thought of ways to hide her or abscond with her abroad.
He thought of his family, too, and dashed off a letter of explanation, telling them what they must do to survive in London if he was on the run.
It was terrible, and uncertain, but also so incredibly worth the risk. Helena Shaw was worth taking his already upside-down life and lighting it on fire.
Guests to the party began to arrive at 2:00 p.m. The family received them in Girdleston’s beloved green salon, the large formal sitting room that housed his tabletop collection of miniature houses, carriages, and village buildings.
Because Girdleston hoped to receive more of his beloved miniatures as gifts, and because child guests were prone to meddle with the display, he appointed two grooms to stand guard beside the tiny village. It was a stroke of incredible luck, and Declan volunteered immediately. Nettle partnered him across the table.
Declan, his heart lodged in his throat, watched the salon fill like a soldier watches a battle unfold.
Helena, in the pale-green dress she’d worn the day she’d arrived, stood beside her sister Camille, keeping a close eye on Lusk.
The duke, a drink already in hand, stood beside his uncle, his flat eyes staring above the heads of the guests, engaging only when addressed. On occasion, he yawned. A footman assigned to his personal care stood nearby, a refresher drink ready on a silver tray.
Miss Tasmin Lansing, the potential duchess they’d met in Hyde Park, was the first to arrive. She was accompanied by her mother, a baroness, and she brought a brightly wrapped gift. Declan exhaled. She’d come to play.
Helena stepped up, nodding to the baroness’s smiles and gestures of gratitude, blah, blah, blah— Declan marveled that Helena could remain so composed. Miss Lansing, too, looked unruffled and fortified. She made little effort of cordiality but stared openly at the duke instead. She’d worn a golden dress, a stark contrast to her dark hair, distinctive and modern. Was it too tasteful and refined for the duke? Declan had no idea what Lusk wanted, but other men in the room stared.
After a quarter hour, the duke drifted from the receiving line to a chair beside the fire. Miss Lansing saw the shift and smoothed her skirt and patted her hair. In two blinks, she transformed her face from impatient and suspicious to sugary and ecstatic. The change was mystifying. He had the errant thought that Helena had been true to herself, wholly authentic and open, from the beginning and the duke was a fool. Thank God.
Across the room, Miss Lansing glided to the fireplace and lit on the arm of the duke’s chair. Declan took a deep breath. He’d stalked highwaymen through haunted forests with less anxiety.
Another dozen guests arrived, along with them the next potential duchess, Lady Genevieve Vance.
While Miss Lansing looked striking and aggressive, Lady Genevieve sparkled and flitted. She’d worn red, like she had that day in New Bond Street. Today’s dress was a shade darker, more rose red, but it was just as fitted and it stood out in the green room like a berry.
Helena spoke to her briefly—she’d warned each girl in advance that there would be other contenders at the party—and left her to circulate.
Lady Genevieve descended on the duke within five minutes, her carousel of cheerful expressions calibrated to somewhere between loopy smile and ecstatic grin. The duke gestured to his footman for another drink, and Lady Genevieve was there, laying a gloved hand ever so lightly on his sleeve.
Ten minutes later, the third and final potential duchess arrived: Miss Marten from the museum. She looked the least certain and most out of place, but Declan felt she was, by far, the most provocative. Her flaming red hair was swept up in a loose chignon. She took in the party with large, excited eyes. She’d worn pink, the perfect color to accentuate her hair. She glanced around the ornate salon with a look of someone determined to toss a ring at a country fair and win first prize. Covet, thy name is Jessica Marten. She wanted all of this.
Helena greeted her, whispered some encouragement or strategy. Miss Marten located the duke, squared her shoulders, and moved in.
Declan looked away. It unsettled him to watch. He sought out Helena, sitting among the family beside her sister Camille. When she looked up, her expression was anxious and pale; her cheeks were taut with worry.
Declan’s chest hurt, seeing her distress. He forced a look of confident reassurance, caught her