Chapter One
Elowen Tremaine wished to be anywhere else but here.
At that moment, observing her from across the room, Lucas could be convinced of nothing else. She'd changed since she’d first walked into the ballroom of Beaushire Hall. Her gentle smile was dimmer, her shoulders slightly slumped. Every now and again, she glanced at the door as if wishing for an escape before reengaging herself in the conversation with the older woman standing with her and her father. She was quite adept at hiding it, he must confess. But he’d been watching Elowen long enough to know her tells by now.
Lucas absently plucked a glass of wine from the tray of a footman who wandered by, not taking his eyes off Elowen for a second. Hosting the evening’s ball had, at least, afforded him one small mercy: the privilege of greeting the Tremaine family upon their arrival. Since that moment, he had kept Elowen within sight, attuned to each subtle shift in her expression, each flicker of her waning spirits.
All for noble reasons, of course. He would never stare at a lady in any other circumstance.
Still, it helped that Elowen was a sight for sore eyes. Her rich brown hair—flashing auburn beneath the chandeliers—was piled high in a tumble of curls, a few soft tendrils framing her heart-shaped face. Her eyes, ever shifting with her mood, must tonight glow a weary shade of tawny brown; yet he could recall times when they gleamed a lively green, most often when she smiled—or laughed. He supposed most would describe them as hazel, but he was not like most men.
Her frame was small, almost dwarfed by her father’s tall stature, and she had a lovely, glowing complexion akin to that of a porcelain doll.
She was, by society’s measure, a diamond.
It was a pity she was shadowed by a scandal.
It was the only reason Lucas watched her. The Tremaine family stood apart from everyone else, outcasts in many ways. He could see the burden of that infamy in the eyes of Eric Tremaine—Baron Trenton—once esteemed, now branded a corrupt parliamentarian. He studied the lady speaking with them with a hint of wariness that Lucas was almost certain no one else noticed. William Tremaine, the baron’s son and Elowen’s younger brother, was away at Oxford, and Lady Trenton had pleaded illness and remained at home.
Only father and daughter stood to face the scrutiny of the masses.
“What are you staring at so intently?”
“Goodness—” Lucas nearly jumped out of his skin, his wine sloshing dangerously close to the edge of the rim. He looked over to see his cousin once removed, Miss Catherine Beaumont, staring up at him with innocent eyes. Their resemblance still startled him at times—both possessed dark, near-black hair and striking blue eyes.
“Did I frighten you?” she asked, tilting her head.
“You know good and well you did that on purpose,” Lucas grumbled.
Catherine’s lips curved into mischief. “I would never dream of it,” she said sweetly. “So? What were you staring at so intently? Or, rather, whom?”
Lucas was already turning his back to her, not needing her to finish the question. A part of him hoped she would take the hint and leave him be—or, at the very least, grow so offended by his brusque dismissal that she might forget her inquiry altogether. But Catherine had been residing at Beaushire Hall for nearly one year now, so Lucas had grown to understand his cousin’s ways.
Which meant, of course, that she followed close at his heels.
“Why are you avoiding the question?”
“I am not avoiding anything,” he muttered.
Catching sight of Henry across the room, Lucas made a beeline for him, hoping to shake Catherine off in the process.
“Yes, you are,” she insisted, gathering her skirts and all but trotting after him, undeterred. “It is an easy enough question to answer, you know.”
He knew. But there was no possible way to tell her the truth—and not a single believable lie sprang to mind.
No one needs to know how closely I watch the Tremaine family. They would not understand.
“Should you not be partaking in this dance set?” he asked. Henry had already noticed his approach and raised an eyebrow, clearly discerning the urgency in Lucas’s expression. “This ball was thrown for you, Catherine. You should be making the most of it.”
“And while I acknowledge and appreciate that,” she said, “I am tired. I have been dancing all evening. My feet ache.”
Lucas bit back a retort, guilt pricking him instead. Catherine had become his ward nearly a year ago, after her parents were lost in a carriage accident. Despite the tragedy, she had arrived at Beaushire with a spirited determination to make the best of her first Season.
‘It was all they ever hoped for,’she would often say.
Lucas only wanted to see her well settled. Yet at eight-and-twenty, still learning the weight of his new title as Duke of Beaushire, Lucas was barely managing his own affairs—let alone guiding another through the labyrinth of society. His father’s death remained a constant shadow in his mind.
Catherine deserved a guardian of steady wisdom. Instead, she had one who seemed to solve every problem by throwing money at it.
