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"Your maid will return shortly with dry things," George said from behind her. He had not moved from the doorway since depositing her here, as though the threshold were a boundary he dared not cross. His own coat and waistcoat lay in a heap by the door - she had watched him strip them off with the brisk efficiency of a man undressing for his valet, not his wife. Even soaked and disheveled, he maintained that maddening control.

"And in the meantime?" She turned to face him. "Do you intend to stand there until you catch your death? Little Oliver will be most upset if you are too busy coughing to dangle pocket watches for him."

"I intend," he said carefully, "to ensure you are warm and settled before I remove myself to change."

Remove himself. As if she were a ward to be supervised. As he hadn't smiled at her, sudden and surprised, as he pulled them out of the water.

Something reckless bloomed in Helena's chest. She was cold and frightened and she had nearly drowned this afternoon, and she was so desperately tired of the masks they wore. She reached for his cravat, her fingers still clumsy with cold, and tugged the linen free. His hand shot up to stop her, closing around her wrist with that familiar, infuriating precision. The precision of a man who controlled every aspect of every day, who pushed every part of his life as far as it would bear and no farther.

"Don't," she whispered. Not a command. A plea. "Don't be careful with me, George. Not tonight."

His jaw tightened. She watched the war play out across his features - the retreat, the smooth deflection, the careful neutrality he had perfected over their brief marriage. Then his gaze dropped to her mouth, and something in his expression fractured.

"Do you know," he said, his voice low and rough, "what you are asking?"

"I am asking for my husband." She rose onto her toes, bringing her lips within a breath of his. She could smell the lake on him still, and beneath it, the familiar scents of whiskey and paper. "Not the Duke. Not Oliver's guardian. You."

For a moment he went utterly still. Then his control shattered.

His mouth came down on hers with a hunger that made her gasp, his hands no longer gentle as they cupped her face, as his thumbs tilted her chin to deepen the angle. "Duchess." The word came out harsh and raw. "Helena. I cannot allow myself - you cannot trust me. I am not worth trusting."

"You are," she managed, but he was already moving, walking her backward toward the bed, his hands fumbling with the fastenings of her gown, tearing at the buttons beneath. The wet fabric resisted, clinging stubbornly, and with a sound somewhere between a laugh and a curse, he gripped the neckline and ripped.

Helena gasped as cool air hit her fevered skin. He went still above her, his breath ragged, his eyes dark with something that looked almost like fear.

"I-" He swallowed hard. "Forgive me. I did not mean to-"

"You should have." She caught his hand and pressed it to her breast, arching into his touch. "George. What you say, what you do - I want you to mean it. No gossips to pacify, no servants to reassure. Just you."

"I have disported myself through Paris. I have abandoned family to chase my own pleasure. ‘Just me', my duchess, is nothing worth pursuing."

She shivered and drew him downward. "I will decide what I pursue, Your Grace."

He groaned and dropped his head to her. When he drew her nipple into his mouth through the thin fabric of her chemise, Helena cried out, her fingers tangling in his hair, holding him to her. The sensation was electric, sharp and sweet, curling low in her belly until she shifted restlessly against him, seeking friction, seeking more.

He understood. His hand slid down her body, over the curve of her hip, between her thighs where the wetness had nothing to do with the lake. He found the center of her with unerring precision, his fingers circling with a pressure that made her spine arch off the mattress.

"Tell me," he demanded, his voice rough with the remnants of his control, "if I go too far. If I am too much. I have no practice in moderation where you are concerned."

"Don't stop," she gasped, rocking into his touch. "Please, George-"

He groaned against her breast and increased the pressure, his rhythm matching the speeding roll of her hips. The world narrowed to the slide of his fingers, the heat of his mouth, the broken sounds he made in his throat as she whimpered and clutched at him. She was climbing toward something, something wild and sweet she had never touched, and he was here with her. His eyes held hers as she came apart against his fingers.

Here and now, for a moment at least, he was hers.

Chapter Twenty-Six

"You simply cannot depart our estates without some trinket to remind you of this time!" Arabella declared, sweeping into the sunlit morning parlor with determination in her eyes. "Come, I shall take you into the town, and we shall not return until we have found a proper memento for you.

Helena set her teacup down, looking up at her hostess with fondness. "Arabella, I really require nothing more than I already possess. It would be an unnecessary expense to acquire new accessories just to tuck them away at home. I do not need to impress the ton anymore, do I?"

Arabella let out a musical laugh, coming to stand beside Helena's armchair and resting a hand upon her shoulder. "Nonsense, absolute nonsense! You are the Duchess of Cavendish now, and a duchess does not simply possess enough. Society expects a spectacle of absolute elegance whenever you enter a room, especially when the Duke in question is George Percy. Besides, I will hear no further protests from your lips today. A morning spent perusing fine silk and ivory lace is precisely the remedy you require to clear away the lingering cobwebs of last night's suffocating atmosphere."

Helena offered a yielding smile, recognizing the futility of arguing against Arabella's generous spirit. "Very well, Arabella. If you insist upon this expedition, I shall gladly accompany you. Though I suspect my modest tastes will prove quite a disappointment to your grand ambitions."

"We shall see about that, my dear Helena," Arabella replied merrily, linking her arm through Helena's as they moved toward the foyer where their footmen and personal maids stood waiting with their pelisses and bonnets. "A woman's taste can be remarkably adaptable when presented with the finest silks Hampshire has to offer."

Ten minutes later, the open barouche glided smoothly ahead, escorted by two liveried footmen seated behind them. The morning air was crisp and refreshing, offering Helena a welcome respite from the heavy emotional tension that had hung over her.