The Rogue's Wager (Sinful Brides #1)(34)

A rush of energy surged through Helena; her feet twitched involuntarily with her need to flee this stifling world to which she’d never belong. The scar down the side of her right cheek throbbed, a kind of mocking reminder of just how out of place she was.

The stinging fury, the blinding sense of betrayal burned now as strong as the day she’d left. Not for the first time since she’d been scuttled off by Ryker and sent away to the man who’d never been any real kind of father, beyond the seed he’d planted in Helena’s fool mother, a healthy fury and rage gripped her for that stranger who’d entered her rooms and ripped her life asunder.

Lord Robert Westfield. She’d read enough of his name in the papers to know he was a rogue, and future duke. Beyond that, there was nothing to recommend the man. In short, there was really nothing to recommend him, then.

What if I’d locked the door? Then he would have never entered my rooms. I would have continued sleeping. He would have continued walking. And even now, she’d have been closeted away in her office at the Hell and Sin Club, where no one gave a jot about the scar down the right portion of her face, or the marks on her arms and back, because they were the manner of people who saw a person’s worth.

Her throat worked spasmodically under the force of her hungering to return to the Hell and Sin Club, to a gaming hell that had been more home than any other she’d before known.

She pressed her eyes closed. Had she truly longed to step outside those comfortable walls? Because now, dwelling in this cold, purposeless world where she was prodded and fitted like a child’s doll, with no true role, she ached to have control restored.

But it was not to be.

Not until the end of the Season, at which time there was the foolish expectation that she’d make a match . . . and if she did not . . . Helena drew in a quavering breath. Then freedom.

Having long found solace in numbers and calculations, she found a new solace in the three remaining months, ninety days, two thousand one hundred and sixty hours and . . . Helena frowned. Breaking the days into hours and seconds made the time she would be here husband hunting interminable.

Regardless, she’d been in London a month, and had not had to deal with a single suitor. Where other ladies would lament, well . . . she celebrated. For when her time here was up, and no match made, she would be free to return to the world in which she fit. Her gaze wandered to the door of Madame Bisset’s, and she stared blankly at it. For happiness hadn’t truly belonged to her at Ryker’s establishment either. In the Hell and Sin she’d been trapped behind the club walls in different ways, all the while working, but also longing for freedom and control that had forever been withheld. Oh, she’d had purpose in her role, a role she’d enjoyed. But no one had listened to her. Not truly. Her brothers had been so bent on protecting her from Diggory, and the success of the Hell, that they’d stifled her voice . . . and in that, her happiness.

“Miss Banbury,” the duchess snapped from across the shop. “We are leaving.”

A surge of relief gripped her and she took great lurching steps to the front of the room, earning another round of giggling from the mean girls. Head held high, Helena continued marching proudly past. Having had a switch applied to her back and a candle touched to her face, any cruelties she’d known at the members of the ton paled.

As a young servant rushed to open the door for the duchess, the regal woman filed out, not pausing to verify whether Helena followed. She hesitated and briefly contemplated slipping from this shop and taking off running in the opposite direction until the fashionable streets gave way to dirty, muddied roads, and danger lurked at every corner.

Three months. She’d but three months left.

With the words a litany, echoing around her mind, she started after the duchess and her daughter. Helena stepped outside and sunlight slapped her face. She lifted her hand, momentarily shielding her eyes from the blinding rays. Searching her gaze about, she found the duke’s liveried driver handing Her Grace into the elegant black barouche. Lady Diana followed close behind.

Quickening her step, Helena made her way to the carriage, and allowed the servant to help her up. Murmuring her thanks, she climbed inside and settled onto the bench alongside her half sister.

“You’ve lessons this afternoon with a dance instructor.” The duchess directed those words at the top of Helena’s head. “Then watercolors immediately following.” She flicked an icy glance up and down Helena’s form. “But the duke has requested to speak with you first.”

Her heart sank. All the efforts of instructors hired by her brother had proven a lesson in extreme waste. “There is really no need for all the lessons, Your Grace,” she murmured. “Although I am . . .” She searched her mind. “Grateful, for the efforts, I’ll not be here long.”

“No, you won’t,” the duchess concurred, her lips tightening. “Regardless, while you are here you’ll not be an embarrassment to His Grace.”

From the corner of her eye, Diana flashed her a sympathetic look. In her eyes was a glint of knowing that came from a young woman who had long ago come to expect disapproving words from her mother. Dismissing the duchess, Helena peeled back the curtain and stared at the passing streets. As a child she’d envied girls born to those vaunted families. What struggle could they possibly know? In the short month Helena had been immersed in the glittering world of polite Society she’d found even ladies of the ton knew struggle.