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Before Helena could speak or rise to greet him, the heavy door opened wider, and Thorne stepped into the nursery carrying a heavy wicker basket of freshly laundered linens. Spotting the Duke standing near the entrance, the maid set the basket down with a loud thump and stepped forcefully toward Helena, her rough, calloused hands stretching out toward the swaddled infant without a moment's hesitation.

"Allow me, Your Grace," the old maid said as she reached directly for the sleeping child.

Helena instinctively stepped back, tightening her hold on Oliver, bringing the warm, soft bundle closer against her breast as her heart leaped into her throat in a sudden spike of alarm. The sight of those rough, careless hands coming so near to Charlotte's fragile baby triggered a fierce, visceral reaction within her chest that bypassed all formal aristocratic decorum.

"No, thank you. No one touches Oliver but me," Helena declared. Thorne froze instantly in her tracks.

The words hung in the warm air of the nursery, shocking both the domestic servant and the Duke standing near the door. Realizing how abrupt she had sounded and suddenly aware of how unseemly such a sharp outburst appeared, Helena lowered her gaze immediately, her cheeks flushing with a hot wave of embarrassment. She shifted Oliver slightly in her arms, smoothing down the soft flannel edge of his blanket to hide the trembling of her fingers.

"Forgive me. I only meant..." Helena whispered softly, her voice wavering as she attempted to soften the harshness of her refusal without relinquishing a single fraction of her grip on the child.

She could not bring herself to complete the apology, for the damage was already done. The old maid pulled her hands back as though she had touched burning iron, her face twisting into a mask of wounded pride. Realizing that she had been overridden by the Duchess, the maid immediately turned to George, dropping into a stiff curtsy. She remained in her bowed posture, waiting for his decision.

Chapter Seven

"You heard the Duchess. Leave the young master in her care. If she asks for assistance, then you may help. Until then, no one touches the boy without her permission."

Without taking his eyes from Helena's pale face, George stepped forward his authoritative voice clearing any discomfort.

His blue eyes moved slowly from the flush of fierce indignation rising on Helena's cheeks to the swaddled, sleeping boy cradled so tightly against her breast. He had watched the whole scene unfold in silence, deciding not to interfere.

She expects me to strike down her authority, to enforce my rule as absolute master of this house. But I will not permit a careless hand near my brother's son.

The old maid's eyes widened in shock at her master's unyielding decree. After a surprised instant, she dropped into a lower curtsy. "Forgive me, Your Grace, I meant no disrespect." She quietly withdrew from the room, closing the heavy oak door soundlessly behind her.

George watched the intimate, natural grace of Helena's movements as she soothed a crying Oliver. He felt a strange tightness in his own chest, so he took two steps closer to the rocking chair as his sharp eyes appraised the squirming bundle. He had spent his entire life avoiding the entanglements of fatherhood and family, yet standing in this warm nursery, he recognized that the boy's well-being was an absolute imperative that required proper management.

"What does he need?" he asked, his voice demanding immediate accounting.

Helena glanced up at him, listing everything the infant might require for health and proper upbringing. George listened carefully, marking down each item in his mind. Whether he was familiar with it or not. He understood the need for clean, soft linens, but some of Helena's requirements sounded as foreign as Greek to his ears.

Before she finished her list, George turned toward the wall and pulled the embroidered silk bell cord sharply. Within two minutes, a hurried knock sounded at the door, and Mrs. Peterson, the head housekeeper, stepped into the nursery with an anxious posture. George did not waste a single moment on pleasantries, issuing one crisp instruction after another. He relayed Helena's requests, finishing with a command of his own for two well-recommended nursemaids to serve under the Duchess' exclusive supervision.

Mrs. Peterson curtsied repeatedly before scurrying off to execute his commands with practiced efficiency.

George turned back toward Helena, offering her a small smile before walking toward the door. As he held the brass handle, he looked past her toward Oliver, his sharp features softening. "I shall see you at six o'clock, young Master Percy. And, Duchess... wear the pink gown."

Helena turned her head sharply toward him, eyes widening with indignation as a bright flush of color bloomed across her neck and cheeks. "I beg your pardon?"

George offered a smooth chuckle, his voice rich with satisfaction. The fiery spirit flashing in her gaze warmed something within him. "It will suit the color in your cheeks when you lose."

Before she could formulate a sharp retort or throw back a witty defense, George turned on his heel, pushed open the oak door, and strode swiftly down the corridor toward his study, leaving her standing entirely alone in the nursery.

Six full days passed following that encounter in the nursery. Six days during which Cavendish Manor settled into a new, fascinating rhythm dictated by the quiet battle of wills between its master and mistress. Every single evening, precisely as the clock in the hall struck six o'clock, Helena descended the staircase dressed impeccably in one of the gowns George had commissioned for her. True to his playful directive, she had worn the pale pink silk gown on two separate occasions, and George had taken immense pleasure in watching the subtle rose tint of the fabric heighten the magnificent, fiery color in her cheeks whenever her king was forced into a tight corner upon the marble board.

Their evening chess matches had evolved into a deeply alluring ritual that dominated George's thoughts throughout the long, tedious hours he spent reviewing farm leases and tax ledgers in his study.

He had watched her skills upon the board transform with astonishing speed over the course of those six evenings. Helena played with a fierce, calculating intellect, studying his aggressive opening tactics, anticipating his flank attacks, and forcing him to employ every ounce of his strategic mastery to secure his victories. Every evening ended in his triumph, yet every victory required greater effort, longer deliberation, and sharper focus than the night before. Whenever he claimed her pieces, she would cross her arms, tilt her chin with pride, and vow that her defeat was merely temporary. George found her stubborn resilience utterly mesmerizing. And the tilt of her chin… well, he would not allow that to mesmerize him. No matter the charming challenge of it, and no matter the way it let the candlelight flow over her neck and highlight the subtle glow of her skin.

On a morning a week after the nursery incident, George was seated in his study when a soft knock sounded at the double oak doors. The door opened, and Helena stepped into the room, dressed in a simple yet elegant walking gown of dark olive wool, a matching bonnet framing her delicate face. She approached his desk, taking a seat in front of him.

"What brings you here so long before breakfast?"

"I have a humble request, and I hope you graciously grant it, Your Grace." Sarcasm tinged her tone, so subtly that even the social vultures of Mayfair would have been hard pressed to name it.

George sighed, dropping his quill pen as he sat back to pay Helena rapt attention. She looked highly fashionable, and for a moment, he wondered if she had adorned herself in such colors to rouse a reaction from him. If so, it was working. "And what might that be, Duchess?"

Helena smiled, speaking calmly as she crossed her legs tighter. "I would like your gracious permission to meet with my childhood friend, Lady Theodora, for tea at a private parlor near the park."