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George leaned forward slightly, watching Helena breathe softly.

She is breathtaking. So profoundly good, so full of patience and grace... and so gravely unlucky to be stuck with a man like me.

He leaned back, the gentle movement of the coach lulling him despite his best efforts. Minutes later, with Oliver resting against his chest, George fell asleep.

Yellow lantern light flickered as Mr. Gibbs stepped down the front stairs with three liveried footmen. George stepped out first. "Gibbs, take the bags up. Ensure Oliver is carried directly to his nursery."

George turned back to the coach. Helena remained asleep. He reached in carefully, lifting her, one arm beneath her knees and the other securely around her waist, her fragile weight pressed against his chest.

"George...?" she murmured faintly. "Where... where are we?"

"We are home, Helena," George whispered softly, his tone gentler than he had ever permitted it to be in her presence.

He carried her up the stone steps, through the dimly lit foyer, up the wide staircase, and into her bedchamber. He stepped toward the bed, lowering her down with care.

He unbuckled the clasp of her cloak, laying it neatly across a nearby armchair. He grabbed the edge of the coverlet and pulled it up over her chest, tucking the edges softly around her shoulders.

Helena shifted slightly under the blankets, turning her face into the pillow, settling back into peaceful slumber.

George stood beside the bed, looking down at her serene face in the flickering firelight.

You deserved a true life, Helena. You deserved a husband who could love you freely, a man who could fill this your home with warmth, laughter, and children of your own. Instead, you are trapped beside a ghost who can offer you nothing.

George turned away and walked out of the room. He strolled to the nursery, finding the nursemaid still at work. She bowed and stepped out, leaving George alone with his nephew.

Inside, Oliver lay fast asleep, wrapped tightly in a soft flannel blanket, his tiny chest rising and falling uninterrupted. George stood over the crib, looking down at the innocent child he had sworn to protect at all costs.

George reached down, pressing his fingers against Oliver's closed fist. The small fingers instinctively curled around his thumb, gripping with delicate strength. He bent close to Oliver's tiny ear and whispered. "I will not fail you as I failed Edward."

He would give Oliver everything, even if it meant sacrificing every shred of his own happiness to achieve it. He stood alone beside Oliver's cradle for several minutes, turning away with a slight nod.

George walked down to his private study. He stepped inside, reached into the drawer, pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment, and picked up his silver quill.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

"Your Grace, I have brought your morning tea," Betty said softly as she set the tray down on the bedside table.

"Betty," Helena spoke as she smoothed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "How did I come to be in my own bed last night?"

Betty smiled warmly. "His Grace carried you up the staircase himself, Your Grace! His Grace refused to let anyone else touch your cloak. He carried you straight to your chamber."

Unexpected warmth flared in Helena's chest, sending a delicate flush to her cheeks. Despite his cold exterior, he held me in his arms and watched over my rest.

Yet as quickly as the warmth had arrived, the cold shadow of reality descended once more upon her spirits.

The tender gesture of carrying her to bed felt less like an offering of affection and more like the calculated duty of a guardian tending to a ward.

No matter how patiently I wait, no matter how deeply I care for him, I am simply not enough to break through his coldness.

Determined to confront rather than hide behind polite evasions, Helena set her teacup aside and swung out of bed. "Help me dress, Betty. Select something simple for the morning. I must speak with His Grace before he becomes involved in his estate affairs."

"At once, Your Grace," Betty replied, selecting a neat morning gown of pale sage silk.

Twenty minutes later, properly coiffed and dressed, Helena descended the staircase and heading straight for the morning parlor where George customarily took his early tea. She pushed the door open, expecting to see George seated near the window, but the room was entirely empty, the fire was unlit, and there was no tea.

He is early to his duties today. He must have gone straight to his study.

She walked swiftly toward his private study. She knocked gently. "Your Grace?"