“The strings,” Lucien prompted, his expression perfectly composed, as though he had not just set her pulse racing with a single finger.
“Yes.” She cleared her throat. “The strings.”
“The children must adore you,” Annabelle whispered, her face bright. “Lucien has written to me about the lessons. He says you make the stars seem like old friends rather than distant objects.”
Elinor glanced at Lucien, who found his wine glass suddenly fascinating.
“Did he?”
“Oh, extensively.” Annabelle grinned. “He is not usually one for lengthy letters, so you must understand what a feat that is. I received four pages about your lesson on Orion alone.”
The guilt twisted in Elinor’s chest. It had been building all evening, sharpening each time Annabelle laughed or squeezed her arm or spoke about her brother with the uncomplicated joy of a sister who believed she was watching him find love.
Because Annabelle believed it.
She believed all of it: the engagement, the courtship, the affection she could see between them. She had no reason not to, and every reason to be happy.
And she was being lied to.
Elinor caught Lucien’s eye, and she saw the same guilt reflected. His jaw had tightened, and his gaze held hers with an honesty the rest of the room could not see. They were both trapped in it now, this web they had spun, and the threads were growing tighter with every genuine connection that formed inside the lie.
Gilbert, who had been silent during the meal, chose the pause between courses to lean toward Annabelle.
“Lady Annabelle, I must tell you about my new stallion. He is the finest horse in three counties, and I have been told by no fewer than four people that my riding form is exceptional. I should be happy to take you for a ride through the park.”
Annabelle turned to him. “How kind, Lord Henleigh. I shall keep it in mind.” She turned back to Elinor. “Now, you were saying about the moon’s phases?”
Gilbert’s mouth hung open around the next line of his prepared speech. Across the table, Joanna pressed her napkin to her lips to hide what was unmistakably a laugh.
After dinner, Annabelle found Elinor on the settee while the men lingered over port.
“I owe you an apology,” Annabelle said, keeping her voice low as she settled beside her. “I did not realize your stepmother wasunaware of your visits to Lyra House. The way Lucien spoke of it, I assumed everyone knew.”
“They do not.” Elinor glanced toward Rebecca, who was occupied with Belinda across the room. “And I would very much like to keep it that way.”
“Consider me a vault.” Annabelle pressed her hand to her heart with mock solemnity, then let the performance drop into something genuine. “I am sorry. I would not have raised it at dinner if I had understood.”
“You could not have known.”
“Still.” Annabelle’s gaze moved over Elinor’s face with the quiet attention of a woman deciding whether to say more. She said more. “It must be exhausting, keeping so many parts of yourself hidden from the people you live with.”
The observation landed in a place Elinor had not expected. She looked at Annabelle, this woman she barely knew, who had apologized, and felt something loosen in her chest.
“It is,” she admitted. “Although I have grown rather good at it.”
“Then I am glad you have at least one house where you do not have to.” Annabelle squeezed her hand. “And at least one person who would rather know the real version.”
Newton jumped onto the settee and wedged himself between them, purring with the immediate conviction of a cat who had identified the two best people in the room.
“He approves of you,” Elinor said. “That is not a small thing. He hissed at Gilbert within five minutes.”
“I knew I liked this cat.” Annabelle scratched behind his ears. “We are going to be very good friends, he and I.”
The evening wound down, and Rebecca maintained her performance of gracious hostess. Belinda retreated into a sulk she disguised as fatigue. Gilbert made one last attempt to impress Annabelle by describing his fencing form in detail, which Annabelle received with the enthusiasm of a woman being read a shipping manifest.
At the door, Elinor helped Annabelle with her cloak. The younger woman pulled her into an embrace that felt natural and unforced, the kind of hug between women who had decided to be friends and saw no reason to be cautious about it.
“I have never seen my brother smile the way he does when you are speaking,” Annabelle whispered. “Whatever you are doing, please do not stop.”
