A Reputation Reclaimed

Chapter Ten

Misery and champagne were troublesome companions when combined. This was evidenced by Helena's unsteady gait as she made her way toward the women's withdrawing room.

She and Lowen found themselves at yet another function hosted by one of those dour matrons married to one of his Parliamentary nobs. Ungracious thoughts had been creeping into her mind all evening, and with her fifth glass of champagne, Helena worried that one might slip out thoughtlessly. If it did, perhaps they would finally stop inviting her, though she knew they only truly wanted Lowen present.

Helena had no idea where Lowen was; she hadn't seen him since they arrived, not that she particularly wished to, not after what he had said to her in the carriage last night. Her heart ached— it hadn't stopped aching because of him, even before they married. Yet there were moments, intimate ones, when the cold proper mask he wore slipped away, revealing the man beneath. In those fleeting instances, she dared to hope that he might remain that way. But something about her always seemed to trouble him, as if he wanted her to repent for some unseen fault.

The withdrawing room was farther than she remembered. Or perhaps she was simply going the wrong way. Helena stumbled into the wall, leaning heavily against it, careful not to knock herself on a nearby sconce or spill her champagne. She blinked, examining her surroundings. A vaguely familiar Aubusson tapestry hung on the wall, giving her some confidence she was headed in the right direction. She continued onward, using the walls and sideboards to stabilize herself, until she finally wobbled into the ladies' withdrawing room.

Helena ignored the incoming stares and sought a private corner where she could rest for a while. A few women greeted her politely, but none offered to sit with her. After a few minutes, finding the hushed conversations around her increasingly tiresome, she got up to leave, finishing the rest of her champagne before she did so, feeling a bit more unstable than before.

As she made her way down the hallway, a group of women approached, and in the center stood a tall, buttery-blonde woman who looked just as miserable as Helena.

"Charlotte!" Helena blurted, barreling toward her, oblivious to the horrified look on Charlotte's face.

The women steered away from Helena, leaving Charlotte to look around at them for help, but Helena already had her in an embrace. They hadn't seen each other since Lady Crockwell's disastrous party well over a month ago.

"It's been ages, Charlotte," she said after pulling away, ignoring the fact that she was seeing double. "I've sent you countless letters."

After composing her mussed gown, all four of Charlotte's eyes regarded Helena coolly. "My apologies, Your Grace—I've been quite busy."

"Well, when you're done being quite busy, you should stop by Carrivick House for tea," Helena suggested, her voice a bit too loud. "It would be a delight to have you."

Charlotte smiled tightly."I truly appreciate the invitation, Your Grace, but I fear my commitments this season will leave me quite occupied."

"I see," Helena answered, dejected, beginning to sway slightly. "Do you think we may speak in private?"

"Now?"

Helena nodded. "Yes. Now."

Charlotte exchanged glances with her cortege, as if seeking an answer from them. "Pardon us, Your Grace," one girl spoke up. "But we've all been promised for the next dance."

In unison, they all turned together, but Helena chose to follow. She desperately needed Charlotte to hear her pleas and apologies—that she hadn't betrayed her. More than anything, Helena wanted her friend back. But Helena, currently inebriated, followed a little too closely and clumsily, inadvertently trampling on the hem of Charlotte's dress with a heavy heel.