Chapter Two
Lord Cherrington was quite the talker.
Elowen did not think she had managed more than five words before he launched into yet another tale—this time of his exploits in the army or his travels abroad. His stories might have been interesting, had it not been so very clear that he chiefly enjoyed hearing himself speak.
Not that she minded overmuch. She listened politely, offering her “indeed”s and “I see”s where propriety required, unwilling to offend him.
Though she would far rather have remained at the edge of the ballroom, observing the evening unfold from a comfortable distance—with, of course, a glass of that divine lemonade in hand—she could not deny that the marquess’s attention was something to be appreciated.
After all, she had promised her parents she would make an effort tonight.
They still held out hope that she might find a suitable husband, though she was already one-and-twenty and invitations to fashionable events had grown scarce since the scandal.
To be seen at the debut ball of the Duke of Beaushire was, therefore, an honour—and an opportunity she could not lightly dismiss.
Not that she held any true interest in Lord Cherrington himself. But perhaps a dance with so prominent a gentleman might draw the notice of others. It might remind society that she was not the dreadful creature the gossip sheets had painted her to be.
“Do you not agree, my lady?” Lord Cherrington asked, twirling her lightly back toward his chest.
“Quite so, my lord,” she replied automatically, having no idea what she was agreeing to.
He nodded, pleased. “I thought as much. Perhaps I might invite you to the Epsom Derby, so that you may see for yourself.”
“That sounds delightful, my lord. I should be honoured.”
“As should I, to have a lady such as yourself upon my arm.”
She returned his smile out of politeness.
He was, objectively, a handsome man—somewhere in his late thirties—with an easy charm and the confidence of rank.
With his looks and title, he might have commanded the interest of any lady present.
She was not na?ve enough to forget how fortunate it was to have caught even a moment of his attention.
“Excellent,” he said, his grin widening. “I shall see that you receive the particulars.”
“Does that mean our conversation is at an end for the evening, my lord?” she asked, lowering her lashes in a manner her mother had once instructed her to employ. “How very disappointing.”
It seemed to have the desired effect, for Lord Cherrington replied at once, “It need not end—if you would rather it did not.”
“I would not, my lord. I find our conversations most... stimulating.” Even though I have barely said twenty words in the past ten minutes.
“As do I,” he said warmly. “You are not at all what I expected, Miss Tremaine.”
“And what, pray, did you expect?”
He tilted his head slightly. The next figure of the dance drew them apart, but when they came together again, he still had not answered.
“Surely you did not think I would refrain from asking?” she teased, lifting a brow.
“The fact that you did ask, Miss Tremaine, only proves my point. You are unlike any other lady I have met this evening.”
“In what way?”
“In all the ways that matter.”
It was a vague reply—vague enough to irk her. Elowen turned her gaze aside to hide the flicker of annoyance that threatened to show. And when she did, her eyes met those of the Duke of Beaushire once more.
He stood out like a beacon amid the glittering crowd. And for some inexplicable reason, she had the distinct impression that he had been watching her for some time.
Why?
She had never spoken to the Duke, though she knew of him—as did every lady in the room.
She had overheard countless whispers about his handsome countenance and his indifference to the marriage mart, a combination that seemed to drive the ton quite mad.
Who could help but be curious about such a man?
She herself had observed him earlier in the evening, as he conversed with his cousin, Miss Beaumont, in whose honour the ball was being held.
Yet something felt... different now. When their eyes met, he did not seem a stranger at all. A peculiar shiver passed through her, the hairs along her arms rising as though she looked upon someone returned from the grave. She could not account for the sensation.
“Alas,” Lord Cherrington said, drawing her attention back with regretful cheer, “our dance has come to its end.”
I can see that, she wanted to say. Instead, she stepped away and nodded. “It appears so.”
A part of her hoped that he would continue this.
This was her first chance at landing a potential suitor, after all, and she wanted to capitalise on it as much as possible.
But a greater part of her wanted him to leave her be.
She didn’t like social functions, deeming them a necessary evil because this was simply the world she had been born in.
“Good evening, my lord. Miss.”
Her heart quickened before she even turned. She could not have said why—only that something in the stranger’s voice gave her pause, stirring a faint unease she did not quite understand. The fine hairs along her arms rose, and at last she turned to face him.
The Duke of Beaushire was the sort of handsome that almost felt unfair.
Elowen could not imagine any lady receiving his attention and remaining unaffected.
Those piercing blue eyes seemed to look straight through her; that dark hair—surely as soft to the touch as it appeared—framed features too fine to be ignored.
He stood tall enough that she had to tilt her head to meet his gaze, his broad shoulders and steady bearing suggesting effortless strength.
There was a hardness to his mouth, a directness in his gaze, a quiet intensity in his manner—tiny flames that drew her toward him despite herself.
But he was not alone. The Dowager Duchess of Beaushire stood to his right, and Miss Catherine Beaumont to his left, both ladies regarding Elowen with frank curiosity. Before she could find her voice, she felt her father’s presence by her side.
“Your Grace,” Papa greeted, his tone gruff but respectful—so respectful, in fact, that Elowen glanced at him in surprise. Her father had grown wary of the ton and most of its members, yet he seemed almost fond of the Duke.
“Lord Trenton,” the Duke returned with a courteous nod before turning to the marquess. “Lord Cherrington, I trust we are not intruding?”
“Not at all, Your Grace,” Lord Cherrington replied smoothly. “In fact, I was just about to take my leave—but not before bidding Miss Tremaine goodnight.”
He turned his back to the others, took Elowen’s hand, and pressed a kiss upon it. Somehow, she managed a polite smile.
“I shall be certain to call upon you, Miss Tremaine,” he murmured, his tone intimate though clearly audible to all.
“It would be my pleasure to receive you, my lord,” she answered graciously. That seemed to satisfy him, for he grinned, straightened, and took his leave.
Elowen did not watch him go. Her attention remained on the Duke, noting the stiffness in his shoulders as his gaze followed the marquess’s retreat. Not wishing to be caught staring, she turned instead to the elegant woman at his side.
“Please accept our gratitude for this evening’s invitation, Your Grace,” she said to the Dowager Duchess, sinking into a curtsy. Elowen had been introduced to her briefly upon arrival and remembered her name—Charlotte Beaumont—but doubted the lady remembered hers.
“Oh, there is no need for thanks,” Her Grace replied with a gentle wave. Her expression softened into a warm smile. “I am simply delighted to have you both here. Lucas has spoken most highly of your family, and I have every confidence in his judgment.”
Elowen’s brows lifted in astonishment before she could check them. Her father noticed.
“Did I not tell you I was acquainted with His Grace before?” he asked mildly.
“No, Father, you did not.”
“It is not a particularly riveting tale,” the Duke interjected. His eyes met hers, their smouldering intensity unchanged. She felt her skin flush beneath their weight. “Lord Trenton was a guiding influence to me when I returned from Eton.”
“Do not worry,” Miss Beaumont whispered conspiratorially, leaning closer. “He never told me that either.”
Elowen wasn’t sure how to reply. Fortunately, her father spared her the trouble.
“You give me too much credit, Your Grace.”
“And you, too little,” the Duke replied. “I have never forgotten your kindness.”
“It seems you made quite the impression, my lord,” Miss Beaumont said brightly. Elowen found herself liking her—the girl’s confidence was tempered by warmth, a combination Elowen had always admired.
Her Grace gasped softly. “Oh! Where are my manners? I have not introduced you to my niece.” She gestured toward Miss Beaumont with a gloved hand. “This is my dear niece, Miss Catherine Beaumont. Catherine, allow me to present Lord Trenton and his daughter, Miss Elowen Tremaine.”
Catherine curtsied. “It is a pleasure to meet anyone my aunt and cousin hold in such high regard,” she said to Papa.
“My lord.” The Duke’s attention returned to her father. Elowen felt a small, foolish pang of disappointment and swiftly smothered it. “How fares your health?”
Papa’s brows—of the same soft brown as his daughter’s—rose slightly. “Well enough, though I have certainly fared better. But it is nothing of concern.”
Quite the understatement. Since the scandal, his health had waned steadily. There were days when he could scarcely rise from bed or keep down a meal. Today had been one of those days, yet he had insisted upon attending despite her protests.
Now she knew why. The Duke of Beaushire looked at her father with the same concern she felt.
“Something tells me it is not quite as you would have it seem,” he said gently. “But I will not press the matter. Only promise me you will take better care in future.”