The Dowager Duchess sat nearby with her mending, her expression a blend of amusement and quiet fondness as she observed the scene. When Henry at last managed the passage without stumbling, she gave a delighted clap, and he exclaimed, his voice alight with triumph, “I did it!”
Catherine beamed at him, her eyes bright with pride. “Yes—and very well too. Shall we continue?”
Their heads bent close again, Catherine’s exuberance tempered by Henry’s measured calm. The rhythm of theircompanionship was unforced, natural, as though they had always balanced one another in such fashion.
Lucas lingered a moment longer, unseen. A pang stirred in him—not envy exactly, but something close. Not for Catherine’s laughter or Henry’s focus, but for the simplicity of it. Their bond had grown easily and quickly, as if they'd known each other all their lives. No shadows of betrayal hovered over them. No conspiracy laced through their days. They built their understanding on open ground.
His own heart, however, was entangled. For every lingering look, every word exchanged with Elowen, there lay the weight of deception. He concealed from her the very thing that bound their families together in grief and disgrace. His regard for her grew daily, but it was no simple affection—it was a thread knotted with danger, secrecy, duty.
And still it deepened, despite every effort to resist.
“Lucas!”
Mother’s voice startled him from his thoughts. She had looked up from her mending, her eyes warm with welcome. “Do come in. We were about to take tea. Pray join us.”
He inclined his head and entered, his expression carefully schooled to calm. Catherine greeted him with a smile before returning to her notes, while Henry acknowledged him with a brief nod before refocusing on the task at hand.
Lucas crossed to the chair near his mother just as the maid entered with the tea tray. The comforting aroma of bergamot filled the room as porcelain clinked softly against silver. The domestic ease of the scene pressed against the storm that churned beneath his thoughts, and for a moment, he allowed himself to rest in its calm.
Mother poured for him, her hands steady, her eyes thoughtful. “You look as though you’ve carried the weight of the city back with you,” she remarked.
“Merely the usual weight,” he replied, managing a faint smile.
She handed him his cup but did not pursue the matter. Instead, she spoke lightly of the upcoming Hartwell ball, of gowns already prepared and the likely company they might encounter there. Catherine, overhearing, looked up with enthusiasm, declaring she could hardly wait. Henry merely shook his head in mild resignation.
When Mother turned the conversation toward him again, her gaze was more deliberate. “And you, Lucas? Will any particular young lady be fortunate enough to claim your notice at the ball?”
He stiffened slightly, his hand tightening on the cup. “No,” he said evenly.
Her lips curved in a faint, knowing smile. “No? Then perhaps I was mistaken in thinking Miss Tremaine had caught your eye.”
The words struck like a stone tossed into still water. Lucas felt the heat rise at the back of his neck. For an instant, he considered denial, but the memory of Elowen’s hazel eyes and her sharp tongue that kept him on his toes broke through his restraint. The truth forced its way to the surface before he could dam it.
“She is remarkable,” he said at last, his voice low. “Beautiful. And deserving of respect not merely for her composure, but for the manner in which she presents herself. She bears much more than most realise and does so with a strength that deserves it. Respect,” he cleared his throat, “that is.”
The words emerged with more feeling than he intended, his composure cracking just enough for the duchess to see. She studied him in silence for a moment, her expression softened.
“Miss Tremaine seems equally affected,” she said quietly. There was no judgment in her tone, no encouragement either, only the plain statement of observation.
Lucas forced himself not to respond, though the faint flush in his cheeks betrayed him. He sipped his tea to mask it, but Mother’s perceptive eyes had already taken note.
“My regard for her complicates an already dangerous matter,” he said at last, setting the cup down with deliberate care. “The last thing I desire is for my feelings to compromise her safety—or jeopardise the justice owed to her family. And yet…”
“And yet,” Mother finished gently, “you find yourself unable to separate them.”
His silence was answer enough.
His mother folded her hands in her lap, her gaze distant and thoughtful. “The connections forged in adversity,” she said softly, “are often those that endure the longest. It is not social harmony that binds two souls, but shared conviction. I know this from experience.”
Lucas met her eyes. In her words, he heard the quiet weight of memory—the echo of a difficult marriage endured with grace. The late duke had been a hard man in every sense, and Mother had borne more than he could ever truly comprehend. There was wisdom in her voice, tempered by suffering and strength alike. He inclined his head in silent respect.
“I will take your counsel to heart,” he said.
She gave a small smile. “Whether you wish it or not, my counsel tends to take root.”
Lucas allowed himself the faintest of smiles in return. Yet even as the warmth of the room pressed around him, his thoughts remained restless. His growing regard for Elowen was no longer something he could dismiss. And the Hartwell ball loomed ahead, making him wonder—and perhaps even hope—that it promises encounters that might either reveal truths or shatter what fragile ground he had gained.
The tea settled in Lucas’s stomach, but not the unease that always accompanied thoughts of Redley and Orvilleton. Even as he sat in the warmth of the morning room, with the laughter of Catherine echoing lightly through the space as she guided Henry’s hands over the piano keys, his mind wandered back to the sharp clarity of Frederick’s warnings.
