Lady Ashcroft nodded vehemently. “I agree completely. Unfortunately, the stain can spread. If she’s not careful, it will take her over as well.”
Rage propelled him into action before he had a chance to even acknowledge it, much less quell its existence. Four sets of eyes widened at the sight of him. “Lady Helena is the most compassionate person I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. Who are you”—he had been glaring at Lady Ashcroft, who stood with her mouth agape, but now turned his attention to take in the rest of the group, including his own mother—“any of you, to question her integrity? She has gone to great length to offer aid to people the world has left behind. At great risk to her person, and apparently her character, she has done what none of us would lift a finger to do. How dare you, her friends, disparage her?”
Everything was silent when he finished. Even the piano from the music room had gone quiet in the seconds it took the musician to transition to another piece. As the full weight of what he had done came over him, Max found the wherewithal to take notice of the room. Lord Farthington stood at the sideboard, pausing in the act of placing a pastry on the small plate in his hand. His expression was unreadable. While Max did not regret a single word he said, he did regret that Helena’s father had heard it all. He knew the man wouldn’t completely approve of welcoming an untitled man into his family, but he would approve of a vulgar display of temper even less.
Still, there was nothing to do but meet the man’s gaze head-on. Max stood by the sentiments of his speech, and he would not be cowed. Helena deserved better than these careless, entitled people sneering at her.
“Maxwell.” Helena’s calm voice cut through the silence like a warm knife through butter. She stood at the door at the far end of the room. The apples of her cheeks were lit from within. How much of it all had she heard? “Would you be so kind as to accompany me to the . . .” She faltered slightly, leading him to conclude that she had heard enough. “The library? Violet left a book for me there, but I can’t seem to find it.” Without waiting for a reply, and with every eye in the room focused on her, she gracefully departed with her chin perfectly parallel with the ground.
“Excuse me,” he said, inclining his head as if he hadn’t just handed the Society matrons their heads on a platter.
Chapter 11
You were made perfectly to be loved, and surely I have loved you, in the idea of you, my whole life long.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Max followed Helena to the back of the house, uncertain of her destination. The only library in the town house was his father’s study upstairs. He was left to follow the combined sounds of the swishing of her skirts and her heels on the carpets to find her. He caught a glimpse of plum fabric as she turned into the small morning room that looked out over the garden. His mother frequently had her coffee in this room, and Violet had used it for writing. It wasn’t a library, but it did hold a bookcase stocked with books.
Conscious of how everyone at the party would be aware they had disappeared together, he kept the door open when he entered behind her. A lamp burned in the far corner, having been lit to invite private conversation if someone needed to step away from the rest of the guests. It cast a pale yellow light over one side of the room while leaving the other in shadow. The effect created a false sense of privacy, as if they were the only ones in the house. His skin felt tighter, too small for his body, as every nerve ending came alive.
She whirled around to face him. Her eyes were bright, but he couldn’t tell if she was angry or not. Into the silence, he said, “I won’t apologize for what I said.”
“I am not asking you to apologize.” She simply stared at him, searching his face.
He relaxed slightly. “Then I don’t understand . . .” His voice trailed off as light shimmered in her eyes, coalescing into twin swelling teardrops that wavered on her lower lashes, threatening to fall.
She blinked rapidly, turning away with a sound of frustration as she tried to hide the tears from him. He went to take a step forward, but his muscles seemed to freeze, momentarily paralyzed by the sight of her distress. “Helena,” he whispered.
“No, it’s fine. I’m fine.” She held a hand out behind her to ward him off. The sight of her gloved fingers, long and slim, had him reaching out. The urge to touch her was too great. She gasped when he took her hand in his and looked back at the touch.
He was also entranced by the sight. Her hand was smaller than his, but it somehow fit perfectly tucked against his palm.
“I’ve upset you,” he said. She looked stricken, the lines of her face taut.
“No.” But it was a lie and they both knew it. Pressing her lips together for a moment, she said, “Well, yes, but not for the reason you think.”
Forcing a bit of levity, he said, “Then you’re not upset that Lady Ashcroft despises me?”
The hint of a smile tugged the corner of her lips. Her eyes were still brighter than normal, but there was no imminent threat of tears. She faced him again but had yet to pull her hand back. “No one has ever come to my defense as you did.”
“I find that difficult to believe.”
She gave a small shake of her head, and her grasp on his hand tightened. His body took it as an invitation, and he stepped closer, slowly narrowing the space between them. His eyes glued to their hands. “Believe it. To be fair, I don’t have a long history of rebellion. Not like August. I had my Season like any other girl, and by the end I was betrothed to a man known to my family for years and beloved by them. I was never obstinate because there wasn’t a need.”
He barely heard her last sentence because he was stuck on the preceding one. “And was he beloved by you?” He had no right to ask her, but here he was overstepping for no reason other than his selfish need to know more about her.
She paused for a long time, drawing his gaze. He should call the question back, but he didn’t. Finally, she said, “Yes, I loved him.” There was a sadness in her eyes that tugged at his heart. “It was after his death that I began to question myself. I had spent my entire life doing everything that I thought I was supposed to do, but to what purpose? There I was still a widow before my time. My family urged me to remarry as soon as it was acceptable. I’m ashamed to admit that I didn’t understand until then that my only purpose in life was to be a wife and produce children . . . at least according to my family . . . to the world.”
“But that’s not your only purpose,” he said, his voice stronger than he intended.
“I know. It took me a while, but I know now. Being a wife and mother would be wonderful things, but they’re not the only things that matter to me.”
“You care about the orphans and the women under your protection.”