As they neared the dining room, she slowed to a stop, turning to face him. “I have given some thought to our conversation at the museum,” she said calmly, “and I believe I have reached the only logical conclusion.”
He stopped too. “Have you now?”
She inclined her head, her expression unreadable, her composure flawless. “You were close with my father once. Given my present circumstances, I imagine you feel some sense of obligation toward me. Your concern, though admirable, is unnecessary, Your Grace. I assure you I shall manage perfectly well on my own.”
“I think you have the wrong idea—”
“I doubt that I do.”
“Elowen, I can assure you that—”
“It’sMissTremaine, Your Grace,” she corrected smoothly.
He exhaled in frustration. “Miss Tremaine, while I understand why you may think that—”
“Good. Then we are of one mind. I am glad we have settled it so amicably.”
And with that, she was gone—sweeping past him before he could utter another word, her brother holding the door open for her. William caught Lucas’s eye as she passed, curiosity written plain across his face. Lucas could only manage a curt nod in return.
The company had already taken their seats by the time he entered. Elowen sat beside her mother—directly across from him. He could not decide whether that was a mercy or a torment.
She ignored him entirely. Not once did she glance up as the first course was served and conversation began to flow. She answered Lady Westbrook’s questions with grace but little warmth, the picture of polite restraint—so unlike her brother, who charmed the entire table with ease.
He could not make sense of her. What did she hope to gain by such reserve? It was plain she took little pleasure in the evening, yet surely she was resolved to make the most of this Season. Would that not require at least the pretence of good humour—a smile here, a pleasant word there—to ensure further invitations?
Or perhaps she saw no need for it. Perhaps, with Henry’s evident devotion to Catherine, she believed his own attentions born of pity rather than genuine interest.
The notion unsettled him more than he cared to admit. And worse still was the question that followed—would she have been so cold had the invitation come from the Marquess of Cherrington instead?
Dinner passed pleasantly enough for everyone else. For Lucas, it was a test of endurance—an exercise in trying not to stare too long, or too openly. But when Lady Westbrook at last suggested they adjourn to the drawing room, he felt a flicker of purpose again.
This evening had not gone to plan—but it was far from over.
“Catherine, why do you not play for us?” the Dowager Duchess suggested as soon as they had all gathered in the drawing room. She held an untouched glass of sherry and turned a proud smile toward Lady Westbrook. “Catherine is quite accomplished at all instruments, you know.”
“All instruments?” Henry echoed, one brow rising in disbelief.
Catherine lifted her chin as she stood. “Do you find that so difficult to believe, my lord?”
“Perhaps the pianoforte and the harp. Or even the cello. Any self-respecting lady should be able to hold her own with at least one or two of those instruments. Butall?Every instrument?” Henry shook his head, looking around the room. “Surely that is an exaggeration.”
“Why should it be?”
The quiet challenge came from Elowen. Her tone was mild, but every head turned toward her. Lucas caught the quick, warning glance Lady Trenton shot her daughter—clearly anticipating what would follow.
Henry shifted in his seat. “Well... surely it is impossible, is it not?”
“Impossible?” Elowen tilted her head, her gaze steady. “Why so? Surely not because Miss Beaumont is a woman?”
“Of course not, Miss Tremaine!” Henry said hastily, colour rising in his cheeks. “I merely meant that there are so very many instruments—no one person could master them all, especially so young.”
“Then perhaps she is a prodigy,” Elowen replied lightly, one shoulder lifting in a delicate shrug. “That would explain the matter quite neatly, would it not? And I doubt Her Grace would exaggerate on something so unlikely.”
Lucas spoke before Henry could gather an answer. “If it is so unlikely, Miss Tremaine, then surely it is no wonder Henry questioned it.”
Elowen’s eyes slid to him. Lucas’s jaw tightened. There were emotions smouldering behind them, ones he couldn’t quite decipher. “Would you have done the same, Your Grace, had such a claim been made of me by my mother?”
She was putting him on the spot. Lucas didn’t mind all that much. He'd never been one to cave under pressure. “Perhaps not outright,” he said evenly. “But my hesitation would be born not of disbelief, only of the knowledge that you do not seem overly fond of me—unlike Catherine and Henry, who appear to be fast friends.”
