short, pleased to see two familiar faces smiling down at her.
With elegant strokes and bold, vibrant colors, the artist had managed to perfectly capture the love between Calliope and Leopold. In the portrait, the newlyweds were all but glowing with happiness. The new bride was sitting beneath a large oak tree on a swing. Her husband stood beside her, his hand resting protectively on her shoulder. Calliope gazed at the painter, her lips curved in a soft, almost knowing smile, while Leo only had eyes for his wife.
It was a lovely, intimate peek into their relationship. And as she traced her fingertips along the edge of the frame before following the maid out through a set of French doors, Helena couldn’t help but wonder if she’d ever find a man who looked at her the way Leo looked at Calliope.
Stephen looks at you like that, a small, unwanted voice intruded.
Helena gritted her teeth as she sat down at a circular metal table facing away from the sun. Stephen had looked at her like that. For one night, he’d looked at her as if she’d hung the moon and the stars. And when she’d kissed him, she’d felt as if she really had. But none of that mattered now. None of it had mattered in a long, long time. And just as soon as she could get Stephen back out of her head where he belonged, it would never matter again.
“Is – is something wrong with the fruit, my lady?” the maid asked hesitantly.
Too late, Helena realized she was stabbing a piece of pineapple to death. Never mind that it was a fruit, and as such could not actually be killed. Dropping the utensil with a clatter, she mustered a smile. “No. Everything’s fine, thank you.”
“Ah…very good,” said the maid, obviously not believing her, but too well-trained to say otherwise. “If there is anything else you need, please let me know. My name is Sara.”
Helena picked up her fork. “Thank you, Sara.”
“Of course, my lady.” With a bob and a curtsy Sara hurried back inside, leaving Helena to ponder her mangled pineapple in private.
She thought about her dream and what it all meant. The hats she understood. She did love a good bonnet. But Cambridge…
With a shudder, she reached for her coffee, instinctively seeking something warm to help stave off the chill that raced down her spine. His was the one face she had never wanted to see again, even in her nightmares. Cambridge was a part of her past she didn’t want to relive. A piece of her life that had brought her nothing but pain, and misery, and heartache. Which was why she’d done what needed to be done, and she’d moved on.
Or so she’d believed until Stephen had stormed back into her life.
Too restless to remain seated, Helena stood and began to wander the gardens. Wet grass pulled at the hem of her wrap as she deviated from the stone path and slipped between two towering hedgerows of roses. Without thinking, she reached out to touch one of the pretty pink blooms, only to yank her hand back with a hiss when a thorn pricked her finger.
“Careful,” a familiar voice drawled from behind her. “Roses are pretty to look at, but you’ve the devil to pay if you get too close. A lesson I learned the hard way, lamb.”
Sucking on her finger, Helena whirled around. Her eyes narrowed when she saw Stephen, looking every bit lord of the manor in his cravat and tailcoat. Except he wasn’t her lord, and this wasn’t his manor.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded, crossing her arms over her chest. It did not escape Helena’s attention that while Stephen was formally dressed in attire befitting a nobleman of his station, she was still wearing her nightdress and wrap, both of which were see through in the right light.
“I could ask you the same thing.” Snapping a rose off the vine, he twirled it slowly between his fingers. “I wasn’t aware you were such a close acquaintance of Lord Winchester.”
“There are a lot of things you aren’t aware of.”
“Obviously.”
The inflection in that single word – and the cool stare that accompanied it – raised the hairs on the nape of Helena’s neck, and suddenly her dream took on an entirely new meaning. If Stephen was still here because he’d guessed the truth about what had happened to his father…
No, she told herself.
Impossible.
If he knew the truth, she’d already be in prison.
Or worse.
He didn’t