“I could have sworn I felt a draft just now,” she said innocently. When he narrowed his eyes, she stepped back, her grin widening. “Or perhaps not. We should follow, should we not? Miss Tremaine isin your care, after all.”
What he truly wanted was to stride after Lord Cherrington and tear Elowen from his grasp. But he could hardly make a scene; she would loathe the attention it brought. She was already watched closely enough, and she bore the scrutiny of society like a weight upon her shoulders.
So, he mastered his temper and followed at a distance, beside Catherine and Henry, his gaze fixed on Elowen and the marquess ahead.
He told himself it was strategy that kept his attention on her—though he wasn’t entirely certain he believed it.
Chapter Seven
The next morning brought precisely what Elowen had expected of it—silence, despite the fact that the Tremaine name was once again splashed across the scandal sheets.
She read the column dedicated to her and her outing with the Duke of Beaushire, feeling oddly calm. It wasn’t the reaction she had anticipated upon learning she was fast becoming the talk of the town. When her parents had insisted she partake in this year’s Season, her single aim had been to remain unseen—to give society no reason to speak of her. Because if they did, it would only dredge up the disgrace that had ruined them years ago.
Yet here she was, her name now linked not only to one of London’s most influential gentlemen, but to two—the Duke of Beaushire and the Marquess of Cherrington.
At least the article had not been unkind. It mentioned her father’s scandal, naturally, several times, but did so in a tone of curiosity rather than cruelty, remarking upon how the disgraced daughter of Lord Trenton had somehow found herself worthy of attention from not one but two men of consequence. The writer seemed intrigued, not derisive, which was something. Still, it meant she would now be watched far more closely. Every word, every expression, every dance would be weighed and judged.
She didn’t like the pressure.
“What’s that you’ve got there?”
Elowen looked up sharply. She hadn’t noticed her mother enter the drawing room, but the baroness was now settling herself on the sofa, embroidery hoop in hand.
Elowen considered lying. It would only delay the inevitable. The only reason her mother hadn’t read the paper first was that she had spent the morning at her husband’s bedside. He’dbeen too unwell to rise, and the house had been unusually still because of it.
“A scandal sheet,” Elowen admitted at last.
Mama froze mid-stitch, her head snapping up. “What does it say?” she asked in a half-whisper.
“Nothing dreadful,” Elowen said quickly. “It merely reports that I have been seen in the company of the Duke of Beaushire on several occasions—and speculates that we may be courting.”
The relief that flooded her mother’s face pinched Elowen’s heart. “Well, that is good news, is it not? Or at least, not as bad as it might have been.”
Since they both knew how bad itcouldhave been, Elowen could hardly fault her for saying so. But she wasn’t nearly so heartened.
“Only we are not courting, Mama,” she reminded gently. “And it is only a matter of time before the ton realises that. I shudder to think what they will say then.”
“Oh, there is no need to be so pessimistic, my dear. You and the Duke seem quite taken with one another…” She trailed off, noticing the look of incredulity her daughter gave her, and laughed lightly. “Very well—perhapsyouare not taken withhim, but his attention must surely mean he intends to court you.”
Elowen turned to the window. Somehow, it felt like a lie not to contradict her mother’s optimism. She was not enamoured with the Duke. She knew better than to lose her head over a handsome face and a smile that could stop hearts. She was not some naïve debutante dazzled by wealth and charm.
And yet… she could not deny that she did not entirely dislike his company either.
Lucas... She should be warier of him since she didn’t know what his true purpose was. But, somehow, she’d let her guard slip for half a moment and caught herself actually enjoying his company at the museum the previous day. Goodness, she had tobe more careful or else she might find herself in an irreparable position, which was the very last thing this family could handle.
“And truly, Elowen,” her mother went on, “I cannot imagine why you are not more excited. The Duke of Beaushire is an extraordinary prospect. Every young lady in London must be green with envy that he pays you any mind at all, when he has long declared himself uninterested in marriage.”
“If he is not in the market for a wife, Mother, then it is clear he does not wish to marry me.”
“Perhaps he changed his mind when he first saw you. Perhaps it was love at first—”
“Oh, for pity’s sake, Mama, please do not speak such folly. You will only break your own heart.”
Margaret sighed, setting her embroidery in her lap. “I am your mother, Elowen. I cannot help but hope. What of Lord Cherrington, then? You saw him yesterday, did you not? Have you grown any fonder of him?”
Elowen smiled faintly. Her mother’s persistence was almost endearing. “He was quite… kind.”
“Kind,” Margaret echoed, sighing again. “So you do not like him.”
