“Why not?” James asked, and his eyes stayed fixed on Dominic’s face, patient, unblinking, the way they did whenever a sum hadn’t balanced, and he meant to sit there until someone explained to him why.
But she did not get the chance to give him an answer because her brother said, “We’re leaving.”
Lucien said it to the room rather than to Annabelle, his hat already retrieved from the chair where he’d dropped it on the way in. He did not look at Dominic or James. He simply crossed to Elinor and offered her his arm. When he finally looked at Annabelle, it was a simple look that had just one command: closed as a shutter.
She went.
There was nothing else to do.
Lady Rosenhall was on her feet before the parlor door had finished opening. Her embroidery frame was already on the side table, Helena rising behind her with a book still open in her hand, and the two of them stood in the parlor doorway with the concentrated attention of people who had been listening for footsteps for some time.
“Your Grace,” Lady Rosenhall came forward. “I am very glad you are come.”
“Lady Rosenhall.” Lucien took her hand and inclined his head with the full formal address, which he generally saved for occasions requiring it. “I want to thank you. For writing. For being here when you were needed.” He held her hand a moment longer than courtesy required. “You have done considerably more than I had any right to expect.”
Lady Rosenhall’s chin lifted. Her hand closed briefly around his before releasing it. “I did only what your family was owed.”
“It was more than that.” He released her and straightened and looked between her and Helena with the deliberate steadiness of a man who has decided what he means to say and will say it plainly. “There will be a wedding. My sister and… Silverford. Next week. We have the license. We’ll have the settlements in order by tomorrow.” He paused. “I hope you will both stay until it is done. We’ll want familiar faces, and I suspect Annabelle will want yours.”
Lady Rosenhall pressed her fingers briefly to her collarbone. “We would not dream of being elsewhere.”
Helena looked at Annabelle. Annabelle looked at the pattern on the carpet runner and found it unexpectedly absorbing.
“Good,” Lucien said. “Then that’s settled.” He bent to kiss Elinor’s cheek, brief and distracted, the gesture of a man finishing one task before moving to the next. “I need an hour.”
“Lucien.” Annabelle stepped forward. “Please. I only want a few minutes.”
He stopped. He did not turn immediately. She watched the set of his shoulders, the way they held for a moment before he came around to face her.
“Not tonight,” he said.
“When, then?”
“When I’ve decided what it is I want to say to you.”
She held his gaze, and he did not look away. Then, without another word, he turned and went up the stairs without hurrying, one hand on the rail, and the sound of his footsteps moved along the corridor above until a door closed quietly and the house went still.
Elinor squeezed Annabelle’s arm once, her fingers firm through the sleeve.
“He’ll come round,” she said, low. “I’ll speak to him. He always needs the night, first.”
She looked at Annabelle’s face, held it for a moment, then gave her arm a final press and went after her husband.
Lady Rosenhall made a small, dignified production of remembering something she needed from her room. Helena waited until her footsteps had gone fully up the stairs before she moved.
“Come on,” she said.
As soon as they entered her chambers, Helena shut the door behind them and leaned against it.
“Go ahead,” she said. “Say it.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Yes, you do.”
“You’re angry,” Helena said.
“Iamangry.” It surprised her how clean that sounded. “And I don’t entirely know if I have the right to be. He is going to marry me, but he didn’t have to. But he obtained a license, and I—” She stopped, her voice faltering.
