Later, returning to the morning room, Lucas found Henrystill—to Lucas’s irritation—at the pianoforte, his hands poised above the keys. Catherine was still seated next to him with a guiding hand, patient. “Now, again,” she said, calm and steady. “Focus on the timing of the left hand. One, two, three…”
Henry chuckled as his fingers slipped. “I swear the notes conspire against me.”
“They must conspire against you alone then,” Catherine joked, laughing. “But though you test my patience, I assure you—it endures.”
Lucas allowed a faint smile from his corner by the window, observing the easy harmony between them. Charlotte moved about quietly, watchful, offering a correction here and a word of praise there.
“Lucas,” Charlotte called softly, noticing his attention. “You’re back.”
Henry glanced up from Catherine’s sheet music and approached Lucas with an easy smile. Catherine easily took up the mantle of filling the room with beautiful music.
“You know, Lucas,” he began, leaning against the window frame beside him, “by now you must have noticed how much time Catherine and I have spent together.” His grin widened. “Ibelieve myself in love with her, and I mean to ask for her hand soon.”
Lucas kept his tone steady. “I see. And you have spoken with her on the matter?”
Henry’s smile deepened. “She knows my intentions, yes. But I would rather formalise it properly—with consent from all sides. It seems the right course.”
Lucas inclined his head. “I would expect nothing less.”
Even as he said it, his thoughts drifted elsewhere—unbidden, persistent. To the sharp intelligence in Elowen’s eyes, the grace of her movements, the way she tilted her head ever so slightly when she doubted him.
Henry’s tone shifted, softer now. “And you, Lucas? When your investigations are complete… do you intend to marry? Or is there only work for the foreseeable future?”
Lucas hesitated. “I… cannot say,” he admitted finally. “Duty must come first. Until the threats I pursue are resolved, personal matters are of little importance.”
Henry nodded slowly, though curiosity lingered in his gaze. “I understand. Still, there is more to life than duty, wouldn’t you agree?”
Lucas’s eyes flicked toward Catherine, who had paused in her playing to glance curiously their way. Then, inevitably, his gaze turned to the window—toward memory. Toward Elowen.
If she were unattached, if Lord Cherrington had not already claimed her, then perhaps…
The thought was enough to make his chest tighten. Duty on one side, desire on the other, each pulling in opposite directions—and yet, in that moment, they seemed to move together, impossible to untangle.
“Perhaps,” he murmured at last. “One cannot predict what the future may hold. But for now, I must attend to what must be done.”
Henry smiled faintly. “I thought as much. Still, I cannot imagine a world in which someone as capable—and as stubborn—as you, does not find happiness eventually.”
Lucas inclined his head, voice low and measured. “Happiness,” he repeated, almost to himself. “Yes… it is to be hoped.”
Lucas’s answering smile was brief, quiet. “Happiness,” he repeated under his breath. “Yes… it is to be hoped.”
As Henry returned to Catherine’s side, Lucas turned once more to the window. Beyond the glass, the gardens lay in stillness—peaceful, oblivious. And yet his mind remained restless. The spectre that was Victor loomed in the recesses of his mind, a constant reminder that his time to choose may very well be running out.
Duty bound him, but desire whispered softly, insistently, in the corners of his mind—and for the first time, he feared which would win.
Chapter Fourteen
The Hartwell ballroom blazed with light, crystal chandeliers scattering glimmers across the polished floor. A string ensemble played a lively air, weaving through the hum of a hundred conversations until the entire room seemed to move in time with it. Velvet draperies of deep burgundy softened the walls, drinking in the gold of the candlelight. The scent of roses mingled with the faint, sharp tang of wax, and liveried servants—blue, black, and white—glided silently through the throng, their trays flashing with wine and sugared delicacies.
Elowen entered on her parents’ arms, each step measured, her composure carefully arranged. William had elected to stay home, offering no explanation, which left her beneath her mother’s gentle yet watchful guard. Margaret Tremaine’s gaze was already sweeping the room, assessing every potential suitor within sight.
So when Elowen caught sight of Catherine across the room, engaged in lively conversation with a small circle that included Henry, a quiet rush of relief washed through her.
“Pardon me, Mama, Papa,” she murmured, inclining her head before slipping away—swiftly, before the baroness could object.
As she moved off into the crowd, she heard her father’s low, indulgent voice behind her: “Leave her be. You may hound her when the dancing begins.”
Elowen hid her smile.
