world as long as her parents loved her.
A knock on the door had her scrambling back under the covers. The door opened to admit a maid dressed in a blue and white checked uniform, a tray balanced in her hands.
"Good morning, madame. I'm Betty."
"Good morning." Cautiously, Helene returned the maid's cheerful smile.
"I've brought you some hot chocolate and warm water to wash in." She placed the tray on a table by the side of the enormous bed and whipped off the cover. "His lordship asks if you could meet him after breakfast in his study but that you should take your time."
Helene gazed at the maid as she whisked about the room, opening the curtains and pouring water into a porcelain bowl decorated with roses to match the water jug. The girl's expression was so open and cheerful that she made Helene feel old, and yet they were probably a similar age.
"Would you like a bath, madame?"
"That would be nice."
Helene watched curiously as she opened another door and disappeared inside. After a short while, the scent of roses and a few wisps of steam filtered through to the bedroom.
Betty popped her head around the door. "Won't be long, madame. I'd already arranged for the water to be heated."
"Thank you," Helene called as she reached for her hot chocolate and carefully took a sip.
Her stomach did a slow revolution, and she hastily set the mug down again.
"Her ladyship thought you might like to borrow some of her clothes, seeing as your luggage has been delayed. I'll set them out on the bed while you bathe, madame."
What luggage? Helene appreciated the viscountess's inventiveness and got out of bed.
She clutched on to the pink silk bed hangings as a wave of nausea rolled over her.
"Are you all right, madame?"
Helene opened her eyes to see the maid staring anxiously at her. For a second, she struggled to remember the words she needed in English.
"I'm fine. Thank you for your help. I'll have my bath now."
The breakfast parlor was deserted, so Helene was able to eat the dry toast and sweetened tea her stomach demanded without anyone commenting. After the third cup, she felt better and began to appreciate the intimacy of the small paneled room.
Family portraits and landscape paintings adorned the walls, including one of identical twin boys whom she guessed must be the viscount's absent sons.
A stack of neatly folded newspapers sat in the corner of the sideboard beside the toast rack. Helene's fingers itched to read one. Many men, including her previous protector, considered reading about the current bloody political climate too injurious for women's fragile minds. Helene had always hated that attitude and had read everything she could get hold of. After a quick glance around the room, she picked up the London Times and settled down to read.
The clock on the mantelpiece chimed the half hour, and she looked up. Most of the dishes on the sideboard had been taken away, and she hadn't even noticed. As she carefully folded the paper back into its original shape on her lap, an all-too-familiar name leapt out at her. She started to read the narrow column in the society announcements section. When she finished reading, the paper slipped through her suddenly nerveless fingers.
So Philip Ross had married his father's choice of wife after all.... Had her cruel rejection pushed him into such a momentous decision? Or had he simply regretted his moment of folly with her the second he was reunited with his family? No doubt, secure within his family's approval, he was on his knees thanking God for his lucky escape.
Her last hope, her last romantic fantasy, withered and died and was replaced by smoldering anger. Despite sending Philip away, she still felt betrayed. She'd denied her feelings for him and let him go for all the right reasons. Had Philip justified his hasty change of heart by reminding himself that she had told him to go? Had it made him feel better about his abrupt marriage?
Unsteadily, she wiped a single tear from her
A knock on the door had her scrambling back under the covers. The door opened to admit a maid dressed in a blue and white checked uniform, a tray balanced in her hands.
"Good morning, madame. I'm Betty."
"Good morning." Cautiously, Helene returned the maid's cheerful smile.
"I've brought you some hot chocolate and warm water to wash in." She placed the tray on a table by the side of the enormous bed and whipped off the cover. "His lordship asks if you could meet him after breakfast in his study but that you should take your time."
Helene gazed at the maid as she whisked about the room, opening the curtains and pouring water into a porcelain bowl decorated with roses to match the water jug. The girl's expression was so open and cheerful that she made Helene feel old, and yet they were probably a similar age.
"Would you like a bath, madame?"
"That would be nice."
Helene watched curiously as she opened another door and disappeared inside. After a short while, the scent of roses and a few wisps of steam filtered through to the bedroom.
Betty popped her head around the door. "Won't be long, madame. I'd already arranged for the water to be heated."
"Thank you," Helene called as she reached for her hot chocolate and carefully took a sip.
Her stomach did a slow revolution, and she hastily set the mug down again.
"Her ladyship thought you might like to borrow some of her clothes, seeing as your luggage has been delayed. I'll set them out on the bed while you bathe, madame."
What luggage? Helene appreciated the viscountess's inventiveness and got out of bed.
She clutched on to the pink silk bed hangings as a wave of nausea rolled over her.
"Are you all right, madame?"
Helene opened her eyes to see the maid staring anxiously at her. For a second, she struggled to remember the words she needed in English.
"I'm fine. Thank you for your help. I'll have my bath now."
The breakfast parlor was deserted, so Helene was able to eat the dry toast and sweetened tea her stomach demanded without anyone commenting. After the third cup, she felt better and began to appreciate the intimacy of the small paneled room.
Family portraits and landscape paintings adorned the walls, including one of identical twin boys whom she guessed must be the viscount's absent sons.
A stack of neatly folded newspapers sat in the corner of the sideboard beside the toast rack. Helene's fingers itched to read one. Many men, including her previous protector, considered reading about the current bloody political climate too injurious for women's fragile minds. Helene had always hated that attitude and had read everything she could get hold of. After a quick glance around the room, she picked up the London Times and settled down to read.
The clock on the mantelpiece chimed the half hour, and she looked up. Most of the dishes on the sideboard had been taken away, and she hadn't even noticed. As she carefully folded the paper back into its original shape on her lap, an all-too-familiar name leapt out at her. She started to read the narrow column in the society announcements section. When she finished reading, the paper slipped through her suddenly nerveless fingers.
So Philip Ross had married his father's choice of wife after all.... Had her cruel rejection pushed him into such a momentous decision? Or had he simply regretted his moment of folly with her the second he was reunited with his family? No doubt, secure within his family's approval, he was on his knees thanking God for his lucky escape.
Her last hope, her last romantic fantasy, withered and died and was replaced by smoldering anger. Despite sending Philip away, she still felt betrayed. She'd denied her feelings for him and let him go for all the right reasons. Had Philip justified his hasty change of heart by reminding himself that she had told him to go? Had it made him feel better about his abrupt marriage?
Unsteadily, she wiped a single tear from her
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