It was a few minutes later that her parents finally left her room, and a few more minutes after that when Helena could be certain that they would not come back.
She stood by the door, listening closely to ensure absolute privacy, and then got about doing the only thing that mattered to her. And not just of the moment, but always.
Across the room, she hurried to her writing desk. There, she opened the drawer and delicately pried open the base, which acted as a secret compartment that she had made herself. Sitting in this compartment was her pride and joy, that which made her heart soar and her excitement peak beyond what any ball might do.
It was a manuscript for a novel that she had written. Her very first.
She scooped it from the drawer and carried it to her bed, where she lay on her stomach as she started to read it for the hundredth time. It was titledThe Lady Who Would Be King, and as the title page claimed, was written by a Henry Monroe.
Oh, to see my own name on that page. To live in a world where I might claim credit for such a thing, be lauded for it, even praised. But even my imagination could never conceive such a thing.
Helena could not remember when she fell in love with writing. All she knew was that for as long as she could remember, it was the only thing she ever wanted to do.
Of course, being a lady of the ton meant such pastimes and vocations were not encouraged, even frowned upon, forcing her to take drastic measures so her love of the quill might never die.
She adopted the male pen name Henry Monroe so she could see her work read by others. She submitted short stories to the local papers, many of which were accepted, printed, and read widely across England. She had even seen her own father reading one! What was more, the smile he wore when he did told her that he liked it.
But it wasn’t enough. Helena’s dream went beyond mere print in newspapers, read once and then forgotten. What she wanted more than anything was to be published officially.
That was why tomorrow evening was so important to her. She might have promised her parents to behave, but the reality was infinitely more wicked. Posing as Henry Monroe, she had invited a publisher to the ball, one she intended to meet with as herself, to force him to take her manuscript and read it so he would see how damn talented she was and have no choice but to look past her gender and laude her as she deserved!
The thought made her entire body tingle with excitement. She knew her novel was good. She knew that once it was read by the right set of eyes, it would be great. She knew… she knew… she knew how dangerous this was, which also told how much this meant to her.
So, rather than turning to sleep, she spent the late hours of the evening reading and rereading her manuscript, ensuring that there was not so much as a T uncrossed or an I undotted. It had to be perfect.
Helena was not meant for this world. And while many would simply accept their fate and bow their heads into subservience, many were not like Lady Helena Monstrose. And that, as far as she was concerned, was nothing to be ashamed of.
CHAPTER 2
“Helena! Where are you going?” Her father took her by the arm and dragged her back to stand beside her mother.
“I need to visit the washroom, Father,” Helena said earnestly, adding a fluttering of her eyelashes to sell the lie. “I will only be a moment.”
Her father narrowed his eyes at her, clearly sensing something was off. He couldn’t possibly know what, because Helena had worked as hard as ever to keep her secret just that. But he knew his daughter and was right to be skeptical.
“Oh, leave her be, George.” Her mother took his hand and peeled it off her arm. “Trust goes both ways, and I think Helena has earned enough tonight that she can visit the washroom without an armored guard watching her.”
“Return as soon as you are done,” her father instructed. “And I mean it, Helena. As soon as you are finished.”
“Five minutes,” Helena assured him. “Possibly six, if I walk slowly.”
“Helena…”
She laughed and leaned in, kissing him on the nose. A grateful smile for her mother next. And then, free from the unyielding supervision of her parents, Helena spun around and hurried through the busy ballroom without looking back.
The ball had started three hours earlier, hosted in the ballroom of her parents’ manor, and attended by what appeared to be nearly the entire ton. There were scores of them all over the large hall, moving to and fro in small groups as they laughed and chattered and enjoyed the festivities in ways that most would agree were normal and expected, but that which Helena had long since come to loathe.
Colorful gowns every way she looked. Men dressed in smart suits. Footmen weaving through the guests with trays of wine and whiskey. Music floating through the air. Couples already dancing. Many a young lord approaching a younger lady and introducing himself with a bow and a smirk and a kind word because these events were all about meeting like-minded singles in the hopes that a courtship might begin, which would then hopefully lead to marriage.
Helena rolled her eyes to see it. She had no desire to be courted and was even less interested in marriage. All that concerned her was her dream to be published, and if tonight went how she expected it to…
That dream will become my reality. I cannot wait!
She had to hurry. And hurry she did.
Through the ballroom she went, then a quick detour to her bedroom, where she retrieved the manuscript, which sat ready and waiting. Once it was in hand, she rushed back downstairs, only to turn away from the ballroom and head toward the library, where she asked the publisher to meet her… or to meet Henry Monroe, as he expected.
Her heart was pounding as she hastened down the long hallway, blood in her ears so all she could hear was the thudding of her heart against her ribs.
