“Oh, what a pity they could not join us,” Lady Trenton said quickly, perhaps sensing her daughter’s unease. “But we must not waste such a fine day—especially since Your Grace was kind enough to come yourself. Elowen has been looking forward to it all morning.”
“Have I?” Elowen murmured beneath her breath.
Lady Trenton gave her daughter an unsubtle nudge and turned a bright smile upon Lucas. “Shall we?”
“Indeed,” he said, offering a courteous bow.
He followed them out, acutely aware of Elowen’s silence beside him—and of his own determination to keep his motives carefully veiled.
It was a risk, seeking her company like this. If he were not careful, she would mistake his intentions entirely. And though it was not untrue that she intrigued him, there were far graver reasons behind his interest.
There was something sinister afoot in London—something that had caused the ruin of the Baron of Trenton and the death of his own father.
And Lucas had a feeling that Elowen Tremaine might be the key to uncovering it.
Chapter Six
“You have been awfully quiet, Miss Tremaine. Is everything quite all right?”
Elowen thinned her lips, resisting the urge to let the truth escape. She didn’t want to be here—he must have known that much already—but honesty with the Duke would only earn her a scolding from her mother later.
So she did what she did best: she pretended. “I am perfectly well, Your Grace.”
“No, you are not.”
Her irritation pricked sharper. She drifted toward the display of antique vases, feigning interest in the accompanying plaques though she was acutely aware of the Duke beside her. Unsurprisingly, they were attracting a good deal of attention—far too much for her liking, though no doubt enough to please her mother. That same mother who, at the last possible moment, had claimed that their butler had indeed more than enough work to occupy him, and that it would be best for her to remain at home to tend to Papa herself, sending a maid in her stead.
This meant that, for all intents and purposes, Elowen and the Duke of Beaushire were alone. The maid followed several paces behind, silent as a shadow, which would do nothing to stop tomorrow’s scandal sheets from writing precisely what they pleased.
Honestly, Elowen might have admired her mother’s quick thinking if she hadn’t been so annoyed by it.
And the Duke—good grief—was paying her far too much attention. She could not make sense of his motives.
Realising he was still waiting for her to speak, she said lightly, “Is it not natural for one to be silent while admiring such beautiful history?”
“Perhaps so—if that were truly what you were doing.”
“Are you suggesting I am lying?”
“I am suggesting you are hiding something.”
Elowen stopped walking. She clasped her hands behind her back to conceal how tightly they curled. They were in public—she was painfully aware of it. It was, in fact, one of the reasons her temper frayed so easily. She hated the mask she had to wear, the constant tiptoeing lest she give society further cause to sneer.
And blast it, the handsome man beside her was testing every ounce of her composure.
“Your Grace,” she said at last, her voice level, “may I ask you a question?”
“Of course you may. As a matter of fact, there is nothing I would like more.”
“Did Miss Beaumont truly decide not to join us today?”
The Duke clasped his hands behind his back again. Now that they’d stopped walking, she had no choice but to face him—and immediately wished she hadn’t. Up close, his handsomeness was almost disarming enough to make her forget her annoyance.
“Well, I certainly didn’t tie her to her bedpost to keep her from coming,” he drawled.
Elowen couldn’t tell if he meant to be amusing, but she certainly wasn’t amused. “And Her Grace? What reason did she have for staying behind?”
“She felt unwell.”
