Helena had to look away as unreasonable fury rose within her. After concerning herself with August’s and Violet’s marriage predicaments earlier this year, and now facing her own albeit minor pressure to remarry, she held a newfound sympathy for Camille. Women were like expensive ornaments to men such as Hereford. They were there to brighten the space around them, to be interesting to look upon, to stroke their sense of pride, to give of themselves so that men could take and take, filling up all the holes and dark places within themselves with women’s light because they lacked their own. What would become of the poor girl when she could no longer fulfill that role for him? She would be relegated to the country to wither away in an old house until she died of boredom. If she was lucky, he would go first, and she would be free.
“She has no shame,” Lady Stampford whispered.
But there was no mention of Hereford’s indignity. Camille wouldn’t be here if not for his need for her money.
Mama shook her head, but Helena couldn’t hear her reply. Her mother was never unduly harsh with someone, but even she disapproved of Camille. She only seemed to tolerate August and Violet because she had no choice. Over the course of the year, the Crenshaws had slowly dug their financial talons into the British upper crust, and while many might resent them, they were too dependent upon them to act on their feelings.
It only made what she was planning with Maxwell seem that much more provocative.
A large hand on her lower back caused a lovely ribbon of warmth to drift through her belly in recognition as a soft, deep voice whispered near her ear, “Apologies for arriving late.”
Maxwell was grinning down at her, the corners of his eyes crinkling attractively. The gaslight caught the flecks of amber in his deep brown eyes, making them appear warmer than usual. A thrill of pleasure shot through her stomach. “Good evening, Mr. Crenshaw . . .” She swallowed then remembered herself. “Maxwell.”
His smile broadened, and he leaned in again. “Helena.”
His hot breath touched her ear, sending a delicious shiver across her skin. She very much felt like a debutante caught in the intoxicating excitement of her first infatuation. He was handsome and charming, and for one night she wanted to allow herself to forget that this was a ploy. For tonight she wanted to pretend that he was wholly suitable for her.
“No apologies needed. The dancing hasn’t started yet.”
Her mother glanced back at her. When she saw Maxwell, she smiled and nodded in greeting, but her gaze caught Helena’s before she turned back around. It held a warning that Helena understood. Something must have changed between them. Something that could be seen by those around them, because Mama was warning her away from him.
He shifted beside her, his thigh brushing the silk of her skirt, and she realized that was why. He stood entirely too close to her. He had dropped his hand from her back, but it rested at his side dangerously close to hers. She could feel the heat of his arm near hers. She smiled as she pretended to listen to Camille while soaking in Maxwell’s presence. A curious sensation on the back of her neck as if someone were watching her had her turning her head to see Violet and Christian near the entrance. Violet smiled at her in silent greeting, but her gaze immediately caught on her brother’s tall frame beside Helena, and a question crossed her lovely features.
Did his sisters know about the plan? Probably not, because Maxwell had implicitly said that no one could know the whole truth. They would have to tell Violet and August something, Helena decided. It wouldn’t be fair to make them think the relationship was real.
Camille finished her prepared words to a round of “Hear! Hear!” which brought Helena back to what was happening. Everyone took a drink from their glasses. A footman appeared by magic to offer Maxwell champagne, meaning he must have come directly to her instead of wandering around. That pleased her immensely.
“To us,” she whispered, holding her glass aloft again.
“You’re officially accepting?”
She nodded in silent acknowledgment.
He smiled behind his glass before tipping it to his lips. “I’m beginning to think you’re going to enjoy this too much. Your life was sorely lacking in intrigue.”
“That hasn’t been true since you Crenshaws came to London.”
He laughed, drawing her mother’s disapproving eye. “We do have a certain quality.” Winking at Helena, he turned his attention to Hereford, who was now thanking everyone for coming.
Hereford spoke again for several minutes, but Helena only heard every few words. She was too busy trying to deconstruct Maxwell’s smell. A soft cloud of his scent surrounded her, not too intrusive, only enough to have her wanting to lean in closer to get more of it. There was the pleasant, clean scent of citrus, possibly lemon, which quickly gave way to a deeper woodsy fragrance, perhaps vetiver, but underneath that was something stronger and warm with an almost smoky depth. What was it?
“Shall we dance and begin this ruse publicly?” He shifted and offered his arm to her.
It was only then that she realized the opening strains of the waltz “Tales from the Vienna Woods” had started. She accepted his arm as her mother turned, momentarily blocking their path to the dance floor, where couples were already beginning to take their places.
“Good evening, Mr. Crenshaw.” To Helena, she said, “Say hello to Sir Stratton, darling.”
Helena hadn’t noticed that at some point during the speeches the man had taken a position at Mama’s far side. “Hello, Sir Stratton. How are you?”
He opened his mouth to answer, but before he could, Maxwell said, “Good evening to you both. I’m afraid that Lady Helena has promised me her waltzes this evening.” That was all he said before politely bowing his head and ushering her through the crowd. They had no doubt left both Mama and poor Sir Stratton behind in openmouthed shock, but Helena couldn’t bring herself to look behind her and check.
“That was poor of you,” she said when he gently took her champagne glass from her hand and put it on the tray of a waiting footman. Then he pulled her into his arms as they joined the other couples.
“I imagine it’s nothing less than your lot expect from a Crenshaw.” There was a slight edge in his voice that caught her by surprise. The fact that he would lump her in with the others hurt her far more deeply than it should have.
She waited until they had completed a partial turn around the room so they were on the far side of the dance floor where there was less of an audience. “My lot?”
“Aristocrats. The men and women who naively believe themselves to be above others because they happened to have been born in a manor house.”
“Do you think that I believe myself to—?” She paused because a couple drifted a bit close, and there was no need for anyone to hear them arguing. Not if they were hoping to be convincing in their ploy. “To be above you in status?”