Henry, catching the strain in Lucas’s posture, murmured, “You needn’t glower holes through him. Everyone notices.”
Lucas’s mouth quirked without humour. “Then perhaps he will as well.”
Henry shook his head, amused. “He will not. Men of his sort seldom see themselves clearly.”
The game went on. Victor grew increasingly animated, narrating his moves with flamboyant assurance, praising Elowen’s “innate skill” even when her choices were cautious and plainly steered by him. “You have instincts, Miss Tremaine,” he declared. “A rare gift. Some labour for it; you simply possess it.”
Elowen’s lips curved faintly. Lucas had seen that polite, false smile a dozen times before. “Perhaps it is luck.”
“Luck favours those who deserve it,” Victor said.
“I wonder if Fortune would agree,” she murmured.
Victor’s eyes sharpened, but he laughed as though she had made a jest. “A philosophical answer. Delightful. Tell me—have you considered how neatly philosophy and politics align? Both require conviction. Conviction comes easily to me.”
“Conviction and certainty are not the same,” Elowen replied.
He tilted his head. “You suggest I am certain, but not convicted?”
“I suggest only that the loudest voices do not always speak the deepest truths,” she said calmly.
For a moment, silence hung between them. Victor’s smile faltered, then returned. “You grow bold, Miss Tremaine. I like it.”
Lucas huffed a mirthless chuckle. No one knew better than he how bold she could be. She placed another card, her hand steady despite Victor’s renewed scrutiny.
Watching, Lucas noted the brief flicker of displeasure that Victor quickly smoothed away. He shifted in his chair, restless. Catherine glanced across at him.
“You cannot sit much longer, can you?” she whispered.
“Not if he continues in that vein,” Lucas muttered.
Catherine sighed. “Elowen conducts herself with grace. Leave her be.”
Lucas’s reply was terse. “Grace should not be required in the face of such impertinence.”
At the table, the final trick was won. Victor leaned back, triumphant. “There, Miss Tremaine. Proof that we are invincible together.”
“I think the proof lies in the cards,” she said, her tone light but distant.
Victor chuckled, tapping his fingers on the table. “Ah, but cards without players are nothing. With you beside me, victory is assured.”
Elowen forced another polite smile. Her gaze drifted across the space, seeking something—someone.
Lucas’s eyes met hers.
For the briefest instant, all the noise faded. Her steady look anchored him; something in his chest loosened, enough to let him breathe.
“Shall we play another hand?” Victor asked, and the moment dissolved.
Elowen hesitated. “I should see whether my mother requires me,” she said, composed.
Victor arched a brow. “Surely she can spare you another round?”
Lucas rose and approached, his expression courteous, his tone measured. “Miss Tremaine’s consideration for her mother does her credit, Lord Cherrington. It would be unkind to monopolise her further.”
Victor’s jaw ticked, almost imperceptibly, but he inclined his head with elaborate grace. “As you say, Your Grace. I should not wish to seem unkind.”
He stood, offering Elowen his hand. She touched it lightly and withdrew at once. Lucas extended his arm; she took it without hesitation, relief unmistakable in her eyes.
