mistaken, My Lord," Alexander clarified. "I didn't come to request Margaret's hand in marriage."

"Then why did you come?" the Viscount asked, visibly confused.

"I want to marry your younger daughter, Helen."