The subtle warmth between Catherine and Henry was the first thing she noticed as she approached. Henry’s gaze never wavered from Catherine, and her laughter—bright, unrestrained, perhaps even a deterrent to other gentlemen—only made her shine the brighter, a flame to which Henry was helplessly drawn.How refreshing,Elowen thought.
Watching them, she felt an unfamiliar pang of longing. Had it been easy for Catherine to form such a connection? Would it ever be easy for her—if possible at all?
Before she could make it to Catherine’s side, Lord Cherrington stepped neatly into her path. The air about him seemed to shift, the nearest ladies turning with soft whispers and appreciative glances at his immaculate attire. He paid them no mind and bowed with practised grace, taking Elowen’s hand without invitation.
“Miss Tremaine,” he murmured, voice low and polished, “may I claim the dance I was promised?”
Elowen barely nodded, irritation quick and quiet beneath her composure. She allowed herself to be guided to the floor, every movement measured, her expression serene.
As he drew her into the waltz, she found her gaze wandering—searching for a familiar dark head among the crowd.
As they moved into the patterns of the dance, Victor’s voice flowed easily, carrying over the music. “You know,” he began, “I had the most remarkable morning. Went down to the stables to see my new colt run. Magnificent creature—swift as the wind. I’ve every confidence he’ll take first at the Autumn Stakes.”
Elowen tilted her head politely. “I’m sure he’s very swift.”
Victor laughed, oblivious to the faint edge in her tone. “Fast? My dear Miss Tremaine, that is an understatement. He practically glides. It’s not merely speed, of course—it’s breeding, lineage, strategy. I have an eye for such things.”
“I see,” she murmured, focusing on maintaining her balance and the rhythm of the waltz, feeling the practised pressure of his hand on her back. And hating every second of it.
Victor’s eyes sparkled with pride. “Yes, indeed. My estate, my horses, my investments—all flourish under my hand. It issomething of a gift, really. Some strive for years and never achieve what comes naturally to me. Remarkable, wouldn’t you say?”
She would not. But she gave him a small, polite smile. Her gaze swept the room again.
Is Lucas here?
Victor continued blithely. “And, of course, the ladies notice. You might think a man in my position would find it difficult to choose among them, but no—offers arrive unbidden. It is, I confess, most gratifying.”
“That must make things… convenient for you,” Elowen replied, her tone so even it could have been mistaken for sincerity.
“Convenient? Oh, delightful, rather. But you, my dear, you have held my attention from the first.”
She hardly cared who held what at that moment. She only wished the music would end. Her thoughts drifted again—unbidden—to Lucas.
He would never boast like this. He would ask about Father. About me. He would listen.
She caught herself.Since when have I come to think the Duke’s inquisitiveness a good thing?
Victor’s voice pulled her back, animated and self-congratulatory. “The waltz is a passion of mine. A gentleman must move with grace, mustn’t he? There is poetry in motion, and I do so enjoy a lady who can match my step. You, Miss Tremaine, are most accomplished.”
Elowen barely heard him. In her mind, it was Lucas’s hand at her back, not Victor’s. His eyes meeting hers with quiet intensity, not this smug gleam of self-approval.
“Few men can claim such natural ease on the floor,” Victor went on, undeterred. “Lady Hartwell herself once declared it ‘a pleasure to behold my steps as part of the music.’”
Elowen forced a smile. “I’m sure she said so.”
He laughed, missing the dryness entirely. “You see, I am modest, of course. But truly, confidence is the key—to dancing, to living. Confidence opens all doors.”
Her eyes wandered again, refusing to linger on him.
Victor’s hand tightened slightly at her back. “I do enjoy this,” he said, lowering his voice. “The conversation, the movement—it allows one to speak freely. And I must confess, I find a lady who can keep pace with me, in every sense, most rare.”
“I’m glad you find it… rare,” she murmured, voice smooth as glass.
He smiled, utterly unaware. “Yes, Miss Tremaine, you are extraordinary. My equal in wit and composure—my match, in every sense.”
A shiver ran through her. He leaned closer. “Are you cold?”
“A bit,” she lied.Goodness gracious, how long is this dance?
