As always, I want to thank my lovely, patient, and wonderful beta, Kim. Thank you for Anne of Green Gables, my friend. And thank you for your insight, your questions, and your opinions.
I'm planning my wedding, so that's where I've been, in case anyone was wondering. Planning a wedding is a pain in the ass, let me tell you. Oh, I've also been lazy. So. Yeah.
Enjoy!
HELENA
Abigail was fidgeting. Abigail only fidgeted when she was extremely apprehensive. Elegant fingers gloved in fine white silk kept winding the ribbon that held her reticule to her wrist into tight curls and then drawing it into a punishingly taut line. Lena watched in silence from across the carriage as it swayed to a stop in front of Ashton House. Only then did Abby's hands freeze. The buzzing of hundreds of voices in the ballroom was audible even from the street.
Lena glanced up and met Abby's eyes. They were slightly widened, and her face was pale. Lena's mother and brother remained oblivious to the fear etched in every line of Abby's body, and Lena instantly felt her heart constrict in empathy. She reached over and clasped Abby's stiff hands with both of hers.
"Tu seras bien," Lena said firmly. You will be fine. The carriage door opened, and Lena waited until the rest of her family had alighted before standing and descending from the carriage. Abby came to stand beside Lena, and Lena imagined she could feel her cousin trembling. "Abigail," she said softly, "do not be afraid. No one will be unkind to you, I promise."
Abby shot her a dubious glance. "Do not make promises you cannot keep, cousin. I am no one."
"You are a Dubois," Lena replied simply. Abby's lips twitched as if she wanted to grin.
"Such arrogance, Helena," she murmured.
Lena shrugged, a quintessentially French gesture. "It is the only thing that matters to these people."
Gregoire stepped forward to claim Abigail's arm and lead her inside, while Lena and her mother followed. At the door, they were announced by the butler.
"The Baron of Aguessac, the Honorable Miss De Lacey, the Viscountess of Millau, and Lady Helena Dubois."
Every person within hearing distance turned immediately to view the newcomer in the Dubois family, eyes alight with curiosity and surprise. Abby tensed slightly, and Lena's heart went out to her. Greg covered his cousin's hand with his own and steered her serenely towards their hosts.
Abby made a perfect curtsey to the Earl and Countess Ashton, exchanged casual pleasantries, and proceeded to the ballroom.
Lena and her mother approached, and curtseyed to the couple. The Earl and Countess greeted them both warmly, and with genuine smiles.
"Such a fine gentleman, Ashton," Lena's mother mused as they passed through the large doors and into the ballroom. It was the first thing she had said all evening. Lena looked at her with some surprise. "The Countess, as well. They have a son, you know."
Lena froze, bracing herself. Her mother, back in her matchmaking days, had been the one to introduce her to Stanford. Lena had long suspected that her mother harbored a great deal of guilt about that. She had never broached the subject of marriage after Stanford had left.
"Do not look so horrified, Helena," her mother said mildly, accepting a glass of lemonade from a passing servant. "He married several months ago; we were still in France at the time. Lovely young woman. Her name is Lillian, I believe. She is a commoner. Caused quite an uproar en la beau monde, as you might expect. Samantha wrote me immediately, as she thought I might enjoy a story so similar to my own."
Lena suppressed a surprised laugh. Her mother's casual comparison of her marriage to the marriage of Ashton's son was laughable.
"Maman, you married le Vicomte de Millau, one of the oldest and noblest bloodlines in France. That is nothing like marrying a commoner."
Lena's mother raised both of her eyebrows and shot her daughter a quelling look. "I am the eldest daughter of the Duke of Adinborough. Before I married your father, I was twelfth in line to the English throne." She had, of course, been forced to give up that particular right when she married a Frenchman. The House of Lords had not taken kindly to the idea of having a Frenchman twelve paces from becoming King Consort.
Lena didn't bother to point out the fact that her mother was just as wealthy as she would have been had she married an English Marquess or Earl. Nor did she mention the fact that her mother had married for love, and had spent much of her life in blissful happiness amidst the rolling hills, ancient forests, and quiet fields of southern France.
"As it stands, they are currently touring the continent until the worst of the scandal blows over."
They reached the opposite end of the ballroom, nodding and smiling and greeting friends and acquaintances. Once there, Gregoire appeared with Abigail at his side, as they had arranged. The ton, Gregoire had often said, was very like the African savannah: full of predators waiting for the first hint of weakness to strike. They could not let anyone think there was any reason Abby should be protected from poking and prying.
It could not appear that the Dubois family had any reason to protect or shelter Abigail, who by all rights should not have been present at a ball as anything more than a lady's companion or a chaperone. But Lena had refused to treat Abby as anything less than her equal. And so the Dubois family had decided, with Abigail's whole-hearted permission, to bring Abby as a Dubois and nothing less.
"Why are you telling me all of this, Maman?" Lena demanded as her temper began to fray. She did not want to be in this miserably hot ballroom, making pleasantries with idiots, when she could be at home playing with Zeus or reading to Margot or enjoying dreams of her dark companion.
Regina Victoria Dubois, Viscountess of Aguessac, tilted her head up at her daughter and replied in a bland voice, "No reason in particular my dear. I just thought you might like to catch up on the gossip. Ashton, you see, he supported his son's decision completely." Lena blinked, and her mother turned, gestured for Abby to accompany her, and then strolled away, murmuring, "Such a nice man."
Lena stared after her, anger forgotten, replaced instead by a growing certainty that her mother had gone mad. Lena did not gossip. Lena hated gossip. It was the thing that had nearly ruined her life two years ago, when everywhere she turned she heard whispers about her and Stanford.
The babble of a hundred conversations rumbled through her head as she gazed around the crowd.
"Lena," Greg's slightly bored voice brought her back to attention, "did you hear me?"
"Of course I did," she replied instantly. Greg raised one golden eyebrow and Lena nodded haughtily. "But you may repeat the question if you like."
"Will you be dancing, tonight?" His voice was loud enough for those closest to them to hear. Lena made a show of looking thoughtful, while sending daggers at her brother through her eyes.
"I do believe I shall."
Five minutes later, no less than eight peers of the realm were standing around her, trying their best to charm her out of her wits. Gregoire stood politely to the side, trying not to laugh.
After she chose her partners, the group dispersed. Lena returned to her brother's side.
Humor danced in their eyes as they struggled to maintain cool, impassive facades in front of the beau monde. Several pairs of eyes watched them from every angle. The golden Dubois siblings, arrogant, calm, and beautiful. Gregoire, the sophisticated, suave gentleman who rarely danced and smiled even less, whose skin was darkened by sun and wind and adventure. Helena, the elegant, untouchable beauty who would not dance with anyone below the rank of Viscount, whose cool demeanor had given her the nickname Ice Queen, a name she pretended to disdain while secretly encouraging.
Lena wondered idly what her companion would think if he ever saw how she acted at balls, or at salons and dinner parties. The thought made her heart tighten in her chest. What if he thought she was being genuine? Would he hate her for her arrogance?
Her attitude, this display she put on for the beau monde, was the only thing that kept her and Gregoire sane at social gatherings. It was a game they played, to see who could last the longest before the laughter that threatened to burst forth at any moment forced one of them to go for refreshments, or get some air, or join a card game. The loser had to dance at the next ball. The winner did not.
Judging by their reputations, Lena decided that Gregoire won too often. That would not do.
She was concentrating on her strategy, standing in companionable silence with her brother, and she didn't notice the couple that approached them until they were standing right in front of her.
"Lady Dubois, what a pleasant surprise," came the soft, raspy voice of Susanna Bennington. Lena's eyes focused instantly, latching onto the face of the woman who had always hated her for no reason.
Susanna, Baroness Bennington, was a small woman with dark brown hair and pale blue eyes. She was wearing a very expensive watered silk ball gown, and her signature necklace, a thick ribbon embellished with lace and gems, that encircled her throat. Her features were delicate and fine, her hair rich, and her skin pale, and she would have been beautiful if not for the expression of mild disgust that lived constantly on her face. She had tried so hard to lure Stanford into her snares, two years earlier, proving herself to be malicious, conniving, and spoiled. Now, Lena couldn't help but wish that she had succeeded.
They deserved each other.
Lena leveled her gaze on Susanna and raised her eyebrows, waiting to be properly acknowledged. This, too, was part of the façade that Lena wore, but in Susanna's case, it was a façade that she quite enjoyed.
Because even though Susanna was the wife of a Baron, as the daughter of a Viscount, the sister of a Baron, and the granddaughter of a Duke, Helena outranked her.
Susanna's lips thinned and she dipped an extremely shallow curtsey. Her husband bowed politely. He was not the brightest, and he had decided to marry Susanna, so Lena could not help but feel a modicum of pity for the poor man. She returned their courtesies with a nod of her head.
"It is a pleasure to see you again, Lady Bennington," Lena said in an even, cool tone. The Baron turned to Gregoire and started talking idly about the weather. It was obvious that the only one who wanted to talk among the four of them was Susanna.
"I'm sure," Susanna replied loftily, scanning the crowd through slightly narrowed eyes. "Quite the crush Ashton has here. I'm sure the Countess is thrilled."
"Yes, of course."
And I'm sure neither of us has any interest in small talk, so get on with it. She turned her head and met Greg's eyes, and the expression in her gaze made him grin. Lena's heart leapt with triumph, and Greg immediately scowled. He had lost this round. He had showed amusement on his face. He would have to dance at the next ball.
"I am surprised to see you after your lengthy absence," Susanna noted, scanning Lena's pale green gown as if she might be able to find visible evidence of scandal. Lena's already frayed temper began to flare. "No one saw you for weeks after you spoke with Viscount Stanford at the opera."
What if that entire tray of champagne somehow mysteriously flew through the air and drenched Susanna's delicate watered-silk dress? Could she make it happen? Perhaps. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she calculated the trajectory and force that would be necessary. Then she sighed very softly.
"Was that when I fell ill? What a coincidence. I cannot remember much after the fever set in. It took me weeks to recover."
Susanna narrowed her eyes further, until she looked rather like a disgruntled, suspicious mouse. "A coincidence. Of course."
Lena nodded, trying to look slightly pale. It was a difficult job. One could not usually control where the blood in one's body went. But she tried.
"Stanford left the country," Susanna said suddenly. Was there a hint of accusation in her voice?
Why would Susanna care if Stanford left the country?
Lena tried to look surprised. "Again?"
"Shortly after you… recovered from your illness."
Lena felt a tingle at the nape of her neck, one that she recognized immediately. She had to fight every instinct in her body to turn and search out the source of that familiar gaze. She was done looking for him in shadows and smoke. If he had come to England, he would make her aware of his presence when he was ready.
If not, it was just one more sign that she was probably going mad.
"How unfortunate. We were just becoming reacquainted." Thinking of Stanford reminded her of the look of stark terror that had haunted his eyes that day in the gardens. What could possibly have frightened him so badly that he had fled the country?
Something flashed in Susanna's eyes, there and gone so quickly that Lena almost missed it. But she recognized hatred when she saw it. She readied herself to fend off an attack, just in case Susanna decided to try to scratch her eyes out.
Stanford, terrified in the garden, vanishing from London. Susanna, furious and hateful.
Good God, they'd been having an affair.
The miserable bastard. He had cast off Susanna when Lena had come along, and then gone right back to her after he'd grown tired of Lena. No matter Susanna's marital status.
"Helena, I do believe our mother is looking for you."
Lena blinked up at Greg, and the concern in his eyes brought her back to reality, helped her to fight the crushing wave of fury and hatred that seethed through her. She had worked hard for the ability to control her new emotions. She would not fail herself or her family.
"Of course," she said, forcing her tone light and nonchalant. "If you will excuse me, Lady Bennington," she gave Susanna the barest of nods, and a slight curtsey to the Baron, and then she turned on her heel and walked away. The murmurs of her sudden dismissal of the couple followed her across the ballroom, but she was past caring. No one liked Baroness Bennington very much, and Lena had a hard-won reputation for being arrogant and cold.
She met her mother and Abigail near the large set of French doors that led out to the gardens. They were chatting with the Earl and Countess Ashton. Jasper, Earl of Montford, stood next to Abby, smiling and chatting amiably with her. Lena's heart warmed. In this great chess game of the beau monde, having another Earl support Abby's presence made it much less likely that anyone would snub her.
Lena curtseyed to the Earls and greeted everyone else in turn. Greg made a discreet gesture with his hand, and their mother cleared her throat on cue.
"Lena, my dear, you are looking pale. Do you feel well?" Every gaze turned and centered directly on her face, some concerned, some (like Abby's and Monty's) slightly amused, while Lena did her best to look pale and weak. How, exactly, did one go about looking weak? She hoped she was doing a convincing job of it, as she was supposed to have been at death's door just a few weeks earlier.
The back of her neck tingled again, and a hulking shadow moved out in the darkness of the gardens, deliberate and controlled, like a giant predator. She knew that shadow. She knew his height and the curve of his shoulders.
Lena's vision sparkled as the blood drained completely from her face. All traces of amusement vanished from the eyes of those watching her, and all three men moved forward instinctively to catch her in case she collapsed. She reached out and found Greg's arm, latching onto him with desperate strength. She could not trust herself to control her emotions if she thought he was here. Watching her.
"I have to leave," she said faintly, taking several deep breaths. She met Ashton's pale brown gaze. The concern there, the warmth and kindness in his eyes, reminded her of her father. "I am so sorry, my lord. But I cannot stay."
"No need to apologize, Lady Dubois. I can see you have not completely recovered from your illness."
Lena shifted her gaze over his shoulder, to the gardens. "Sometimes I think I never will," she said softly. She managed a curtsey to Ashton and his wife, and let her brother lead her blindly out of the ball.
SAMSON
A warm fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting a golden glow over Lena's room. Samson lounged in his armchair next to her bed, and the only sounds that permeated the stillness of the night were the fire and Zeus's soft snores.
This must be what peace feels like, Samson thought as he leaned his head back against the padded chair. Through half-closed eyes, he watched Lena, curled up in a nest of blankets. He felt warmth slide through him as he studied her, studied the lines and curves of her body, the tumbling curls of her hair, the small smile on her lips.
He wondered idly what she would say if she knew that he could waltz. That he could dance the quadrille, and bow at the perfect degree to a Baron, an Earl, a Duke, a Viscount, and the Prince Regent himself. That he could mimic the dialect of highborn English peers perfectly, just as she did.
Her brother's lessons were coming along well, both for Samson and for Montford's unfortunate younger brother. And the lessons would continue for them both, though Samson was beginning to question the usefulness of them for himself. What would be the point of acting like a gentleman? He knew very well that he wasn't. He knew that learning the right fork to use for the third course of a seven course meal would never help him in any way. He knew that time was slowly, painfully, and surely running out.
Dawn was creeping up on him, casting pale blue light through the heavy brocade curtains. As he watched the light slowly brighten, he felt a sudden snap of irritation. At time. At the sun. At the world that had cursed him as a monster and driven him into hiding. At a father and a God that had abandoned him to misery and despair.
At himself, for being such a coward that he, even now, could not think about fully showing himself to Lena without feeling a bolt of terror electrify his body. Even when Margot saw him on a daily basis, and showed no more fear of him than she would a kitten.
The fear was too great, too deeply ingrained into him, to overcome. But at least he was able to sit with her in the firelight, a feat he had not been able to stomach before he came to England.
"My name is Samson," he told her, reaching out to brush his knuckles gently over her cheek. "It was Margot's idea. She found me in the library one evening. I'm sure you can imagine how that went." He smiled "She has courage. Just like you, ma cherie."
Lena stirred, and Samson instantly withdrew his touch. At the sudden movement, Zeus lifted his head from his paws and tilted it up at Samson questioningly.
"Ce n'est rien, Zeus," he said in a calming voice. It is nothing. "But you would not want to be around if she found out I was here."
Given the depth of emotions he had seen in Lena lately, her temper was not something to be taken lightly.
He stood silently, and leaned over the bed, brushing his lips over hers, catching his breath at the bolt of electricity that shot through him. Every time. Every time he touched her, it felt like he had come back to life. Like he had stepped out of the frigid arctic snows and into a room filled with books, a roaring fire, and… her.
Lena took a deep breath, and reached for him instinctively, but he retreated before she could touch him.
He stood over her, watching over her, as always.
All he ever did was watch. With the exception of the mistakes of his past, and the few times that Lena had gotten the best of him with her charm, all he had ever done was watch from afar as others went about their lives. Some in peace and happiness, others in hardship and despair.
In the early years of his life, when he first tried to join them, they rejected him. They screamed. They cursed him for a monster and beat him.
What was he now? A shadow haunting a highbred young woman? A monster tormenting himself with thoughts of a life that could never, ever be?
He didn't know anymore. For so long, he had only been one thing: wretched. He had defined himself through his vengeance and his misery and his hatred. What else had there been for him, in the beginning? He had been born into a world of pain. His own father had first looked upon him with revulsion and fear. Any small measure of peace or joy he had managed to find had been savagely ripped from his grasp. He had tried so very hard to understand what was happening to him. He had struggled through the pain and had been met with nothing but more pain. He had raged and wept and prayed to a cruel and uncaring God. And eventually he gave in to a fate that seemed inevitable. He had eagerly drowned himself in fury and hatred and death.
Now, standing over the sleeping woman who had so effortlessly captured his heart, the woman that he would do anything for, he realized just how thoroughly he had changed in the past several months.
Now, he felt like so many different things. Friend, lover, guardian, conspirator. And the first thing that came to his mind when he thought of himself was no longer monster or murderer. It was not creature or demon or wretched.
It was just…
Man.
But he never let himself forget that he was a murderer, and he never once forgot that he was not human and that the path that he was travelling now would most likely end in disaster. The fear wouldn't let him forget. It was always there, now, waiting at the back of his mind to pounce upon him like a cat on a mouse whenever he dropped his guard. The fear that it would all be taken from him. That he would lose her somehow; that she would find another, that she would see his face and that her expression – that patent mixture of revulsion and fear – would rip open his heart and leave him in a state so miserable that just contemplating it made him want to hit something.
And the worst fear was that she would reject him not because of his looks or because she did not return his feelings, but for his past.
For the fact that he had killed a child.
"I may never deserve you," he said, watching the even rise and fall of her chest as she breathed, watching the small smile that always curled her lips when her instincts told her he was near. "But I will never stop trying."
The sky was turning gray, now, casting the room in grim monochromatic light. She wouldn't be up for another several hours, but the servants would all be awake within the next thirty minutes.
He had to leave.
Why not just stay? some small, treacherous part of him demanded. Why can't she know?
He curled his hands into fists to control the overwhelming urge to touch her, to reach out and trace the elegant lines of her face with his fingertips. Why not? It was a very good question.
Because he had no plan, no miraculous idea that would allow them to be together without either forcing her to abandon her family and join him in the wilderness, or resigning himself to being a shadow and keeping their relationship a secret for the rest of their lives.
Neither of those futures was a plausible one. Lena loved her family far too much to cut ties with them completely, and he would never be content with just sharing the darkness with her. He wanted the light as well, and everything that came with it. God help him.
God help him. Because all of those impossible futures, all of his reasoning, all of the time his highly analytical brain had spent dissecting and reviewing and rearranging information, all of it had led him to one simple, terrible conclusion.
If everything continued as it was, and no new elements were introduced into their lives that might help him achieve his goal…
He was going to have to leave her.
Forever.
And it was going to kill him.