A Duchess a Day (Awakened by a Kiss #1) - Charis Michaels Page 0,70
most evenings meant that her more formal gowns languished. The turquoise silk had always been a favorite, ethereal and mysterious and wholly unique. The blue-green fabric shimmered with an iridescent cast, and gauzy silk strips in three shades of aqua trailed from the shoulders and hips.
“Much better,” agreed Camille. “And you should wear your hair entirely down, loose and wild.”
“Perhaps I shall,” mused Helena.
Meg cut in, “I could weave fresh flowers in your hair, my lady. Just think of spring, when the apples are in full bloom with blossoms everywhere, including your hair. So pretty. The hothouse will not have apple blossoms, but I’ll work with whatever the gardeners have on hand.”
“Brilliant, Meg. That solves it. If anyone asks, I’m Demeter, Goddess of the Harvest.”
“What is Lusk’s costume?” asked Camille.
“Who knows? A Swarm of Locust, possibly? That would be fitting.”
The three women laughed, and Meg began to pack away the rejected pinks. Helena drifted to the window and collapsed, peering into the garden. “Tonight will be cold,” she said. “Perhaps I won’t stifle in the crush of the ballroom.”
“I don’t see how you tolerate it,” said Camille, “going to these things on Lusk’s arm. You don’t enjoy London parties, and you don’t enjoy Lusk. How do you manage?” She settled on the edge of the bed.
Helena shrugged. “I decline most invitations. When we do go out, I am friendly to the point of irritation. You saw this in the carriage to Wandsworth. Hope springs eternal that he will become so annoyed that he’ll tell Girdleston he won’t have me.”
“He won’t,” said Camille.
“And then I wait for him to abandon me,” Helena concluded. “Which he always does. Almost immediately. He has his own friends, his cards, his drink. We arrive together, but I leave alone.”
Camille nodded, toying with the embroidery on the coverlet.
“I’m sorry that I cannot carry on with this system for the rest of my life,” said Helena softly. “If I could, you and the girls would benefit from the dukedom.”
“Stop,” said Camille. “I would not benefit. Not at the price of your misery. And anyway, I don’t care about dukedoms.”
“Truly?” asked Helena, her eyes stinging with tears.
“Truly,” said Camille. “And I’m sorry that you ever believed this of me. Joan cannot see why you resist the wedding, but I can.”
“I’m grateful. And I don’t blame Joan, not really. Mama and Papa have planted the notion of prosperity and rank, and it has taken root. The idea, I believe, is that we should marry well and live two lives. A title and money on the one hand, and lovers or whatever else we wish to pursue on the other. I’m so glad that you can see beyond it.”
Camille was nodding her head. “The duplicity and resentment would kill you or me.”
“Let us live,” pronounced Helena, her voice cracking.
“You first,” chuckled Camille. “I’m following your lead. But I still worry for you. I wish I could be of more use to you tonight at the masquerade.”
Camille’s debut in London society was not until next year’s Season, so she and Theresa would remain at home.
“And what would you do to be useful?” asked Helena nervously. Her maid Meg was still in the room, pressing wrinkles from her gown.
“Whatever you have planned. To end the wedding.”
“What makes you think I’ve something planned?”
“I’m not stupid, Helena.” She rolled off the bed. “I don’t blame you for not telling me. It’s not as if we’ve been . . . close.”
“I should like us to be close,” Helena said lowly. To Meg, she said, “Would you mind checking for flowers, Meg? I love your idea for my hair.”
The maid bobbed her head and quit the room.
Despite their solitude, Helena whispered, “I’m grateful, Camille. Truly—more than you know. But you needn’t worry—”
“Stop,” Camille cut in. “It’s one thing to run away, quite another to . . . Well, I cannot guess what you’ve concocted.”
Her sister began to prowl the room. She looked determined and calculating and very sincere. Helena could feel herself beginning to trust. Her heart opened and beat in a newer, gladder way. She’d wanted this for so very long.
“Assuming that I have undertaken some . . .” Helena began, clearing her throat, “. . . some sabotage of the wedding to Lusk—not admitting anything, but assuming—”
Helena stopped talking. Her emotions were a painful jumble of fear and hope and anxiety and doubt. Her belly roiled with nerves. She slept poorly and barely ate. Her plan could unravel or explode at any moment. The