Elowen kept her eyes fixed upon her plate, grateful when conversation at the table shifted elsewhere. She sipped her tea, though the lavender-scented steam felt suddenly oppressive.
When at last she dared another glance upward, Lucas was watching her again. His expression betrayed nothing, but the faint curve of his mouth—somewhere between amusement and quiet protectiveness—steadied her far more than Victor’s endless gallantries.
When tea concluded, Lady Penelope rose and clapped her hands. “Games, my friends! Battledore on the east lawn—or a walk through the rose gardens for those less energetic. Choose your amusements!”
The company began to disperse. Elowen stood uncertainly until Catherine approached, Henry in tow.
“Miss Tremaine,” Henry said with a courteous bow, “would you and Lucas care to join us in the rose gardens? Lady Penelope insists they are in full bloom.”
Catherine smiled, laying her hand lightly on Henry’s arm. “Yes, do come. It will be far more pleasant than shuttlecock.”
Lucas appeared almost instantly at Elowen’s side. “A walk among roses sounds very agreeable.”
And somehow, Elowen thought, he was not speaking of roses at all.
“Come along then,” Catherine urged, tugging Henry forward with her usual cheerful determination. “I want to see if the white roses have opened—they were nearly ready yesterday, Lady Penelope said.”
Henry looked down at her with the kind of indulgent amusement Elowen had come to recognise. “Then we must confirm it at once.”
The pair moved ahead on the gravel path, Catherine’s lively chatter trailing behind them. The garden opened in a sweep of trellised arches heavy with bloom, the air rich with the scent of roses in every shade.
Elowen’s pace slowed unconsciously, and Lucas matched it, his stride easy beside hers.
“I suspect,” he said after a moment, “that Catherine intends us to fall behind.”
Elowen arched a brow. “Do you think so? Perhaps she is simply eager about roses.”
“Mm,” Lucas replied, the corner of his mouth twitching. “I have never known Catherine to be quite so eager about roses before Henry came into the picture.”
That earned a soft laugh. Elowen pressed her fingers to her lips as though to contain it. “You may be right,” she admitted.
They walked in companionable silence for a few moments, the crunch of gravel beneath their feet the only sound. At last, Lucas inclined his head toward a cluster of pale blossoms.
“What do you think of them?” he asked.
“The roses?”
“Yes.”
“They’re beautiful,” Elowen said simply.
“And yet,” Lucas said, his tone deliberately thoughtful, “beauty has long been a matter of debate. Some philosophers say it lies in proportion. Others in harmony. Still others in the pleasure it stirs in the beholder.”
Elowen cast him a sidelong glance. “And which do you believe?”
He smiled faintly. “I asked you first.”
Her lips curved. “Very well. I think beauty rests not in perfection but in meaning. A rose is lovely not merely for its form, but because it reminds us that life is fleeting. That, at least, is how I see it.”
Lucas studied her profile—the clear light in her eyes, the sincerity of her words. “That is very near to truth, I think.”
“You meanyourtruth,” she countered lightly.
“Perhaps.” His gaze lingered. “Though I suspect it is close to yours as well.”
She blushed faintly under his scrutiny and turned her attention determinedly to the blossoms ahead. “And what of you, Your Grace? What do you call beautiful?”
He hesitated, the honest answer pressing at the edge of his tongue—you. But he schooled his features and said instead, “I find beauty in candour. In those rare moments when people speak what they truly think, not what society expects.”
