beyond the shadows — b.b. (chapter 5)
Summary: Helena has always preferred strategy to sentiment; distance to need. But scandal shifts, mourning loosens its hold, and at the Ramsbury Ball, one name is spoken without permission. Some choices are deliberate. Some betrayals are instinct.
Words: 6.5k
Disclaimer: finally there is a Benedict pov lessgooo. Comments & Reblogs are highly appreciated! (please sir, im good at begging for attention)
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Chapter 5: Liar
Helena did not sleep; not because of scandal, or Lord Berbrooke, or even Simon.
She did not sleep because she could still hear her name.
Helena.
Unsummoned. Unannounced. Uncorrected.
Spoken.
She turned onto her side and stared at the darkened canopy above her bed.
It was ridiculous. It had been one dance. One moment.
And she had left it first. As she always did.
By morning, she had decided; she would not attend the picnic, she would not send a note, and she would not encourage further familiarity. Distance, once restored, was difficult to breach.
Helena preferred it that way.
And yet.
Her mind did not return to Benedict first, it returned to her father.
It always did when control felt threatened.
Helena remembered the day Lady Danbury returned to the Hastings Estate with Simon at her side. He was taller, broader in the shoulders. His gaze no longer darted like a frightened child’s; it held. It assessed.
“My Lady,” Helena breathed, rising from her seat in the morning room. They halted at the sound of her voice. Lady Danbury’s hand rested firmly at Simon’s back before loosening, just slightly, “Surely,” she said coolly, looking down at the boy beside her, “you have not forgotten your sister.”
Simon frowned faintly, “Sister?” The word was uncertain, as though pulled from some distant shelf. Helena felt it; that small, precise ache.
“Are you here to see Father?” thirteen -year-old Helena asked, she too had grown quite a lot since Lady Danbury had last visited. The older woman nodded, “Where is he, my dear?”
Helena blinked, “Study.”
They did not wait for permission as Helena followed at a distance.
The study doors opened without announcement. The duke did not rise.
“Well, this is a most unwelcome intrusion,” Father had said coldly, his eyes glanced to her sharply, “Did you let them in, girl?”
Before she could reply, Lady Danbury had taken her chance first: “I thought Your Grace might be relieved to know that your son is alive and well.”
She lightly scoffed, “Your staff seemed somewhat surprised by the fact.”
“What is the point of your visit?” He cut to the chase, that’s how Father usually is.
Simon and Lady Danbury had shared a look, and Helena could see the encouraging nod she sent his way.
“I am receiving high marks in all of my studies, sir,” Simon’s voice was confident, smooth. Even the Duke looked a tad surprised. He rose as Simon continued, “I ride, and I fence, and I shoot…”
“Exceptionally well, I am told.” The Duke walked, each step he took forward was deliberate. Helena watched Simon shrink by degrees as the distance closed, “I even…”
Oh no.
“I…”
Father’s intrigued face died down in a terrifyingly slow manner.
“You are my worst failure.”
“I beg your pardon?” Lady Danbury’s voice raised, enraged by the man’s words.
“I am sure you do,” he spat back, “I shan’t again,” She shot.
“Might I remind you that this boy is to be the next Duke of Hastings, and that he required whatever reserves of fatherly nature reside in that frigid heart of yours?”
Lady Danbury was furious, probably the first time Helena had seen her so… protective.
“You may…” Father trailed off, “so long as I may remind you of your place, which is out of my sight and with your bitch mouth shut.”
The words did not echo, they settled. Lady Danbury stepped forward at once, placing a firm hand on Simon’s shoulder, “We are leaving.”
But Simon did not move, “I wrote to you many times to let you know I’m… I’m not…”
His voice was smaller now, younger. Helena closed her eyes. She could see this will not end well to those who push Father’s buttons.
“… Not dead,” Simon finished, “Did you receive my letters?”
It was then she saw him; not as the discarded heir, but as a boy still reaching, and she understood him.
She was reaching too.
“It is a deep enough wound to live with the knowledge that you shall one day inherit Hastings,” Father said without much thought, his eyes boring through the boy, “but to witness your struggle is too great an insult.”
“You are as useless as your mother proved to be,” Helena flinched, “so I shall pursue the same recourse with you as I did with her.”
“To forget that you ever sullied these halls.”
Father’s words were final, they were definite.
Lady Danbury had had enough, gathering Simon once more and left the room, leaving Helena with His Grace alone.
Helena moved to leave, when Father suddenly said, “You.”
Helena stilled, waiting.
“What do I always say?”
“… I shall not be a disappointment to you, Father,” Helena answered for him, “I shall be flawless.”
“See that you are,” his voice was low, lethal.
“Yes, Father.”
She had once watched Simon stand in that study and ask for acknowledgment.
She had watched him shrink when it was denied.
She had learned from that.
Never ask. Never wait. Never need.
Benedict had asked for nothing.
Which made him infinitely more dangerous.
---
“This author has often thought the heart a most curious of instruments, heeding neither reason nor rank. For what possible explanation might Miss Bridgerton have for entertaining the suit of a mere baron when she seems to have secured a duke? Could the debutante’s mind not be the only thing amiss?
Let it be known, dear reader, that if this bizarre behaviour portends yet another scandal, then be sure that I shall uncover it, for there is nothing like an excursion into nature to lift the spirits and loosen the tongue.”
“I am not going,” Helena said coolly, folding the latest edition of Lady Whistledown with deliberate care, “I should like to rest.”
Simon frowned. “So, you will not attend the picnic?”
Helena did not look up, “No.”
“But do enjoy yourself with the Bridgertons,” she added, reaching for her teacup instead. “You may convey my regards.”
A pause.
“… About yesterday—”
“You were simply assisting Miss Bridgerton,” Helena interrupted smoothly, “And as you are presently seated before me, I conclude you returned home unscathed.”
Simon watched her, “That is not what I meant.”
“It is sufficient for me,” she replied, setting her cup down with a soft clink. Then, quieter: “But do not walk away from me like that again.”
A beat.
“… Even when I am moments away from biting your head off?”
Helena snorted despite herself, “Especially then.”
He leaned back slightly, studying her with an expression far too knowing for comfort, “You are certain you will not reconsider?”
“And why,” Helena asked evenly, finally lifting her gaze to him, “are you so eager for my company?”
Simon did not answer at once. Instead, he reached for his cup, and she saw it. The skin across his knuckles was split; not swollen from training — actually split.
Her eyes lowered deliberately, “What happened to your hand?”
He stilled, “It is nothing.”
“It is never nothing,” she replied. He withdrew his hand from view, resting it against his thigh.
“A cabinet door?” she asked lightly.
His jaw ticked, “Is that what you think?”
“I think,” she said calmly, “that you walked home last night instead of taking the carriage.”
Silence.
“And I think,” she continued, “that men who walk alone after being publicly provoked rarely seek only fresh air.”
He met her gaze then. And there it was, heat.
“He will not trouble her again,” Simon said quietly.
Ah. So that was it.
Helena exhaled once through her nose, “You were not asked,” she said.
“No.”
“But you did it anyway.”
“Yes.”
He was quick with his admission, at least.
She held his gaze a moment longer, “And you imagine I will scold you again?”
“I imagine,” he replied, “you will remind me of consequence.”
She set her teacup down with precision, “You bleed for someone else’s battle,” she said evenly, “Be certain it is a war you intend to fight.”
A beat.
“The Bridgertons will be there,” he said again, almost deliberately changing course, “I thought you might wish to come.”
“To what end?”
He shrugged, but it lacked its usual laziness, “You seemed… unsettled.”
Helena’s expression did not change, “I am not going.”
“… Very well,” he said at last.
Helena turned away first, “Enjoy your picnic.”
He paused at the doorway, “Helena.”
She did not turn.
“I shall return before supper.”
“I did not ask you to,” she replied.
“I know.”
The door closed.
Only then did she allow herself to exhale.
Avoidance was not cowardice. It was strategy.
And Helena Alderwick had always preferred strategy.
-
The door closed with less force than Helena expected.
She did not look up at once. The crackle of the hearth filled the room, steady and controlled, unlike the man who had just entered it.
“You said you’re return by supper,” she said mildly, eyes still on the book in her lap.
“I was at Mondrich’s.”
That made her glance up. His sleeves were rolled, his shirt damp at the collar, and a faint bruise began to color his jaw, not to mention his knuckles were red.
“You have been boxing.”
“Yes.”
She marked the exhaustion in the way he lowered himself into the chair opposite her heavily.
“And?” she asked.
He stared into the fire, “It did not help.”
That was honest.
Helena closed her book, “With what?”
A pause.
“Berbrooke has pressed his claim.”
Her expression did not change, “On what grounds?”
“Impropriety,” The word was bitten out, “Witnesses. A document. He means to force it.”
Helena folded her hands neatly in her lap, “And Anthony?”
“Anthony will do what Anthony always does. Preserve the family.”
“And Miss Bridgerton?”
“She is furious.”
Something flickered in his voice there. Helena watched him more carefully now, “You sound… personally aggrieved.”
His jaw tightened, “He attempted to corner her.”
“And that offends you.”
“Yes.”
She tilted her head, “You have cornered her.”
His eyes snapped to hers, “That is different.”
“How?”
He rose abruptly, pacing once before the hearth, “I did not seek to ruin her.”
“And yet,” Helena replied evenly, “you are the reason she is under scrutiny.”
He stopped. That hit him harder than she intended.
“The arrangement benefits her,” he said tightly.
“For now.”
Silence. The fire shifted.
“You entered this performance,” Helena continued calmly, “to avoid inconvenience. It was to be calculated. Detached.”
“It is.”
“Then why,” she asked softly, “does this unsettle you?”
He did not answer immediately. Because he could not. He dragged a hand down his face, fatigue finally visible in the gesture, “He touched her,” he said again, quieter this time.
“And that makes you… what?”
He looked at her as though the question offended him, “Angry.”
“Yes,” she said gently, “But why?”
He stared at her and she held the silence.
He broke first, “Because she should not be bartered like livestock.”
Ah. So, it was principle. But principle is sharpened by proximity.
“You cannot rescue her,” Helena said.
“I can prevent him.”
“That is not the same.”
He exhaled, “You would have preferred I do nothing?”
“I would have preferred,” she replied, “that you remember what this is.”
“A ruse,” he said flatly.
“Yes.”
He laughed softly, Helena could tell he wasn’t amused, “It does not feel like one when she is being forced.”
There it is. The fire had burned lower by the time Helena spoke again.
“You are in danger,” she said quietly.
“Of what?” he asked, tired but alert.
“Caring.”
He let out a short breath through his nose, “You make it sound like contagion.”
“It is,” she replied evenly, “If you forget the parameters.”
He stood from the seat, “Must everything be parameters with you?”
Helena blinked, “I beg your pardon?”
“You speak of this as though it were a treaty,” he continued, pacing once before the hearth, “Terms. Conditions. Consequences.”
“It has consequences.”
“I am aware.”
“Then behave like it.”
He turned sharply at that, “I am behaving.”
“No,” she corrected calmly, “You are reacting.”
Silence.
The wrong word.
His jaw flexed, “Can you stop?” he said at last. The quiet in his tone was more dangerous than anger.
“Stop what?”
“Assessing me.”
Helena stilled, “I am not—”
“You are,” he cut in, “You always are.”
The words did not shout. They landed.
“You sit there,” he continued, voice steady but thin, “as though I am some political asset whose movements must be forecasted.”
“That is unfair.”
“Is it?”
A beat.
“I know what I am doing,” he said, “I do not require you to narrate it back to me.”
Helena’s spine straightened, “I am attempting to prevent—”
“From what?” he snapped, composure finally cracking, “Feeling something?”
The word hung there.
He dragged a hand through his hair, “I am aware of the vow,” he said, quieter now, “I am aware of the risks. I am aware of the spectacle.”
His gaze locked onto hers, “I do not need you to further verbalize it.”
The room felt smaller. Helena had not expected resistance, not when she had expected denial. Or at least deflection. But not this.
“You asked for my thoughts,” she said after a moment.
“Yes,” he replied. “Not my diagnosis.”
Ah. That one stings.
Helena’s composure flickered, just slightly, “I listen,” she said carefully.
“No,” he said, “You prepare.”
That hit deeper than he knew.
He exhaled sharply, “I came home because I am unsettled,” he admitted, “Not because I require analysis.”
Silence.
Helena studied him; but not clinically this time. Something in her expression shifted; less strategist, more sister.
“Then what do you require?” she asked.
He hesitated. Perhaps he had not thought that far.
“Nothing,” he said at last.
That was a lie.
They both knew it.
The fire cracked between them.
And for once, Helena did not fill the silence.
---
Helena could not sit still within Hastings Estate any longer.
Two days had passed since the carriage argument, since Simon’s temper had fractured, since they had both retreated into politeness.
They had been civil; impeccably so.
Which was far worse.
The house felt tight around her ribs. The silence no longer disciplined, just stagnant. She required air. What she did not anticipate was encountering half of London at Madame Delacroix’s.
“Lady Alderwick,” Lady Bridgerton greeted warmly as Helena entered, as though they had arranged the meeting. “How delightful to see you.”
Helena inclined her head, “Lady Bridgerton.”
Her gaze shifted to Daphne, “Daphne.”
“Helena,” Daphne returned, soft but steadier than she had been days ago.
“What brings you here, my dear?” Lady Bridgerton asked. “I find myself in need of new gowns,” Helena replied lightly, “One cannot wear black forever without becoming architectural.”
Lady Bridgerton smiled, “Quite.”
Madame Delacroix, already fitting Lady Bridgerton before the mirror, beamed. “Ah, Lady Alderwick! You arrive on a most… animated morning.”
Helena took a seat, “Do I?”
“Oh, mon Dieu,” the modiste sighed theatrically, “Is it not the most shocking development? Poor Lord Berbrooke.”
Poor?
Lady Bridgerton adjusted the fall of fabric at her shoulder, expression serene, “I would not call it poor,” she said gently.
Daphne leaned closer to Helena, “He has a child,” she whispered, “With a maid. He sent them away before the babe even comes.”
Helena did not move.
The room felt very still.
“And how,” she asked mildly, “did such information come to light?”
Lady Bridgerton’s reflection met hers in the mirror, “It appears,” she said thoughtfully, “that when one invites certain guests to tea, one must also extend hospitality to their staff.”
Helena blinked.
Ah.
“Tea,” she repeated evenly.
“Yes,” Violet continued, smoothing the fabric as though discussing embroidery, “One learns so much over tea. Especially when maids are inclined to… loyalty shifts.”
Madame Delacroix gasped again, delighted, “The poor creature confessed everything! The babe, the dismissal, the hush money—”
“Loose ends,” Lady Bridgerton corrected gently, “have a way of unraveling.”
Helena felt something settle inside her.
The men had confronted, provoked. But the women orchestrated.
The matriarch had not stormed, she had not threatened; she had invited. And then she had chosen her stage. The modiste; the only place in London where secrets multiplied faster than silk.
Helena’s lips curved faintly, “You selected your audience carefully,” she said quietly.
Lady Bridgerton’s eyes warmed. “One must.”
There it was.
Not warmth; strategy.
Helena glanced around the shop — two ladies pretending not to listen, while a third pretending very poorly. The news would circulate before the next fitting concluded.
Daphne exhaled softly beside her, relief evident now that the scandal had shifted from her to him.
Helena studied her; it seems she had underestimated them.
As they are affectionate, they are also coordinated. The Bridgertons did not simply react; they closed ranks, and they moved.
Helena felt, unexpectedly, a flicker of admiration. She had withdrawn for a single day, and in that absence, Lady Bridgerton had quietly dismantled a baron.
No raised voice. No spectacle.
Just tea.
“Oh yes, where were you at the picnic, Helena? Simon said you wished to rest,” Daphne asked lightly, linking her arm through Helena’s with easy familiarity.
Helena smiled, patting her hand gently, “Yes, I fear the Crawford ball proved more taxing than anticipated. But I am quite recovered today, heaven sings.”
“Do take care of your health, my dear,” Lady Bridgerton said as she stepped down from the fitting stool, smoothing her skirts. “You and the duke are already family to us.”
Helena stilled. It was not the words themselves; society said such things often. But the certainty in them unsettled her.
“Oh,” she murmured softly, momentarily unguarded. She rose as Madame Delacroix approached to usher her toward the mirror. “You are too kind, Lady Bridgerton.”
“Oh please,” the older woman smiled warmly, “Call me Violet. We see one another far too frequently for such distance.”
Helena hesitated. The fourth Bridgerton so far, names seemed to be exchanged with alarming ease in this family.
“Very well… Violet,” she replied at last, “Then you must call me Helena.”
The concession felt smaller than it should have, and far larger than she preferred. She had intended distance. Instead, she was being folded inward.
Had she miscalculated? Had she been too present? Or was this simply how the Bridgertons operated — absorbing without asking permission?
Helena could not decide whether the sensation rising in her chest was guilt… or something far more inconvenient.
“What are you currently seeking, madame?” Delacroix asked, circling Helena with measuring tape in hand.
Helena regarded her reflection. Black framed her well, it always had.
Black is predictable. Impeccable. Untouchable.
“… I have been informed,” she said evenly, “that I have worn mourning long enough.”
Violet’s eyes softened in the mirror, while Daphne’s fingers tightened gently around her arm. Helena did not look at either of them.
“I should like something that is not black,” she continued, “But neither is it frivolous.”
Delacroix tilted her head, studying her, “You do not wish to be overlooked.”
“No.”
“And you do not wish to be mistaken for a debutante.”
“Certainly not.”
A faint smile curved the modiste’s lips, “Then perhaps we abandon grief without embracing innocence.”
Helena’s gaze flicked to hers, “What would you suggest?” she asked.
Delacroix stepped toward a bolt of fabric; deep, muted, deliberate, “Emerald,” she said softly. “It commands. Quietly.”
Helena stilled. Green.
She did not react.
It is a colour.
Nothing more.
“Emerald is… bold,” Violet observed approvingly. Daphne smiled, “It would be lovely on you.”
Of course it would.
It is simply pigment. Woven silk. Reflection of light.
It has nothing to do with candlelit ballrooms. Or steady hands. Or a name spoken too softly. No, nothing at all.
Helena stepped closer to the mirror, the fabric was draped against her shoulder. The emerald complemented her skin, brightening her face. She looked… kinder.
“It is only a colour,” she said lightly. Madame Delacroix smiled, “All colours are only colours, madame.”
Helena met her own reflection.
Only.
“Very well,” she said at last. “Let us attempt it.”
The next morning, as Violet had no doubt intended, Mayfair was in uproar when the newest issue of Lady Whistledown was released.
Simon read aloud with unconcealed satisfaction:
“It had come to this author’s attention that the ton is abuzz with a most sordid tale. It is said one cannot judge a book by its cover. But in the case of the bumbling Baron Berbrooke, it seems his displeasing appearance is quite an apt metaphor for the state of affairs in his household. I would not be surprised if Lord Berbrooke were called away to the country on alleged business… Business which, perhaps, might involve sending some much overdue funds to one former maid and young boy, who we can only hope takes after his mother.”
Simon lowered the pamphlet, satisfaction barely concealed, “Have you heard of this?”
“Berbrooke?” Helena asked mildly.
He nodded.
“I may have overheard something at the modiste yesterday,” she replied, lifting her teacup, “It seems Lady Whistledown is competent when properly motivated.”
Simon hummed, clearly pleased, and resumed his breakfast with far more enthusiasm than he had shown in days, “I am glad it is resolved,” he said.
Helena watched him.
The tension that had clung to him since the ball—since the fireplace, since Berbrooke, since the argument—had eased. Not vanished, softened.
She nearly said something sharp.
Nearly.
Then she remembered his voice the other night. Can you stop?
So instead, she inclined her head, “I am happy for you,” she said simply.
Simon paused. He looked at her more carefully now. “Is that all?”
Helena snorted lightly, “Of course not.”
She set her cup down with care, “But I am… considering your words.”
His brow lifted slightly.
“Yesterday I was—”
“Worried,” he supplied easily, “Concerned, even.”
She rolled her eyes, though the fondness was unmistakable, “Do not grow insufferable.”
He smirked, then the curve softened, “I appreciate the restraint,” he said quietly.
Helena met his gaze.
They held it.
“No more diagnoses,” she said at last, “Unless you are being particularly foolish. Or you explicitly request one.”
Simon snorted, “Rest assured, the latter shall not occur.”
A small laugh escaped her.
Without quite thinking, she reached across the table and placed her hand over his. It was brief. Deliberate; not dramatic nor sentimental.
There were a dozen things she might have said, but she did not. She did not need to; Simon understood anyway.
He squeezed her hand once, firm, wordless, before withdrawing and returning to his plate.
And for the first time in days, breakfast felt almost ordinary.
Ramsbury Ball, Friday
She did not wish to go. Not truly.
Lady Bridgerton—Violet—she could manage. Daphne, warm and bright. Anthony, structured and predictable.
Benedict was another matter entirely.
She did not know when the unease had begun, nor did she care to examine it too closely. It was enough to know that something in him unsettled her; something unstudied, unmeasured. Something that did not ask permission before it existed.
Helena disliked not understanding things. She disliked even more that she did not wish to understand this.
Her gaze lingered on the emerald gown Madame Delacroix had delivered that afternoon, it hung from the wardrobe like a provocation. The fabric was deep and rich, neither garish nor girlish. It did not plead for attention; it commanded it. The cut was appropriate for a widow—elegant, controlled. Respectable.
And yet it felt… dangerous.
Green.
How many years had it been since she wore colour without deliberation? Since before Vauxhall, certainly. Before that—
Five. Five years since the Marquess had died. Five years since the Alderwick title had passed to his cousin. Five years since her seven-year marriage had ended without warning.
Seven years; long enough for something to grow.
Helena closed the wardrobe; she could remember the day with unnatural clarity.
The Alderwick estate had been unusually quiet. Quiet in the way houses become quiet when something irreversible has occurred.
The white sheet had been drawn carefully to his collarbone. Someone had smoothed his hair. Someone had closed his eyes.
She had not been the one to do either.
“I came as fast as I could.” The cousin—now the Marquess—had halted just inside the chamber door. Breathless, pale.
Helena remained seated at the bedside. Etiquette had deserted her; she had not risen, had not curtsied, had not greeted him. Her eyes were swollen, though dry now. She had exhausted tears hours earlier.
“H–How?” he asked.
She swallowed, “He died in his sleep,” she replied evenly. “It was painless.”
That was what the physician had said.
“What could have caused it?”
“A weakness of the heart.”
She reached for Henry’s hand; it was already cold, “He died beside me.”
The words had left her before she could contain them. There had been no grand farewell. No final confession, no time to prepare herself for widowhood.
Only the stillness.
The cousin’s hand had settled carefully on her shoulder, “Rest assured,” he had said quietly, “it was long determined that the estate and title pass to me. Everything else… remains yours.”
She had looked up at him then, “… What?”
“Henry wished it so,” the cousin answered gently. “He would not leave you dependent upon charity. We formalized it some years ago.”
Some years ago.
Helena had not known.
She had turned back to the bed.
Henry; not the Marquess, not Alderwick, not even my Lord.
Just Henry.
She had lowered her forehead against the back of his hand, heedless of its chill.
“You old man,” she had whispered, her own version of a final goodbye.
Five years she mourned the old man. The one she had called husband. Even when the grief had dulled, the colour had remained. Black felt disciplined, appropriate, safe. Anything else felt indulgent. Unruly. Almost disloyal.
Until now.
Helena reopened the wardrobe. Her fingers brushed the hem of the emerald gown. The silk yielded beneath her touch; cool, expensive, deliberate. Too beautiful to remain unworn.
But—
“That is one gorgeous dress.”
Helena turned sharply. Lady Danbury stood at the doorway, already dressed for the ball, cane in hand and expression entirely too knowing.
“My lady,” Helena let the fabric fall, offering a controlled smile, “Forgive me. I did not hear you enter.”
“I seldom announce myself where I am expected,” Lady Danbury replied mildly, “May I?”
“Of course.”
Helena closed the wardrobe as Lady Danbury stepped inside. The older woman’s gaze wandered slowly about the chamber. A faint, almost nostalgic smile touched her lips, “This was your mother’s room.”
“It was,” Helena replied quietly, “Simon asked me recently how I can sleep here, knowing we were born in that bed. And that she…” She stopped, “Died here.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“That it makes me feel closer to her,” Helena exhaled softly, “This room is warmer than the rest of the estate. As though it remembers something gentle.”
Lady Danbury’s expression softened, “Your mother loved the sunrise,” she murmured. “It was the only kindness the duke had ever allowed her.”
Helena’s mouth tightened faintly, “After she passed, he forbade anyone from entering this room,” she said. “It stood untouched for years. I suppose…” She glanced around, almost defensively, “I reclaimed it.”
“For missing your mother?” Lady Danbury placed her hand over Helena’s, “Child, that is not foolishness. That is longing.”
Silence lingered between them.
Then Lady Danbury’s gaze shifted, deliberate, “Why are you not yet dressed?”
Helena’s spine stiffened slightly, “I had considered not attending.”
“Are you unwell?”
“No.” Too quickly. She softened it, “Merely tired.”
Lady Danbury hummed — the dangerous sort, “Does it concern the gown?”
Helena nearly laughed. There was no hiding from her.
“… It is green.”
Lady Danbury blinked once, “Has green become scandalous overnight?”
“No,” Helena exhaled, “It is simply… not black.”
Understanding dawned quietly.
“I see.”
The silence that followed was not sharp. It was weighted.
“My dear,” Lady Danbury said at last, “do you believe the dead require such prolonged demonstrations?”
Helena did not answer. She couldn’t.
“Or,” Lady Danbury continued gently, “do you fear what it means to stop?”
Helena’s smile faltered. After a moment, she broke the silence, “I do not know how to do life without him,” she admitted softly. “Henry was… kind. Steady. He cared for me in ways I had not known were possible.”
Her voice thinned, “And just as I began to see him not as duty… but as husband… he died.”
There it was.
Not grief.
Regret.
“Perhaps,” she whispered, “I am mourning the wasted possibility.”
Lady Danbury did not rush to contradict her. Instead, she lifted Helena’s chin slightly, not forcing, simply anchoring.
“Helena,” she said quietly, “you claim not to know how to live without him.”
A pause.
“And yet you have.”
Five years.
Five winters. Five seasons. Five England Seasons survived.
Helena blinked. She had never framed it that way.
“The Marquess fulfilled his duty,” Lady Danbury continued, “He protected you. Secured your future. Ensured your comfort.”
Her voice softened further, “Now it is your turn.”
“My turn… for what?”
“To seek happiness,” Lady Danbury replied simply. “Whatever form it takes.”
Helena swallowed.
“Wear something new. Choose something new. Allow yourself to feel something new.”
Her thumb brushed lightly against Helena’s cheek, “Grief is love with nowhere to go, child. If you do not direct it elsewhere, it will rot inside you.”
That — that broke something small and tight in Helena’s chest, “… How?” she asked quietly.
Lady Danbury smiled.
“Courage,” she said. “Only a sliver.”
-
Benedict was restless.
The Bridgertons had arrived early to the Ramsbury Ball; Daphne was eager to re-enter society now that she is unchained by Berbrooke. The room had long since filled. The music had swelled, dipped, swelled again.
And still—
He glanced at the entrance.
The duke had already claimed his sister for a dance; they would likely go another round. Benedict loosened his collar slightly, suddenly aware of the noise, the heat, the constant movement of silk and shoulders and expectation.
He told himself he was merely observing.
He was not waiting.
His gaze drifted over the couples on the floor. Familiar faces. Ladies from prior seasons. Gentlemen from clubs and card tables. Nothing new.
And yet something in him felt unfinished; like an abandoned sketch, or a canvas awaiting a stroke he refused to make.
He glanced at the entrance again.
“What has gotten you so tightly wound, brother?” Colin leaned against the wall beside him, grin already forming.
“I am not tightly wound,” Benedict muttered.
“Oh, but you are,” Anthony joined from the other side, maddeningly composed, “Waiting for someone, are you not?”
“I am not waiting for anyone.”
Anthony hummed thoughtfully, “Not even for a certain black-clad dowager marchioness?”
Benedict shot him a look, “What do you mean?”
“We possess eyes,” Colin said cheerfully, “You have not been yourself since that dance.”
“Helena,” Benedict corrected before he could stop himself, “and I are merely acquaintances.”
The name sat differently in his mouth now.
Anthony’s brow lifted, “Acquaintances rarely look so affronted when denied informality.”
“It is only fair,” Benedict said, more sharply than intended, “Why do you and Daphne get to call her Helena while I remain Mr. Bridgerton?”
Colin laughed outright, “Had I known it troubled you so deeply, I should have made greater effort myself. Do you suppose she might call me Colin?”
Anthony laughed as well.
Benedict did not.
He left them to their amusement, muttering something about insufferable siblings, and relocated to another stretch of wall— still within view of the entrance.
Just in case.
He swirled the wine in his glass. Watched the dark red catch candlelight. Anything to quiet the edge beneath his ribs.
The doors opened again.
He looked up without thinking.
Lady Danbury entered first, cane decisive, presence commanding.
Then the crowd shifted. Not dramatically; just enough. Lady Danbury glanced over her shoulder, and extended her arm to someone behind her.
Emerald.
The color registered before the woman did.
Deep. Rich. Unmistakable.
The noise in the room dulled at the edges. Benedict did not understand what had altered—only that something had.
His hand stilled around the stem of his glass when the crowd parted.
And she stepped fully into view.
Helena.
Not in black.
Not restrained.
Emerald traced the line of her shoulders, caught at her waist, fell in deliberate folds to the floor. Jewels at her throat mirrored the shade; subtle, precise, intentional.
She looked—
Different.
Not brighter.
Not louder.
Just… Alive.
He forgot the wine in his hand, forgot the murmuring guests. Forgot, momentarily, the air in his lungs.
Was this why he had been unsettled? Because somewhere beneath reason he had been waiting to see if she would come? If she would—
He did not finish the thought.
She moved beside Lady Danbury with that same measured composure. But something in her posture was unfamiliar. It was not uncertainty.
Choice.
She had chosen this. And that realization unsettled him more than the color.
And then—
She looked at him.
Benedict forgot whatever it was Anthony had been saying.
The ballroom did not quiet — that would have been dramatic and untrue — but something in him did. The chatter dulled at the edges. The scrape of shoes against polished floor faded. Even the orchestra felt distant.
She was not in black; that was the first betrayal.
Emerald.
Not the sharp, bright green of spring leaves — something deeper. Rich. Controlled. It did not scream for attention; it commanded it.
The candles caught in the facets at her throat and scattered light across her collarbone. Her hair had been arranged more deliberately than he had ever seen it — softer around the temples, drawn back with precision.
She was luminous. And she knew it.
That was what unsettled him most. That there was nothing accidental about this appearance.
He realized, with a jolt, that he had expected her not to come. He had been watching the door for nearly half an hour. Not waiting, he had told himself. Merely observing, her told himself again.
Liar.
Colin nudged him in the ribs, “Close your mouth, Ben.”
Benedict shut it immediately.
“Go,” Anthony muttered, low enough that only he could hear, “Before someone else does.”
He did not need telling twice.
He crossed the floor with what he hoped passed for composure. He did not rush. He did not weave recklessly through the crowd. He moved as any gentleman would.
Only his pulse betrayed him.
She finished greeting an elderly baroness before he reached her. She did not turn toward him immediately. When she did, it was deliberate.
Measured.
She had seen him staring.
He bowed, “Lady Alderwick.”
Formal. Safer.
Her gaze met his, direct, steady. The brightness of the ballroom made everything clearer. There was no garden dusk to soften her features tonight. He could see the faint tension along her jaw, the careful stillness in her shoulders.
She was braced, “Mr. Bridgerton.”
Ah. There it was. The distance. He felt it physically.
“You look well,” he said.
Coward. Cowardly, bland words.
Her brow lifted almost imperceptibly, “That is kind of you.”
Not Helena. Lady Alderwick.
He adjusted, “The color suits you,” he tried again, quieter now, “It does not overpower.”
He watched the smallest shift in her breathing. Saw the way her fingers tightened once at her side before stilling, “I was not aware green required courage,” she replied.
It was a shield.
He recognized one when he saw it.
“It does not,” he said, “But wearing it might.”
Her gaze flickered; not away, but through him. Assessing, measuring. She always does that, he noticed.
He became acutely aware of the room watching her; watching them.
Simon was on the other side of the ballroom, mid-conversation, but the duke’s eyes had already found her. Protective, sharp.
Benedict felt something unfamiliar then. Not rivalry.
Not quite.
Possessiveness was too crude a word, but something in him did not like the idea that everyone else could look.
“May I have this dance?” he asked.
He did not extend his hand immediately. He waited. The pause stretched, not long enough for impropriety, but long enough to feel intentional.
She was deciding.
Not whether she could dance. Whether she should.
Finally, she placed her hand in his. Without another word.
He exhaled slowly as he guided her into position.
The orchestra swelled. They moved. She did not falter in step; of course she did not. She never did.
But he could feel it — the difference from Vauxhall. This was not shadow and mischief and accidental closeness. This was exposure. The chandeliers burned overhead. Every movement was visible.
“You are uncomfortable,” he murmured.
It was not accusation.
Observation.
Her chin lifted slightly, “Am I?”
He almost smiled, “Yes.”
That earned him a look.
Sharp.
“You mistake composure for discomfort.”
“No,” he said quietly, “I mistake neither.”
A turn. Her skirt fanned out in a sweep of green that caught his peripheral vision and held it hostage. He had thought the absence of black would simply be aesthetic. He had been wrong.
This was not merely color. This was change.
“You did not come to the picnic,” he said, before he could stop himself. Her hand remained steady in his. “I required rest.”
“And tonight?”
“I require air.”
He nearly laughed at that, “And you chose a ballroom.”
Her eyes met his again. There it was; that silence. That weight.
He realized something then — something he did not entirely like. He was not undone because she wore green. He was undone because she had chosen it. Because it meant something, and because she had decided to be seen.
And because she was letting him witness it.
The music slowed.
He tightened his hold infinitesimally as they turned; an instinctive correction of balance. Her breath hitched. He felt it. Not imagined it—actually felt it.
He should have stepped back then. Yet, he did not.
“Helena,” he said.
He had not meant to. He had meant to wait; to earn it properly. But the name left him before he could catch it.
She stilled.
He watched the moment register; watched her spine straighten by a fraction. She had been called that all evening, he knew. But this—
This was different.
He saw it. And suddenly he understood something terrifying: he wanted to say it again.
And then he felt it— the slight tightening of her fingers against his.
The music ended, applause rippled, and he released her.
Too late. Not late enough.
“Thank you for the dance… Benedict,” she replied.
His name in her voice was steadier than hers had been moments ago. She stepped back first; of course she did.
And before he could form whatever reckless thing had begun building behind his teeth, she was gone; slipping into the crowd with that perfect, infuriating composure of hers.
He stood where she left him.
Anthony reappeared at his side, “Well?” his brother asked.
Benedict watched the green disappear through silk and candlelight.
“I am in trouble,” he said quietly.
And for once, Anthony did not laugh.
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