It is rare that this author finds herself speechless. Yet the events of the Royal Midnight Ball have left even this quill trembling with thrill and speculation.
Her Royal Highness, the luminous Princess Helena, stunned not only with her daring guest list, but with her chosen partner for the evening's first waltz: Lord Jamie Harrington. A man not sanctioned by the council, not whispered about in drawing rooms—and yet, the only one to hold her gaze with such brazen, breathtaking familiarity.
Their chemistry was not merely imagined, dear readers. This author witnessed every turn, every brush of fingers, every glance cloaked as etiquette.
And if one dance can set fire to a ballroom, what might follow next?
Lady Whittleby's Society Papers
12 March, 1812
---
The golden light of late morning poured through the towering windows of the Harrington estate, painting streaks across the polished mahogany floors. Jamie stood near the hearth in his father's study, freshly shaven and far more tense than he let on.
His father, Viscount Harrington, sat in his grand leather chair, cane resting against his leg, eyes sharp beneath silver brows.
"You've caused quite the storm, son."
Jamie folded his arms. "If that's about the ball, I didn't start the fire."
"No," the Viscount said, "but you danced in the middle of it."
A pause.
Then the elder man leaned forward. "I'm not here to scold you. I'm here to pass the torch."
Jamie blinked. "What?"
"You're to take over the viscountcy. Fully. I will remain in name only. The responsibilities are yours."
Jamie straightened. "Why now?"
"Because you're in the public eye, boy. The Princess danced with you, not some idle son. You must stand as her equal—socially, politically, publicly. I won't have the Harrington name whispered as a joke. If you mean to play this game, you must carry the title."
Jamie looked away for a long beat.
"I accept," he said quietly.
The Viscount nodded once. Then, in a rare moment of warmth, he added, "And for what it's worth, I think she sees something in you the rest of them missed."
Jamie's new status traveled through society faster than gossip at teatime.
By midafternoon, he was no longer "Lord Jamie," but the newly appointed Viscount Harrington.
Which is exactly the title Helena's cousin, Lord Lionel Faulkner, used when he approached Jamie that evening at the Duke of Wexham's gallery viewing.
"Viscount Harrington," Lionel said with a smile, holding a glass of claret. "Or may I still call you Jamie?"
Jamie returned the smile. "Depends. Are you here to duel or drink?"
Lionel chuckled. "Neither. Merely to observe. You're the talk of every salon between here and Bath, you know. The Princess and her scandalous suitor."
Jamie sipped his wine. "I never aimed to become notorious."
"Ah, but you danced with our golden girl. That'll do it."
He leaned in slightly. "I care about her, you know."
Lionel raised a brow. "Then don't hurt her. Because some of us may seem like disinterested aristocrats, but family is still family."
Jamie nodded. "Understood."
Later that evening, in a quieter part of the gallery, Helena and Jamie stood before a painting of Diana and Actaeon.
"She turned him into a stag," Helena said, "because he saw too much."
Jamie tilted his head. "Do you often threaten transformation?"
"Only when cornered."
He glanced at her. "Are you cornered now?"
She turned to face him fully. "Not with you."
Their eyes locked.
Jamie lowered his voice. "I accepted the title. My father stepped aside."
Helena blinked. "So you're Viscount now."
"I am."
Her expression softened. "You didn't have to."
"But I wanted to stand beside you. And for that, I need more than charm and conviction. I need power."
Helena touched his hand. "You already have what I value most."
"What's that?"
"Truth."
Their hands lingered. Neither noticed the figure watching from the alcove behind them.
Lady Verity Ashton, once the belle of Jamie's early years and now spurned by his affections, watched the interaction with a smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"So this is how it ends," she murmured.
At Lady Penrose's salon two days later, she let her voice rise just enough as she held her teacup with the elegance of a born noblewoman and the tension of a woman scorned
"Of course, the Princess is known for her… unconventional preferences."
A trio of women turned to listen.
Verity sipped. "Dancing with a man thrice at a royal ball? I'm sure it was out of pity. Or perhaps rebellion."
Another sip.
"But then, Lord Harrington has always had a flair for attracting women above his station."
There were gasps. Laughter. Raised brows.
And, within hours, the gossip made its way across every salon and teahouse in the city.
Helena heard it first from Nara.
"Verity's tongue has gone from silver to venom," she said, dropping onto the palace settee with a sigh. "She's framing you as desperate."
Helena merely blinked. "Let her."
"You're not going to respond?"
"I already have."
Nara blinked. "How?"
Helena rose, walked to the window, and looked out over the palace gardens. "The next royal event will be held in Verity's family estate's shadow. She will host it. I will attend. And I will smile."
"That's your strategy?"
Helena turned slowly. "Let the crowd compare us. Side by side. Watch who they follow."
Nara's grin was sly. "You are deliciously terrifying."
"I've learned from the best."
By the next morning, whispers began to spiral. That Jamie had used his connection to Helena to secure the viscountcy. That he was still entangled with Verity. That the Princess had been seduced, not courted.
Lady Whittleby, ever the observer, did not print the rumors—yet. But her pen hovered.
And Helena, hearing the whispers as she entered her carriage that day, clenched her jaw.
"They want to paint him as a villain," she said.
"Then," Nara replied, "we must give them a different ending."
The Ashton Estate was a marvel of manicured symmetry and understated wealth. Its manicured terraces and long marble corridors served as the backdrop for the annual "Verity Garden Soirée"—a gathering renowned for its exclusive guest list and even more exclusive gossip. Tonight, however, it bore an unusual weight.
Everyone had heard. Everyone had read between the lines.
Lady Verity Ashton, dressed in pearl-stitched mint silk and diamonds that sparkled like frost, greeted her guests with a polished smile that masked the storm raging beneath. Tonight was meant to reclaim her place at the center. To show the world that a flame—once extinguished—could still burn the brightest.
What she hadn't anticipated was that Helena would arrive early.
The Princess of the British empire did not wait to be received. She swept into the garden as though it were her personal court, her gown of deep red silk catching the breeze like a banner, her chin tilted in elegant disregard for every murmuring lip.
"She wore red," someone whispered.
"To Verity's own event," another gasped.
"She's not just making a statement," came the third voice. "She is the statement."
By the time Helena reached the pergola, her presence had already fractured the atmosphere. Verity descended the terrace steps with a bright smile, arms outstretched.
"Your Highness, what an unexpected delight!"
Helena offered a smile that carried the sharpness of a blade wrapped in velvet.
"Lady Ashton. Your hospitality is legendary. I would not dream of missing it."
"Oh," Verity laughed, "but I fear you've stolen the very breath from my event. Red, is it? Such a bold choice."
Helena glanced at the garden crowd, then down at her gown. "Boldness is often mistaken for rebellion, I'm told. But I've found it's rather useful in rooms full of whispers."
Verity's smile tightened. "Some might call it desperate."
Helena tilted her head gently, her voice low and calm. "Desperation often dances with envy. They step on each other's toes."
A pause.
"Shall we walk?"
The two women glided down the path, every eye trailing them, every ear stretching to catch meaning behind their smiles. The conversation that followed was an exquisite chess match of insinuations, decorum, and veiled truths.
Verity gestured to the floral archway. "You've been quite… generous with your attention lately."
"Generosity is my birthright," Helena said.
"To a certain Viscount, I mean."
Helena looked over her shoulder at the crowd, where Jamie had just arrived, dressed immaculately and greeted by a flurry of bows and curtsies.
She didn't look at Verity as she said, "Some men inspire loyalty. Others inspire fiction. The difference lies in whether one writes from love or resentment."
Verity's smile faltered—just for a beat. But that was all Helena needed.
Jamie had not planned to come, but he had not missed the implications of silence. If he stayed away, the rumors would win. If he appeared, he had to make a decision—stand in her corner or step aside.
And there she was.
Red as war. Calm as a queen.
He watched as Helena navigated the garden with Verity on her arm, the two women offering a masterclass in royal civility and aristocratic venom. It would've been amusing if it weren't so dangerous.
Juliette appeared beside him with a champagne flute. "Well. You've stepped into the lion's den."
"I brought steak," Jamie muttered.
Juliette smirked. "Careful. Verity has claws. And she's not fond of being left."
"I didn't leave her," he said. "I walked away remember?."
"Then let's hope Helena walks toward something worth the fallout."
As the sun dipped, the party turned from garden to drawing room, where music played and wine flowed freely.
Jamie found himself cornered by two elderly baronesses discussing the scandal as if he were deaf.
"…he's a good-looking one, but terribly ambitious. Just like his father."
"I heard the council had to approve his new title personally. Imagine the sway she must have."
Jamie clenched his jaw. But before he could respond, Lionel Faulkner slipped between them with a grin.
"Pardon me, ladies. I'm stealing the Viscount."
He guided Jamie away, voice low. "You'll need thicker skin than that. Or a sharper sword."
"I'm not afraid of rumors."
"Good," Lionel said. "Because they're not slowing down. Verity's planting them like tulips."
Jamie scanned the room. "And Helena?"
"She's playing the long game. Her presence here tonight has already split the room in two."
Jamie nodded. "Then it's time I chose a side."
Meanwhile, in a marble-columned corridor just outside the music room, Helena stood beside the Duchess of Sutherland, discussing architecture with studied elegance when Jamie approached.
He bowed. "Your Highness."
She turned with the softness of surprise that was anything but.
"Viscount."
"Would you walk with me?" he asked, quietly.
The Duchess raised a brow, then drifted away.
Helena followed Jamie through a side corridor and into a quiet alcove, where the garden lights flickered through latticed windows.
They stood in silence for a moment.
"She's making it difficult," Jamie said.
"I've had worse."
He exhaled. "They're saying I used you."
Helena looked at him. "Did you?"
"No."
"Then stop letting their words feel like truth."
Jamie looked away. "Sometimes it's not about believing them. It's about what they make others believe."
Helena stepped closer, her voice like silk over steel. "I've had enough of others deciding what I should believe."
Their eyes met again. And the space between them charged like storm air.
He reached for her hand, but didn't touch her yet. "You know I didn't plan for this."
"But you didn't run from it either," she replied.
That was her indirect invitation. Her confrontation not with fire, but with presence. With certainty.
He finally took her hand.
And in the stillness of the alcove, under the weight of eyes they could not see, Helena whispered:
"Let them write what they will. But let them write it after they've seen us stand side by side."
Jamie's fingers tightened around hers.
"Then let's give them something to write about."
---
What happens when power meets pride? When scandal meets silence? This author has watched courts rise and fall, alliances form and crumble. But rarely has she seen such poised confrontation, such delicate warfare.
Lady Verity plays
with shadows. But Princess Helena?
She walks with light.
And the man beside her? The newly appointed Viscount Harrington?
Well—perhaps he was not invited to the first council list…
But he may well rewrite the second.
Lady Whittleby's Society Papers 13 March, 1812 – Private Supplement