orturing herself; she had to be realistic—as realistic as the countess. But what did reality demand?
On a purely worldly level, she ought to step quietly aside and let Helen claim Royce, if he was willing. She’d already had her five nights with him, and, unlike her, Helen would make him an excellent wife within the parameters he’d set for his marriage.
On another level, however, one based on the emotional promptings of her witless heart, she’d like to haul Helen away and send her packing; she was wrong—all wrong—for the position of Royce’s bride.
Yet when she rose and, with the other ladies, filed behind Margaret to the door, she let her senses open wide…and knew Royce didn’t even glance at her. In the doorway, she glanced swiftly back, and saw the countess very prettily taking her leave of him; his dark eyes were all for her.
Minerva had had her five nights; he’d already forgotten her existence.
In that instant, she knew that no matter how much of a fool she would think him if he accepted Helen’s transparent invitation and offered her his duchess’s coronet, she wouldn’t say a word against his decision.
On that subject, she could no longer claim to hold an unbiased opinion.
Turning away, she wondered how long she would have to endure in the drawing room until the tea tray arrived.
The answer was, a lot longer than she wanted. More than long enough to dwell on Royce’s iniquities; from his continuing obliviousness, her time with him had come to an absolute end—he’d just forgotten to tell her. The fiend.
She was in no good mood, but clung to the knots of others as they chatted about this and that, and hid her reaction as best she could; there was no value in letting anyone else sense or suspect. She wished she didn’t have to think about it herself, that she could somehow distance herself from the source of her distress, but she could hardly cut out her own heart. Contrary to her misguided hopes and beliefs, she could no longer pretend it had escaped involvement.
There was no other explanation for the deadening feeling deep in her chest, no other cause for the leaden lump that unruly organ had become.
Her own fault, of course, not that that made the dull twisting pain any less. She’d known from the start the dangers of falling in love—even a little bit in love—with him; she just hadn’t thought it could happen so quickly, hadn’t even realized it had.
“I say, Minerva.”
She focused on Henry Varisey as he leaned conspiratorially close.
His gaze was fixed across the room. “Do you think the beautiful countess has any chance of learning what no one else yet has?”
It took a moment to realize he was alluding to the name of Royce’s bride. She followed Henry’s gaze to where Helen all but hung on Royce’s arm. “I wish her luck—on that subject he’s been as close-mouthed as an oyster.”
Henry glanced at her, arched a brow. “You haven’t heard anything?”
“Not a hint—no clue at all.”
“Well.” Straightening, Henry looked back across the room. “It appears our best hopes lie with Lady Ashton.”
Assuming Lady Ashton’s wasn’t the name in question…Minerva frowned; Henry, at least, didn’t see Helen as even a possibility as Royce’s chosen bride.
Across the room, Royce forced himself to keep his gaze on Helen Ashton, or whoever else was near, and not allow his eyes to deflect to Minerva, as they constantly wanted to. He’d walked into the drawing room before dinner, anticipating another delightful evening of enjoying his chatelaine, only to find himself faced with Helen. The very last woman he’d expected to see.
He’d inwardly sworn, plastered on an unruffled expression, and battled not to seek help from the one person in the room he’d actually wanted to see. He had to deal with Helen first. An unwanted, uninvited irritation; he hadn’t understood why the hell she was there until he’d heard her story.
Susannah. What the hell his sister had been thinking of he had no clue. He’d find out later. For that evening, however, he had to toe a fine line; Helen and too many others—all those who knew she’d been his recent mistress—expected him to pay attention to her now she was there.
Because as far as they knew, he hadn’t had a woman in weeks. He didn’t have a mistress at Wolverstone. True, and yet not.
With everyone watching him and Helen, if he so much as glanced at Minerva, someone would see—and someone would wonder. While he was working toward making their connection public through getting her to convince herself to accept his suit, he wasn’t yet sure of success, and had no intention of risking his future with her because of his ex-mistress.
So he had to bide his time until he could confirm Helen’s status directly with her. As she was the senior lady present, he’d had no choice but to escort her into dinner and seat her at his left—in some ways a boon, for that had kept Minerva at a distance.
He hoped—prayed—she would understand. At least once he explained…
He wasn’t looking forward to that conversation, but then again, Minerva knew him very well. She would hardly be shocked to learn that Helen had been his mistress, and was now his ex-mistress. In their world, it was the ex- that counted.
Even with his outward attention elsewhere, he knew when Minerva left the room. A quick glance confirmed it, and sharpened the inner spur that impelled him to follow her.
But he had to settle matters with Helen first.