At least, she had meant to read. Perhaps she ought instead to have prepared for the Hartwell ball or answered the letters she had long promised to reply to. Instead, she sat motionless, her gaze fixed on the darkened corner of the room, her thoughts circling the events of the day.
Victor’s eyes lingered in her mind—the way they had swept the room, not with admiration, but with calculation. He had been taking stock of his surroundings, committing every detail to memory. But why?
There was something about him she could not name, and it unsettled her more than she cared to admit.
Inevitably, her thoughts drifted back to the Duke. She saw again the museum—the way he had stood, hands clasped behind his back, looking at her as though she were a painting, as though he alone could see the colours that made her who she was. Then came the dinner at Westbrook House, and their conversation after…
Good grief, why could she not put him from her mind?
With him, she had felt—what? Alive. Aware. Seen, perhaps, but that may very well be because he looked at her as if she were the only person he could see.
Victor’s attentions left her colder than before. Lucas warmed—and frustrated—her in ways she did not know how to name.
She pressed her hand against her chest, alarmed by the way her heart quickened at the memory.
The floor creaked, and she twisted to see William standing in the doorway. His hair was rumpled, looking dishevelled. “You are still awake?”
“So are you,” she returned gently.
He came to the fire, stirring the embers until they glowed brighter. “I cannot rest. My mind keeps circling back to what I saw at the club last night.”
“Why?” she asked quietly. “Why is it so important to you?”
William sighed. “Perhaps one day you will understand.”
Elowen bristled but said nothing. How was she to understand when no one ever explained anything to her? Yet she was too tired to argue.
“And now Lord Cherrington…” William shook his head. “There is something about him that I simply do not like.”
Elowen folded her hands. “Do you trust him?”
“The marquess?” William gave a short, mirthless laugh. “Not for a moment. Do you?”
She gave a small, wry smile. “I am not yet certain.”
He looked at her, his expression softening. “You see more clearly than Mother does. She wishes to think well of people.”
“She wishes to keep the peace,” Elowen corrected gently. “And she wants nothing more than to see me married—however impossible that may be. It is not quite the same.”
William’s mouth tightened. “I worry for you. He courts your attention too openly. If you do not want him—”
“I do not,” Elowen said simply.
William nodded once, as though that settled it. “Then we will find a way to be rid of him. Carefully.”
Elowen did not answer. Her thoughts had already returned to Victor’s slip near the study door. Perhaps it had meant nothing—a simple mistake, easily explained. And yet, something about it lingered, quiet and unsettling. What had he been about to do—and why the need to hide it?
“You seem tired, sister. You should go to bed.”
“I might say the same of you, little brother.”
William groaned. “Will you never stop calling me that? I am a man now, you know.”
She smiled faintly. “Yes, but you will always be my younger brother.”
He huffed a laugh, rolling his eyes as he rose. “Goodnight, Elowen.”
“Goodnight, William.”
