“Perhaps,” he said softly. “But honesty escapes me on occasion, despite my best intentions.” He leaned closer, his tone dropping to a confidential murmur. “And the truth is, you are quite adorable when flustered.”
The word lingered between them, delicate and dangerous. She gave a small, breathless laugh—half-nervous, half-incredulous—and pressed her lips together to stifle another. The blush had crept to her throat now, and Lucas’s delight deepened.
“Do stop,” she managed, shaking her head. “You will have everyone turning to look at me if you continue—and you know how I detest that.”
He inclined his head with exaggerated solemnity. “As you wish. Though it is not the chandeliers that command the most attention in this hall, I assure you.”
She drew a quiet breath, clearly caught between mortification and laughter, and dared to meet his gaze again. Something unspoken shone there—something that unsettled and warmed him all at once.
But before either could speak further, the bustle of voices behind them intruded. Catherine, Henry, and Mother returned from their conversation in the foyer, the Tremaines not far behind, their cheerful chatter breaking the fragile spell.
Elowen straightened instantly, composure sliding neatly into place. Lucas stepped aside, schooling his features into calm. Yet as he bowed in parting, his gaze lingered on hers—the faint trace of colour still blooming in her cheeks.
He turned to rejoin his mother and Catherine in their box, moving with his usual measured composure. Yet within, something had shifted. The weight of duty, of suspicion and investigation, still pressed upon him—but for the first time in weeks, it had been joined by something brighter.
Her blush, her laugh, her unguarded admission.
They lingered with him as he left her side, a quiet warmth that refused to fade.
Chapter Sixteen
“Henry has been most diligent,” Catherine said as she linked her arm through Elowen’s while they strolled across Lady Penelope’s broad lawn. Sunlight dappled the grass through the high oaks, and the murmur of conversation drifted like a low hum around them. It was a beautiful day. “Three visits in a single week—and always at the proper calling hours. Aunt Charlotte says it is most encouraging.”
Elowen smiled, warmed by her friend’s delight. “Encouraging indeed. I suppose Beaushire Hall has never seemed quite so hospitable to you as it does now.”
Catherine laughed softly, a sound that drew glances even from across the lawn. “You must not tease me, Elowen. Henry is… different. Gentle, steady. When he speaks, he listens as well. It is a quality I seldom encounter.”
“I should think so,” Elowen said. “Most gentlemen in town appear to prefer their own voices.” Her tone was light, though her thoughts flickered, unbidden, to Lord Cherrington—his smooth drawl and his endless catalogue of accomplishments.
Catherine’s expression softened. “Lucas approves. He said as much to Aunt Charlotte, and even to me. I do not think he gives praise lightly, even when it concerns his friend.”
Elowen’s heart gave a small, treacherous flutter at the mention of the Duke. She kept her gaze forward, pretending sudden interest in the fountains at the garden’s edge. “That must please you greatly.”
“It does,” Catherine admitted. “He is almost too protective, but then—I have never had a brother, and I suppose it is natural for him to play that part. Henry does not seem intimidated. In fact, I think Lucas’s approval means the world to him.”
Before Elowen could reply, her attention shifted. Near the garden gates, two men stood in close conversation—Lord Cherrington and Lord Orvilleton. At first glance, they appeared cordial, even friendly. Yet Elowen’s eyes, sharpened by the unease of recent days, caught the tension in Lord Orvilleton’s shoulders and the sharpness behind Victor’s otherwise polished manner.
Victor’s hand cut once through the air—too quick, too precise. Orvilleton’s jaw tightened. They parted at last with exaggerated civility, the kind that masked everything but goodwill.
Elowen narrowed her eyes, watching them go. A few paces off, she noticed William standing near an oak, his expression alert. He seemed to have witnessed the exchange as well, for he turned and spoke quietly to someone hidden from view behind the tree.
“Tea is served on the terrace!” Lady Penelope’s cheerful call rang across the lawn, and the guests began drifting toward the long tables laid with gleaming china and pyramids of sandwiches and cakes.
Catherine tugged at Elowen’s arm. “Come—we must sit together.”
But Elowen was swept into the crowd and found herself, to her dismay, seated beside Victor at one of the central tables. His smile was the picture of gallantry, no hint of his earlier conversation showing as he served her tea.
“A cup for Miss Tremaine,” he said smoothly, brushing her hand with his fingers as he passed the delicate porcelain into her grasp.
“Thank you,” she murmured, withdrawing as quickly as politeness allowed. The touch was deliberate, she knew, and it brought no warmth—only chill.
Across the table, Lucas had taken his seat, his posture characteristically composed. When his eyes met hers above the floral centrepiece, Elowen felt a jolt. His gaze lingered only a heartbeat before he turned politely back to his mother beside him, yet the effect of that single glance made her teacup tremble in her hand.
Victor’s voice drew her back. “Lady Penelope’s gardens are the pride of London. Only last year she imported roses from France at considerable expense—though, of course, the blooms at my own estate thrive far more vigorously. The soil there is remarkable; my gardeners take great pride in it.”
Elowen offered a noncommittal smile. “I am sure they must.”
He leaned a fraction closer. “Perhaps you will see them yourself one day. The grounds are extensive. One does grow accustomed to space, you know, when fortune allows it.”
