“He looks terribly ill,” Fenella said, her embroidery lying forgotten on her lap. Helena who wielded a needle with the finesse of a drunken axman, cast an envious glance at the tracery of violets and ivy on cream silk. “It’s so romantic that he risked his health to rush to your side.”
All thoughts of feminine accomplishments fled Helena’s mind, and she stared appalled her friend. “What on earth did you say?”
Four pairs of curious eyes leveled on them. “Helena, are you all right? What’s happened?” Silas asked from across the room.
“Nothing,” she muttered. “Go back to gazing into Caro’s eyes and whispering romantic inanities.”
Caro gave a soft laugh. “She jests at scars who never felt a wound!”
Helena slitted her eyes at her besotted friend and returned her attention to Fenella. This time, she kept her voice low. “What utter balderdash. He’s here as Silas’s groomsman. They’ve been friends since childhood.”
For such a fairy-like creature, Fenella had a good line in unimpressed looks. “Don’t be a nitwit, Hel. He’s fond of Silas, but he crossed Europe to see you.”
I don’t want you to be my mistress. I want you to be my wife.
The words had haunted Helena since West had spoken them in the stables. They were no more acceptable now than they’d been then.
“You’re wrong.” The last thing she needed was her friends promoting West’s asinine courtship. “We don’t like each other.”
“He likes you.” Fenella picked up her tambour and calmly began stitching as though she discussed the weather and not the prospect of a lifetime of misery for Helena. “He hasn’t taken his eyes off you all evening.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.” Helena’s hands clenched on her lap. “Since you’ve fallen head over heels with Anthony, you see romance everywhere.”
“I see it when I look at you and West.”
“Then your eyes deceive you. You’re living in a fantasy world where each of us finds true love and sails into the sunset clasped to a manly bosom.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing, when it’s Caro and Silas, or you and Anthony. I couldn’t be happier for you.”
It was true, she told herself, even as she stifled an unworthy twinge. She’d never do anything to jeopardize Caro or Fen’s happiness, but it was no fun sitting on the sidelines at a party.
As if Fen picked up her shameful envy, she went on. “You’d be happier if you had something new to look forward to. We’ll always be friends, but Caro and Silas will be away at least a year, and Anthony and I plan to live in Hampshire with the boys. You’ll be all alone in London.”
“I have other friends,” Helena said, and cringed at how defiant she sounded.
Anyway, it was true. A wealthy widow with a witty tongue could always find company. But since they’d met, she, Caro and Fenella had been inseparable. The other two Dashing Widows understood her in a way that nobody else, except perhaps Silas—and damn him, West—did.
Her hand trembled as she lifted her brandy to her lips. Here on the family estate, strict propriety was relaxed. Even completely tossed out the window. She could have a drink after dinner without raising eyebrows. And while all six people under this roof had been assigned bedrooms, she’d lay good money that neither of the engaged couples slept separately. The only guests sleeping alone tonight were Helena Wade and Vernon Grange. And given a rake’s ability to find a bedmate, she wouldn’t wager on West remaining lonely.
Stop it, Helena. You don’t care who West tups, as long as it’s not you.
Sometimes being understood had its drawbacks. Fenella’s blue eyes softened with compassion. “You have your schools, and your work, and all the intellectual life of London to occupy you, too.”
Oh, dear Lord. At this rate, she’d be sobbing into her brother’s best French brandy. She scowled at Fenella. “Don’t you dare pity me, Fenella Deerham.”
“I want you to be happy.”
“I’ll be happy.” She hoped that Fenella missed the hollow ring beneath her claim. “I have the world at my feet.”
“You do.”
“Gentlemen vie for my attention.”
“Lord Pascal has been most attentive.”
“He’s a very nice man.”