A Duchess a Day (Awakened by a Kiss #1) - Charis Michaels Page 0,69

the landing was empty. Declan swore, looking in any of three possible directions. He cocked his head and listened.

From the stairwell, he heard descending footsteps and the muted slide of the cloak trailing down steps. Declan followed, reaching the ground floor in time to see the shadow of the draped figure sliding from view.

He swore and leapt the last five steps, scanning the corridor.

Nothing.

The corridor emptied into a library, a cavernous, shelf-lined room that was crowded with patrons, including a squirming line of schoolboys and scrum of nuns. More than half the patrons were dressed in black.

Declan rushed in, mentally dividing the room into quadrants and searching each space—nothing.

If he had an hour to track this person, to speak to people, to scout entrances and exits and case the building, likely he could find them. But he’d left Helena alone for too long. If the cloaked figure doubled back and approached Helena from the opposite direction, she shouldn’t be alone.

Taking a final look around the library, Declan jogged back to the Egyptian Hall. When he rounded the sphinx, Helena rushed into view. Her smile lit up the dark museum.

“We’ve a second potential girl,” she exclaimed. “She wants it so very much.”

Chapter Seventeen

Seven Duchesses (Potential)

Happy ✓

Sneezy

Doc

Sleepy ✓

There were no outings for Helena the next day, not alone or with her mother. The household, and in fact all of London society, was preoccupied with the inaugural event of the Season, a masquerade ball known as Winter Solstice. The ball would take place that night, the longest of the year, but the day was devoted to perfecting costumes and masks.

As with all London parties, Helena had wanted to decline, but the ball promised access to two of the potential duchesses. She could observe the girls, possibly even approach them.

Two hours before the ball, Helena stood before her bed, staring at a spectrum of pink satin, trying to sort out some costume. She hadn’t wanted to bother with fittings and refused to have something commissioned. Girdleston had been appalled and offered to send up a few possibilities. Helena reluctantly agreed. What did it matter what she wore?

“What do you think, Meg?” she sighed, looking at her maid.

“I can’t say that one stands out as the obvious choice,” said Meg charitably. “They are so opposite from your usual style, aren’t they? It’s as if Mr. Girdleston doesn’t know you at all.”

“Imagine that,” said Helena.

“But this is the point of a masquerade, I suppose,” the maid said. “You’d do justice to any of them, honestly.”

There was a knock on the door. Helena assumed it was tea, but when Meg opened the door, her middle sister, Camille, stepped into the room.

“Hallo,” Camille began boldly, her face overly bright.

“Hello yourself,” Helena said cautiously. She was not accustomed to friendly visits from her sisters. “Is something the matter?”

Camille shook her head. “I came to see what you would wear to the ball.”

Helena narrowed her eyes, trying to decipher Camille’s expression. Her sister had never paid any mind to Helena’s wardrobe.

She turned to the dresses on the bed. “Meg and I have come to understand that Girdleston favors me in pink.”

“Oh,” her sister said, frowning at the dresses. “Does he instruct what you wear?” She sounded horrified.

“Not typically, thank God, but he is very determined that my costume might complement the duke’s. I would rather die than match Lusk, but he’s sent up these options.”

The dresses splayed across the bed were pink, pinker, and glowing pink. The first was a pig-colored affair with exposed pantaloons, ribboned staff, straw hat, and wooden clogs. A Elizabethan-era goose girl?

The second was a bright pink profusion of ruffles sewn with a swarm of beaded butterflies. A coordinated mask represented the full wingspan of a pink-and-yellow butterfly, its exaggerated antenna affecting long eyebrows.

The final dress was a sugary pink confection with tiers and tiers of poufs that would make Helena feel like a wedding cake.

“These dresses give me a toothache,” said Camille.

Helena laughed and eyed her sister. Were they actually having a warm conversation? Camille’s comments were clever—Camille had always been clever—but her joke had the underlying tone of conciliation. Her sister was trying to say the correct things. Helena’s heart felt soft and light.

“I quite agree,” Helena said slowly. She turned to Meg. “The pinks are out of the question. But could we do something with my old aquamarine silk?”

She pulled a turquoise gown from the wardrobe, one of the last pieces her grandmother bought her before she’d died. Helena’s preference to stay in