She could not stop picturing Sebastian in her head. The way he treated those children. How honest he had been with her, howdamn caring he was, and how sincere he was in his desire to help those children. And not because he thought it was the right thing to do or because he was trying to score political points. But because he wanted to help them and give them a better life.
A smile curved her lips as she imagined the children pulling and pawing at him. His laughter as he scooped one of them up. The love in his eyes and his voice. He was so real, so in earnest, and the fact that he did not care how he looked told her just how true his heart was.
She felt it in her own heart. It swelled inside her chest such that it hurt. Her body was warm, not from the fire that burned behind her, but from the way she felt when she thought of him, how he had looked at her when she had been with the children. Again, the adoration and the love, a sense that he was starting to see her in a different light than when they had first married.
It should have brought Helena joy, but she found misery in its place.
All her life, she had thought of marriage as a cage. A trap. A trick that one was not told of until they had been fooled into accepting it and could no longer find a way out. And yes, Sebastian was different, for he let her do as she wanted, and there was no suggestion that would change.
But what if he does? What if it’s all a lie? What if I give in, only to find myself in the very prison I have spent so long avoiding?
That she could not write was further proof of this fear. This was the one thing she was good at—that she was born to do. But as soon as she began to think about the possibility of developing feelings for someone else, her quill ran dry.
It was as if her conscience was warning her against pursuing this path. As if it knew the dangers and was trying to scare her away. And what if she did not listen? Would she never write again? Was that to be her choice? Marriage or writing? Love or following her dreams?
She tried a final time, forcing her quill to move across the parchment. But nothing was written, just a stiff line, and she cried out and flung the quill across the room.
“Writer’s block?” Sebastian’s deep voice spoke from behind her.
She yelped and twisted around, her eyes widening and panic ripping through her to find him standing in the doorway. His arms were crossed, and he was leaning against the frame, wearing an amused smirk as his blue eyes glistened in the firelight.
“Ah… you probably should not have seen that.” She grimaced, looking away because whenever she looked at him, she would remember how he was with the children, and her cheeks would flush.
He laughed. “I am sure the quill had it coming.”
She laughed softly. “Call it a writer’s technique. When in doubt, fling your quill across the room and hope that it shatters something loose.”
“Did it?”
“Not this time…”
He did not speak right away, simply watched her. She had her head bowed, refusing to meet his eyes, her pulse racing such that her limbs began to tremble.
It was so frustrating to her, the power that simple stare had over her. How it undid her. How powerless she felt under its penetration.
“I was just about to turn in for the night,” he said finally, still leaning against the doorframe. “But I wished to speak with you first.”
“You did?” She swallowed.
“You impressed me today,” he continued. “Truly, these last two days in fact…” He laughed softly. “I was not certain you had it in you.”
She shrugged. “It is not such a big deal.”
“It is.” His tone turned serious. “I do not think you understand how much it means to the children, Helena. Just as I do not think you understand how rare it is for someone from our class to treat them like that. As if they are more than what they believe themselves to be.”
She frowned, still not looking at him. “They are children.”
“Exactly,” he said. “Sadly, most don’t see them like that. They see them as an imposition, easier to ignore than give them time of day. But you…” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him smile. “You see them like few do. It really is something.”
Helena could not stop herself from beaming. To hear him compliment her… it felt better than it should have.
She was not doing this because she wanted to please her husband. But the fact that he saw her, and that he was so impressed, meant more to her than she cared to admit.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“He likes you too, you know,” he said.
At that, her head snapped up. Brow furrowed, she looked curiously at her husband. “Who?”
