And yet, despite the good conversation and smooth handling of her lout of an uncle, Helena could not be at ease. She kept reliving her encounter with Baldwin…damn it, Sheffield…just after she’d arrived.
It was humiliating to think of how he’d approached her and then dismissed her when she’d been so forward. How his face had fallen and he’d all but run away from her. She’d been imagining the man had liked her, just a little, when they talked about stars a few nights before.
Now she wasn’t certain he even tolerated her.
“Miss Monroe, you are Miss Shephard’s cousin, are you not?” the Duchess of Donburrow asked as she refreshed her tea.
Helena swallowed hard and ignored the pointed look of her uncle. If he had his way she would not be asked anything. He didn’t want her seen at all and kept reminding everyone she was serving at her cousin’s pleasure.
Another humiliation.
“Yes,” she said. “My mother is Mr. Shephard’s sister.”
“It must have been hard for your family to part with you,” the Duchess of Crestwood said. “It’s such a long journey, and I hear you will stay with us at least the Season.”
Helena hesitated. The subject of her family was not an easy one, and she was searching for a smooth explanation when Uncle Peter snorted out a laugh.
“Her family can do well enough without her,” he said, his mouth full of biscuit. “They were happy enough to see her be put to a valuable vocation rather than—”
“I needed a companion and Helena had nothing better to do, so here we are,” Charity interrupted, and Helena had never been so happy about anything in her life. Had he truly been about to imply or even outright say what had separated her from her family’s good graces?
Suddenly the terrace, with all its lovely spring breezes and beautiful flowers, felt confined. She couldn’t help but note how the others at the table stared at her, filling in their own opinion of whatever her uncle was going to say, no doubt. Her mind spun and her hands shook.
“We are very happy you are all here,” Baldwin’s sister said with a warm smile. “And now I see my mother rising from her table. She has some lawn games planned for the remainder of our time together.”
Helena moved in a fog, only half-listening as the Duchess of Sheffield made her announcements about lawn games. Then everyone started to rise, shuffling toward the large set of stone steps that led into the garden below. Helena hung back as they did so, staring back over her shoulder at the house. She needed a moment to gather herself. To try to put on that friendly, happy face that was required to survive the endless indignities serving her uncle and cousin required.
So she backed away, happy that her uncle seemed more interesting in prattling on at the Dukes of Donburrow and Crestwood than he was at noticing she’d disappeared. She turned and entered the house, sucking in deep breaths of air as she did so. Blindly, she walked through the parlor and down the hall, turning toward another of the rooms so she might have a better chance of escaping the discovery of whatever servants came to tidy up the veranda from the tea.
As she turned the corner into the room, she came to a sudden stop. This was no parlor where she could have a moment alone. This was the Duke of Sheffield’s study, and the man, himself, was seated at a large, mahogany desk across the room, his gaze focused on a letter in his hand. She hadn’t even realized he’d left the party, but here he was.
She ought to have turned and run right then and there. Then he’d never know she was there. But she couldn’t. She found herself staring at him, at his stern expression, at the way he lifted a hand and ran it through his hair as his lips pressed together.
And her heart fluttered wildly.
He glanced up, and the moment she’d been granted to escape undetected disappeared. His lips parted and he set the letter down as he stood.
“I’m—I’m so sorry,” she stammered, staggering away and shaking her head as reality returned. “I shouldn’t have intruded.”
He lifted a hand. “You have not, Miss Monroe. Please, don’t run away.”
She swallowed and stopped backing from the room. Less than an hour ago she had felt pushed aside by this man. Now he came around the desk and there was no one in the world other than him.
“I-I didn’t know you were a duke that night on the terrace at the Rockford ball,” she burst out.
His brow knitted and he stared at her in confusion. “I realized later that neither of us made our introductions. I suppose our conversation was too interesting to think of it. Would it have made a difference if you’d known?”
She shifted. “I prattled on rather foolishly, didn’t I? And treated you without the deference that the title requires.”
He snorted out a laugh. “I have quite enough deference, both false and real, Helena, I assure you.”
She blinked. Had he just called her by her given name? He had, for the word hung between them like a caress. She did not correct him. “Still, I shouldn’t have been so informal.”
“You were charming.” He took another step closer, and she couldn’t help but catch her breath. He was quite tall, quite confident. It felt like he filled the space, but not in an intimidating way. It was actually almost comforting. “I enjoyed our conversation.”
“As did I,” she admitted because she could think of no proper lies that would create the distance she so obviously needed.
He tilted his head as he eased to a stop at less than an arm’s length from her. He made no move to touch her. Probably best considering the tension that now coursed in the room between them.
“Why did you leave the garden party?” His voice was suddenly rough, low, not accusatory, but undeniable.
She worried her lip a moment. There was no earthly reason for her to tell this man, this stranger, this duke who was utterly out of her sphere, the truth. But she felt that very thing on her tongue. A thousand words that explained her reduced position and the discomfort and shame heaped upon her because of it.
“I needed a moment,” she said. Not a lie. Not the whole truth. His face lit up with interest as she said it, and she could hardly think or breathe as she continued, “And I took a wrong turn, thinking this was a parlor where I might have a bit of peace.”
“Lucky for me,” he murmured, his dark brown gaze holding hers firmly.
She swallowed hard. “What about you, Your Grace—”
He flinched. “Baldwin.”
“You wish for me to call you Baldwin?” she repeated, her voice little more than a squeak that hardly breached even the limited distance between them. “Your—your given name?”
“If we are alone, yes. I prefer it. The title is not…comfortable. It never has been.” He blinked as if he hadn’t meant to say that. “I suppose you’re asking why I am not at my own party?”
She nodded, though in truth she’d all but forgotten that question had once been on her tongue.