He tilted his head slightly. The next figure of the dance drew them apart, but when they came together again, he still had not answered.
“Surely you did not think I would refrain from asking?” she teased, lifting a brow.
“The fact that you did ask, Miss Tremaine, only proves my point. You are unlike any other lady I have met this evening.”
“In what way?”
“In all the ways that matter.”
It was a vague reply—vague enough to irk her. Elowen turned her gaze aside to hide the flicker of annoyance that threatened to show. And when she did, her eyes met those of the Duke of Beaushire once more.
He stood out like a beacon amid the glittering crowd. And for some inexplicable reason, she had the distinct impression that he had been watching her for some time.
Why?
She had never spoken to the Duke, though she knew of him—as did every lady in the room. She had overheard countless whispers about his handsome countenance and his indifference to the marriage mart, a combination that seemed to drive the ton quite mad. Who could help but be curious about such a man? She herself had observed him earlier in the evening, as he conversed with his cousin, Miss Beaumont, in whose honour the ball was being held.
Yet something felt... different now. When their eyes met, he did not seem a stranger at all. A peculiar shiver passed through her, the hairs along her arms rising as though she looked upon someone returned from the grave. She could not account for the sensation.
“Alas,” Lord Cherrington said, drawing her attention back with regretful cheer, “our dance has come to its end.”
I can see that, she wanted to say. Instead, she stepped away and nodded. “It appears so.”
A part of her hoped that he would continue this. This was her first chance at landing a potential suitor, after all, and she wanted to capitalise on it as much as possible. But a greater part of her wanted him to leave her be. She didn’t like social functions, deeming them a necessary evil because this was simply the world she had been born in.
“Good evening, my lord. Miss.”
Her heart quickened before she even turned. She could not have said why—only that something in the stranger’s voice gave her pause, stirring a faint unease she did not quite understand. The fine hairs along her arms rose, and at last she turned to face him.
The Duke of Beaushire was the sort of handsome that almost felt unfair. Elowen could not imagine any lady receiving his attention and remaining unaffected. Those piercing blue eyes seemed to look straight through her; that dark hair—surely as soft to the touch as it appeared—framed features too fine to be ignored. He stood tall enough that she had to tilt her head to meet his gaze, his broad shoulders and steady bearing suggesting effortless strength. There was a hardness to his mouth, a directness in his gaze, a quiet intensity in his manner—tiny flames that drew her toward him despite herself.
But he was not alone. The Dowager Duchess of Beaushire stood to his right, and Miss Catherine Beaumont to his left, both ladies regarding Elowen with frank curiosity. Before she could find her voice, she felt her father’s presence by her side.
“Your Grace,” Papa greeted, his tone gruff but respectful—so respectful, in fact, that Elowen glanced at him in surprise. Her father had grown wary of thetonand most of its members, yet he seemed almost fond of the Duke.
“Lord Trenton,” the Duke returned with a courteous nod before turning to the marquess. “Lord Cherrington, I trust we are not intruding?”
“Not at all, Your Grace,” Lord Cherrington replied smoothly. “In fact, I was just about to take my leave—but not before bidding Miss Tremaine goodnight.”
He turned his back to the others, took Elowen’s hand, and pressed a kiss upon it. Somehow, she managed a polite smile.
“I shall be certain to call upon you, Miss Tremaine,” he murmured, his tone intimate though clearly audible to all.
“It would be my pleasure to receive you, my lord,” she answered graciously. That seemed to satisfy him, for he grinned, straightened, and took his leave.
Elowen did not watch him go. Her attention remained on the Duke, noting the stiffness in his shoulders as his gaze followed the marquess’s retreat. Not wishing to be caught staring, she turned instead to the elegant woman at his side.
“Please accept our gratitude for this evening’s invitation, Your Grace,” she said to the Dowager Duchess, sinking into a curtsy. Elowen had been introduced to her briefly upon arrival and remembered her name—Charlotte Beaumont—but doubted the lady remembered hers.
“Oh, there is no need for thanks,” Her Grace replied with a gentle wave. Her expression softened into a warm smile. “I am simply delighted to have you both here. Lucas has spoken most highly of your family, and I have every confidence in his judgment.”
Elowen’s brows lifted in astonishment before she could check them. Her father noticed.
“Did I not tell you I was acquainted with His Grace before?” he asked mildly.
“No, Father, you did not.”
“It is not a particularly riveting tale,” the Duke interjected. His eyes met hers, their smouldering intensity unchanged. She felt her skin flush beneath their weight. “Lord Trenton was a guiding influence to me when I returned from Eton.”
