Page 120 of The Matrimonial Advertisement

Helena inclined her head. “Lady Parkhurst. Lady Amelia.”

The two ladies were no more than passing acquaintances. However, it was not lack of familiarity which made their exchange stilted and uncomfortable. The unfortunate fact was that, after three weeks, the scandal surrounding Mr. Pelham’s editorial had still not completely abated. Most of the ladies and gentlemen Helena encountered during her outings weren’t quite sure how to address her.

“A fine morning for walking, isn’t it?” Lady Amelia inquired.

“Yes,” Helena replied. “It’s quite pleasant.”

“A riveting conversation,” Jenny remarked when the two ladies had moved on down the path.

Helena smiled slightly. “They haven’t the vaguest idea what to say to me.”

“They’re a pair of ninnies.”

“I won’t complain. It could be much worse.” That it hadn’t been was largely due to the influence of Lord Wolverton. Taking their cue from his redoubtable countess, some of the older society ladies had lent Helena support. They’d invited her to tea or included her on their guest lists for dinners or recitals. Even more important, a few had willingly taken up the cause of reforms in private asylums. Nothing had been achieved as yet, but Helena had hopes.

“Yet another reason you shouldn’t consider leaving London,” Jenny said. “No matter how much your heart is breaking.”

Helena wondered what state Justin’s heart was in. “Do you know, all the time we were together, I truly thought he was growing to care for me, but the day he left—the things he said. He was so cold and so unfeeling. It was as if he was quite another person. As if he’d never felt any warmth or affection for me at all.”

“Thornhill was always gruff and grim. In truth, my dear, I never understood what you saw in him. He was brave, I’ll admit, and I quite admire how he dealt with Mr. Glyde, but other than that…” Jenny shook her head. “No. In the long term, Thornhill wouldn’t have made a conformable husband. I say you’re well rid of him.”

“This was different. It wasn’t mere gruffness. He was cold and cruel. He was never thus before. Never.” Helena’s brow furrowed. “Wait. That isn’t precisely true.”

“See? Just as I told you. An unfeeling brute. Indeed, if he’s spoken to you in such a way more than once, you may be assured of his unpleasant disposition.”

“Yes, he was cold with me once before, but it was—” Helena stopped suddenly. She dropped Jenny’s arm. “Oh, Jenny! Why did I not remember this sooner?”

Jenny looked at her, her dark auburn brows raised in question.

“The day he spoke so coldly to me,” Helena explained. “It was the first day we met. At the King’s Arms in Devonshire. He said something exceedingly vulgar.”

“Did he?” Jenny sunk her voice. “What was it, pray?”

Helena waved her hand. “It doesn’t matter. Besides, I’d blush to repeat it.” She turned and began walking briskly back the way they’d come. “I’ve been so blind. So stupid.”

Jenny trotted after her. “Where are we going?”

“To Half Moon Street,” Helena replied. “And then to Grosvenor Square.”

“Grosvenor Square!” Jenny gaped. “Good lord, your uncle hasn’t returned from Hampshire already, has he?”

“Not that I’m aware,” Helena said. “But it isn’t my uncle we’re going to see.”

North Devon, England

October, 1859

Nobility wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Justin had had ample proof of that in the weeks since he’d left Helena in London. He’d always heard that self-sacrifice was good for the soul. That virtue was its own reward, and so forth. But as he went about the daily business of his life in North Devon, all he felt was a crushing misery.

He could find no pleasure in his business dealings. No satisfaction in repairs to the Abbey. Even his daily gallops on Hiran failed to lift his spirits out of the gloom. He’d come to the grim realization that there was nothing for him without her.

Was this love? This aching desolation? As if an essential part of him had been ripped out, leaving behind a yawning emptiness that no amount of activity—or of drink—could ever hope to fill?

Whatever it was, he had to find a way to master it. To reduce it to more manageable proportions. But there seemed no conceivable method to overcome his loss. He wanted Helena. Needed Helena. And if something didn’t change soon, there was a good chance he’d cast all his honorable intentions to the wind and make straight for London on the next train.

“I’m contemplating returning to India,” he said to Boothroyd one morning as they reviewed his correspondence in the library. He was in his shirtsleeves, his face unshaven and his hair in wild disarray. He both looked and felt like hell.

Boothroyd paused in the act of sharpening his quill. “India, sir? What’s brought this on?”