Elowen tilted her head, her curiosity piqued. “Do you?”
“I do,” he said softly. “It is a rarity in London drawing rooms. Like finding a single rose in winter.”
Her lips parted slightly before she looked away, visibly unsettled. “You speak as though you have found such a rarity.”
“Perhaps I have,” he said, his voice low.
The silence between them deepened—not uncomfortable, merely charged. Elowen’s steps slowed, and Lucas instinctively adjusted to match her pace.
At last, she said quietly, “You make conversation difficult, Your Grace.”
He smiled. “Do I? I thought we were merely discussing roses.”
Her laugh escaped then, unwilling but warm. “You know very well we were not.”
The sound of it lightened him. “If I can make you laugh, then I count it a success. Catherine will think me quite useless otherwise.”
Elowen shook her head, still smiling despite herself. “You are impossible.”
“Frequently told so,” he said with mock gravity. “And yet—here I remain.”
She tried to suppress another laugh, but it broke free nonetheless. The warmth of it lingered between them, easing what might otherwise have grown too intense.
After a moment, she sobered, glancing toward Catherine and Henry, who had paused ahead to admire another trellis. “I think my mother would be very pleased to see me walking here with you.”
Lucas arched a brow. “Indeed? And why is that?”
“Because you asked me to join you,” she said, her voice low. “That alone would satisfy her expectations. She is very eager on such matters.”
“Ah.” He folded his hands behind his back. “And what of you? Areyoupleased?”
She hesitated, her lips pressing together. “I… suppose I am.”
Lucas caught the faint blush rising in her cheeks, and delight flickered in his chest. “Careful, Elowen. If you continue admitting such things, I may grow conceited.”
Her eyes flashed, though the corner of her mouth betrayed her amusement. “I should not like to contribute to your conceit.”
“Then you had better deny it at once,” he said mildly.
She turned her head away, the colour deepening. “I will not.”
Lucas’s grin widened before he quickly suppressed it. “Then I shall treasure that answer.”
Their steps brought them beneath another arbour, fragrant with bloom. Catherine’s laughter drifted back to them, mingled with Henry’s low voice—but for a moment, the world seemed narrowed to the space between Elowen and Lucas.
“You are quite unlike other gentlemen of society,” she said suddenly, her tone quiet but certain.
“Unlike?”
“Yes. You do not speak merely to fill silence. You listen. You observe. You respond accordingly, with interest.”
Lucas studied her, searching her face. “Your candour strikes me again, Elowen.”
She drew a breath, her eyes meeting his. “And I, again, wonder if I shall regret saying it.”
“You will not,” he said firmly, though his voice gentled on the words.
Silence settled again—charged but not uneasy—until Catherine’s cheerful call summoned them to admire the white roses. The spell broke, leaving both a little unsteady.
