Aunt Phoebe clung to Helena’s hands, not allowing her to leave once they had arrived at her chambers. “Helena, I cannot begin to tell you how much I appreciate your assisting me to my room. The embarrassment of being caught in such a position...at my age yet! Can you forgive your aunt for acting so impulsively, so utterly foolishly?”

Helena desired only one thing at this point, and that was to escape to her rooms. She had heard everything between her father and Phoebe and felt quite sickened by the whole affair. To think her father would act so impulsively, or that her aunt would…No, she could not even finish the thought. The whole ordeal was rather horrific.

I only wish to escape. The words she spoke were so vile…I do not understand…

Helena wanted nothing more than to be violently ill, but her aunt drew her into her chambers and closed the door behind them.

Helena glanced wildly around the room, longing for escape, feeling, as usual, stifled and suffocated by all the things that cluttered every surface. Collections of snuffboxes vied for attention on the bureau with jewelry that there never seemed to be room for in the overstuffed jewelry box. Handkerchiefs and lace fell in a cascade from a drawer that wouldn’t quite close.

Her aunt took joy in her possessions — that had been obvious to Helena since she had been a little girl. Bits of art cluttered the walls, and not one, but two bureaus stood against the wall, a testament to the sheer number of dresses, coats, cloaks and other such clothing Aunt Phoebe possessed.

Yet Phoebe never had seemed quite content, despite the home she had or the wealth she enjoyed as part of the Duke’s household. In fact, she had always seemed somewhat restless within these walls. Even now, Phoebe paced the room, clearly unhappy in the way she pouted, and the frown gathered between her eyebrows.

Helena found herself questioning now every bit of bric-a-brac and objet d'art, realizing for perhaps the first time the veritable fortune on display upon these walls. Was her father so generous as all that in the allowance he gave to her? Or had he in fact been pressing his suit upon her aunt for years in the silence of this multitude of gives, giving her far beyond what she should earn in her position?

Helena’s anger felt out of place when things were put in that light. She swallowed hard and forced herself to try and lay aside the fury that burned within. My poor aunt! Such persistence would drive anyone to madness.

It was no wonder then that the room seemed to make her so unhappy. Unable to remove these gifted items without some kind of repercussion, she was, of course, forced not only to keep but to display these items lest she caused offense to her employer and host. What a terrible situation to be in!

With perhaps more solicitousness that what she’d felt previously, Helena fussed over Phoebe, knowing that’s what Phoebe wanted. She settled her aunt in a chair near the fire, murmuring assurances that she never once thought poorly of her aunt and that none of these matters were her aunt’s fault. Perhaps the things Phoebe had said were meant to be shocking, to turn Helena’s father away from her.

I do not wish to be thought of as a fool, but is compassion ever wrong? If Phoebe never meant what she was saying, then I must forgive her. Mustn’t I?

But still, she was uneasy and thankful when her aunt had no further wish to talk. She started for the door, glad to escape that she might go to her room and think these things through further.

“Helena…”

Her aunt’s voice caused her to hesitate, her hand mere inches from the doorknob. Another moment and she would have been gone. Helena sighed and fought to smile as she turned. Aunt Phoebe looked imposing sitting there, huddled in her chair by the fire, her feet propped up on the footstool with a blanket covering her legs.

“I do not wish you to think I dislike your father or my position here,” Phoebe said quietly. “I have only ever wanted what’s…” she hesitated a little there, as though struggling to find the right word, “…best for you.”

There was nothing wrong with the words her aunt spoke but felt wrong the way Phoebe said them. Helena studied her aunt uncertainly. “Is there something else I could do for you before I retire?” she asked, feeling the weariness steal over her from a too emotional day.

Not to mention she was still worried about the way the Duke of Durham had left, going out into the storm in such haste.

And what if this is all my fault in the first place? I wish I had never written that note…

But regardless of the note, it was apparent that her father felt some regard for her aunt. The whole idea was rather disturbing and even upsetting. Given that Aunt Phoebe did not share in that sentiment, and had, in fact, expressed an interest in James, when James was…

What? Hers?

Phoebe was studying her with the look of one that knew her charge well. Likely she guessed every last thing Helena was thinking. “Nothing. I needed nothing at all, Helena. You may go. Only…wait…I do have something for you. I have hesitated in giving it to you.”

“Something…for me?” Helena found herself drawn back into the room, curious despite herself. “What is it, Aunt Phoebe?”

Phoebe gestured toward the bureau. “There is a small vial there, a cream that I was not sure I should give you. You seemed so disinterested in improving yourself, as you seldom use the creams I give to you. But then, I saw your face today. You have fallen in love, have you not?”

“Love?” Helena’s hands came up to cover her cheeks that felt as if they’d erupted into flames at the very words. “I have…I could never…I mean…”

“But you are. Oh, do not look at me in that way. It is not so obvious as all that if that is what worries you.” Phoebe cast the blanket aside and rose, encircling Helena with her arm, drawing her close, stepping towards the bureau together.

“He has…been kind.”

“Or disinterested…” Phoebe searched through the scattered items, finally snagging from the mess something that glittered in the soft candlelight which she dropped into Helena’s waiting hand. “He gave this to me, you know. He gave it to me after the first time he called upon you. He could not see through his side of the bargain. Yes, of course, I knew…I know many things. Like the way your heart beats…fast…when he comes into the room. How you find it hard to breathe when he is near you.”

Helena stared at the brooch that lay hard and cold in her hand. The lights from the jeweled petals blurred behind the sudden tears. “The Duke was too honorable to take the brooch. He never wanted it, to begin with.”

“But he did. At least he did until he saw you. From the moment he saw your face. And then he knew he had no wish to be part of any of this.” Phoebe’s hand came up to touch the tortured skin upon Helena’s cheek, her fingertips so cold that Helena could not help but flinch.

“James never said that. He never once said a thing…” Helena said, backing away from the bureau, her hand closing around the brooch until the sharp edges cut into the flesh of her palm. He had said something. That he had seen worse in his travels. The lepers.

Oh, God…He was trying to tell me then that he found me distasteful.

“There is still a chance to impress him. Oh, I was foolish in making a play for him myself — but can you blame me? His title made him tempting enough, and he is quite handsome. But of course, you think so too. I see how you look at him…” Phoebe said, reaching to draw Helena back closer. “Come…here it is.”

She pulled a glass container from the debris on the bureau, shoving aside jewelry and bits of cut glass and statuary as though these things were nothing. “This…this here I have saved it for you. It is rather strong. Rather potent. But I have been told that the effect will be quite…shocking.”

Phoebe held the container aloft, the candlelight illuminating the cut glass jar, reflecting from its facets until the contents glowed quite red. “I know it seems rather bright…but the lotion will not stain your skin, and if it did, a hint of blush upon the cheeks is not so unappealing. The French, with their paint and rouge, color their skin quite deliberately. But imagine having the blemishes gone…to have skin that is flawless. Your Duke would notice.”

Phoebe’s face twisted in a momentary bitterness. A look so quickly gone that Helena was unsure whether she saw it at all. She stared now at the jar in her aunt’s hands, wondering at the promise contained within. “But the other lotions have NOT worked,” she said softly. “They only ever seemed to make the problem worse.”

“Not this one. This is very different. I have been assured that the effects of this particular concoction are quite…permanent.” Phoebe began to smile. “In fact, I should think that you will never need another lotion ever again. Imagine that!” She pressed the jar into Helena’s hand.

Helena stood there, the brooch in one hand, the jar in the other. She unclenched her fist to stare at the brooch. “He truly gave it back because of…my face?” she asked hesitantly. Her stomach hurt. Her heart hurt.

Phoebe’s look was one of sympathy. “Would I lie to you?”

Helena bit her lip. “Then, perhaps it is best I know this now before he returns. I was right to want to end things…though I see now, it was entirely unnecessary. It is no wonder he seemed confused when he came to call and again at dinner. And here I…I was pressing myself upon him most unpleasantly.” She pushed the jar back into Phoebe’s hands. “I do not wish to continue when he is so clearly opposed to seeing me…”

“But is he? Think, child, he did speak kindly. Do you not think that with a little assistance you might still be able to lure him? Imagine yourself, the wife to such a gentleman.”

Helena shook her head. “I do not want him if he only cares that my face is attractive. He is kind — that is true. But what you speak of is no better than…than…seduction!” she cried out, horrified.

Phoebe’s laugh was harsh. “Perhaps it is time you grew up then. How is it that anyone marries? If one if fortunate you will find you can get along pleasantly enough with your intended husband. After all, their company must be ensured that you might produce an heir. This is the purpose to which a lady is called. Clearly, you have not spent enough time with the ton if you think otherwise.”

“If that is the case, then I am not sure I wish to!” Helena said, trying to shove the jar into Phoebe’s hand. “I want no part of this!”

Phoebe drew back, holding her hands out, palms outstretched to ward off the girl. “I only bid you to think about. Keep the jar, do what you wish with it. But I ask you to consider one thing, very seriously.”

Helena looked at the jar and brooch jumbled together in her hands. “Consider what?”

“Consider what it means to be a spinster. How it is to live in a house that will never be your home. And all that comes with that.”

Helena glanced around the room at the gaudy treasures upon every surface and felt sick to her stomach.

It would not be the same for me, she thought desperately. Aunt Phoebe is not the daughter of a Duke.

But she was not entirely sure such would be the case. What would happen to her if she never married? Her father would someday die. Where would she go then? Was her future entirely secure?

The jar felt impossibly heavy in her hand. The broach stuck into the sweaty skin of her palm. “I will think about it,” Helen said softly.

“I only ask that you do so,” Phoebe said, with a satisfied nod.

This time when Helena moved to leave the room, Phoebe made no attempt to stop her.