You are. And you know it perfectly well.
She offered a small, noncommittal smile. “It is kind of you to say so.”
“So kind, indeed, that I must beg you to accept this.” He reached into his coat and withdrew a small leather-bound volume. “A book of poetry. I saw it this morning and thought instantly of you. Fate must have had a hand in our meeting again so soon.”
Elowen blinked, accepting the little book with care. “That is… most generous of you, my lord. You need not—”
“Oh, but I insist. I am certain it will please you.”
She tentatively took it. She did love poetry—yet somehow, receiving such a gift from him felt less a kindness than a complication. “You are very thoughtful, my lord. I thank you.”
“The pleasure is mine,” said Lord Cherrington, casting a brief glance over his shoulder—toward the Duke, perhaps? She could not tell. A faint smirk touched his lips before he tugged her closer to him, patting her hand. “Now, Miss Tremaine, let me tell you about my day...”
Elowen allowed her attention to drift. The marquess’s voice became a dull murmur against the hum of the park. Whatever satisfaction he took in his own speech, she found little in it. Yetwith the gift of the book and his overt attentions, she could not help but wonder—perhaps, after all, this Season might not prove the hopeless disaster she had feared.
Chapter Five
Sitting in the library with her father had once been a peaceful ritual. She would sit by the bay window with a book of poetry, underlining the lines she loved and circling those she did not, while her father pored over papers she was too young to comprehend. As she grew older, she began to help him balance his ledgers—numbers having become one of her few unshakable strengths—and he would tell her of his business affairs.
How different things were now. Their easy conversation had given way to silences broken only by his intermittent coughs. Instead of working at his side, she sat by the same window, a random book in hand, reading nothing—her attention fixed entirely upon her father.
He was hunched over the desk, fingers pressed to his temples. Whether it was a megrim or something worse, she could not tell. He would never admit to either. Each time she asked, Papa merely waved her off and said it was nothing—only to dissolve into another fit of coughing that made her heart twist.
So for now, she remained silent.
“If you’re going to pretend to read, you might at least turn a page now and then.”
Elowen looked up. Her father’s attempt at humour only deepened her concern; the weariness in his eyes hurt her to see.
“I was too busy counting the seconds between your coughing fits,” she said, closing her book. “At present, we stand at one minute and fifteen—”
He coughed twice more into his elbow.
“They are becoming more frequent, Papa,” she said gently, though anxiety crept into her tone. “Perhaps I should send for the physician.”
“Don’t bother. He’ll only give me something that will put me to sleep for the rest of the day.”
“And would that be so dreadful?”
“I have work to do.”
“Then let me do it for you.” She rose and crossed to his desk. “You know I am more than capable of handling the smaller tasks.”
“You shouldn’t have to concern yourself with such things,” Papa said, waving a dismissive hand.
Elowen sighed and sank into the armchair opposite. “It is not your work that concerns me, Father—it isyou.Your health worsens by the day, and you seem determined to ignore it.”
“Why bother if I have you to...” He broke off when he caught the look she gave him—equal parts exasperation and warning. He cleared his throat. “All right, you are right. But I am in no mood to sleep the day away. Perhaps a walk in the garden will do my lungs some good.”
He pushed himself to his feet, bracing his hands on the chair. The effort triggered another violent cough, and Elowen was beside him in an instant, though she could do little but steady him. There was nothing she hated more than her own helplessness.
“Or perhaps,” he rasped, sinking back into the chair, “I should wait a moment.”
Elowen reluctantly returned to her seat. “Father, perhaps it was a mistake to participate in the Season this year. It keeps me away from home, and I should never forgive myself if something were to happen while Mother or I were gone.”
“Elowen, I am perfectly capable of looking after myself.”
“Yes—spoken by the man who must betrickedinto taking his medicine.”
