Elinor held her tighter, because the alternative was to let the guilt show on her face.
Lucien lingered at the threshold. He took Elinor’s hand and kissed her knuckles, as he always did, but his mouth stayed a fraction longer than necessary, and his thumb pressed once against her palm before he released her. The gesture was small enough that only she could feel it and large enough that she felt it for the rest of the night.
She closed the door and leaned against it. From the parlor, she could hear Rebecca’s voice, already dissecting the evening with Belinda, already finding fault.
Newton wound between her ankles, purring.
Elinor picked him up and held him against her chest and tried not to think about the fact that Annabelle’s friendship was the most honest thing in her life, and it was built on the least honest thing she had ever done.
Chapter Twenty
“Isimply cannot fathom what His Grace sees in her.”
The words were not meant for Lucien. They floated from a cluster of ladies positioned near the gallery’s second alcove, pitched at the volume that society women used when they wanted to wound without being held accountable for the blade.
Lady Langley’s gallery viewing was the sort of event that attracted the ton’s most discerning gossips, and tonight, their attention had settled on Elinor like birds on a wire.
“She squints behind those spectacles as though the world offends her,” another voice added. “And her interests. Astronomy, of all things. It is not becoming.”
Lucien’s hand tightened around his glass. Beside him, Annabelle had stiffened, her eyes narrowing in the direction of the voices. She opened her mouth, but Lucien touched her elbow.
“Allow me,” he said.
He crossed the gallery floor with the unhurried stride of a man who had all evening and intended to use it. The cluster of ladies noticed his approach and rearranged their expressions into various shades of delight, their fans lifting, their postures softening.
“Ladies,” he greeted, inclining his head. “I could not help overhearing your conversation, and I feel compelled to contribute.”
Their smiles brightened. Lady Forsythe, the eldest among them, touched her pearl necklace. “Of course, Your Grace. We were merely observing?—”
“That my betrothed is the most accomplished woman in this room.” Lucien kept his voice pleasant, conversational, the tone he used when he wanted every word to carry the weight of a closed door. “Lady Elinor’s knowledge of astronomy would put half the fellows at the Royal Society to shame, and her kindness toward children who have nothing would humble any person here, myself included.” He paused, letting the silence do its work. “As for her spectacles, I find them rather charming. They suit a woman who prefers to see the world clearly rather than through the comfortable blur that others seem to favor.”
Lady Forsythe’s fan stopped mid-flutter. The women around her exchanged glances, recalculating.
“I trust that puts the matter to rest,” Lucien said, smiling. “Please, enjoy the gallery. The landscapes in the east wing are fine.”
He walked away before they could recover. The satisfaction lasted only a moment before something heavier replaced it: the recognition that every word he had spoken was true, and not a single syllable had been part of the ruse.
Across the gallery, Belinda intercepted him. She had been watching, her position near a marble bust too deliberate to be coincidence.
“Your Grace,” she said, her smile wide and warm. “You are so gallant, defending Elinor. I suppose somebody must. She makes it rather difficult for herself with her peculiarities.” She tilted her head, her voice dropping to something she clearly intended as conspiratorial. “If you ever tire of the effort, I assure you, there are ladies who would require far less defending.”
Lucien studied her for a beat. She was beautiful, in the way a painting was beautiful: composed, deliberate, designed to be admired. There was nothing behind it.
“Lady Belinda,” he said, his voice even. “I do not tire of defending the people I care for. I suggest you adopt a similar habit. Starting with your stepsister.”
He left her standing beside the marble bust, her mouth slightly open. From the corner of his eye, he saw Rebecca watching from across the room. Her expression shifted as she absorbedthe exchange, and Lucien watched the calculation happen in real time: the sweetness toward him deepening, the coldness toward Elinor banking itself for later, when he would not be present to witness it.
He found Elinor near the east wing, studying a painting of a night sky rendered in deep blues and silvers. She stood apart from the other guests, her atlas-sized knowledge of the subject matter keeping her absorbed where others would have moved on. Annabelle had joined Lord Callum and Joanna in conversation nearby, her back to them, and for a brief moment, Lucien and Elinor were alone.
“The painter has Cassiopeia wrong,” Elinor said without looking at him. She pointed to a cluster of stars in the upper right of the canvas. “The angle is off. It would never appear that way from this latitude.”
“Perhaps he painted it from somewhere else.”
“Or perhaps he simply invented it.” She turned to him. Her spectacles caught the gallery light, and behind the glass her blue eyes held a steadiness that made the mask he wore feel like a coat that no longer fit. “You did not need to say those things to those women.”
“You heard.”
“Annabelle told me. She was rather proud of you.” A pause. “As was I.”
