Chapter Four
Things could hardly have gone worse, Elowen decided.
It was mortifying enough to be parading through Hyde Park with her mother—everyone they passed would surely have something to whisper—but now they had joined the Duke of Beaushire and his family. They might as well have carried a banner reading, We welcome your scrutiny!
Still, she smiled as best she could. Her mother had all but pleaded with her to promenade, insisting that no lady with hopes of marriage ought to remain hidden indoors. Elowen had long abandoned such hopes, but her parents had not; and so here she was, playing the dutiful daughter.
But why, of all families, must they have fallen in with the Beaumonts?
And why did it feel as though the Duke himself were watching her?
He must be displeased, she thought. He had not said a word, and no true gentleman would openly object to unwelcome company—he would merely suffer it in silence.
“Miss Tremaine!” cried Miss Beaumont, releasing Lord Westbrook’s arm only to seize Elowen’s with uninvited enthusiasm. “Tell me, have you met any gentleman who has caught your eye as yet?”
Elowen was not at all surprised by the boldness of the question. Mama and the Dowager Duchess were conversing ahead—no doubt still within earshot.
“Not particularly, I’m afraid,” she replied, careful to keep her tone light.
“That does not surprise me,” Catherine declared. “The selection of gentlemen this year is dreadfully uninspiring. Present company excluded, of course, Lord Westbrook.”
“Ah, my pride is spared,” he said in mock gravity, earning her laughter.
Then Catherine leaned closer, lowering her voice—though not nearly enough. “And what do you think of His Grace, Miss Tremaine?”
A rush of heat rose so swiftly to Elowen’s cheeks that she feared it might be visible. She managed, with effort, to keep her expression composed. “I should not be surprised if he heard you, Miss Beaumont.”
“Neither should she,” came the Duke’s low drawl.
Elowen straightened at once. The sound of his voice alone seemed to discompose her far more than she cared to admit. She ensured her expression was perfectly neutral before glancing up at him—but his gaze remained fixed ahead.
“Oh, goodness, you know I have never been very good at whispering,” Catherine sighed blithely. “Perhaps I shall pay you a call one day, Miss Tremaine, and we may gossip freely about the gentlemen of the ton.”
“And there is no reason that should include me,” the Duke said, without looking her way.
“Of course it must,” Catherine retorted cheerfully. “You are a gentleman of the ton, are you not?”
“A reluctant one. My sole duty this Season is to act as your guardian.”
“Yes, yes—we shall see about that.”
Elowen was beginning to feel distinctly trapped between them. Their easy teasing might have amused her under other circumstances, but at present, she could think of nothing but escape.
Before she could attempt it, Catherine spoke again. “I, for one, am delighted to have found a friend with whom to endure the Season. Will you be attending the Hartwell ball, Miss Tremaine? It is still a few weeks away, but I am already quite beside myself with excitement.”
Elowen hesitated. The likelihood of receiving an invitation was almost nonexistent, but she could hardly say so. She was still attempting to form a polite answer when the Duke intervened smoothly:
“You are thinking too far ahead, Catherine. Have you forgotten that we are to visit the British Museum tomorrow?”
“We are?” Catherine blinked in surprise.
Elowen risked a glance up at him, but his face remained impassive.
“I had only just thought of it,” he said.
Catherine sighed theatrically. “And you assumed, of course, that I had nothing better to do than attend alongside you, didn’t you?”
“I did,” the Duke confirmed with such ease that Elowen’s lips twitched before she could stop herself.
“I have not been to the British Museum in quite some time,” Lord Westbrook chimed in. “It would be pleasant to view the antiquities again.”
“The British Museum?” Mama spoke up. Elowen’s stomach flipped. “Elowen loves visiting with her father, do you not, my dear?”
“I do,” Elowen answered, keeping her tone as neutral as possible. Please, let it end here, she thought. But her mother was not the sort to let opportunity pass her by—and the Duke, it seemed, was equally unhelpful.
“Then we shall all attend together,” he said decisively.
Silence followed. Elowen exchanged a look of mute horror with her mother—hers pleading for retreat, her mother’s urging her onward.
“Aunt Charlotte,” Catherine murmured, wide-eyed, “did you hear that? I believe my ears deceive me.”
“Hush, child,” the Dowager Duchess replied with amusement. “Say nothing, or he may change his mind.”
The Duke sighed. “You are all far too dramatic at times. Perhaps I should have—”
“We would be delighted to attend, Your Grace,” Mama said quickly, her smile bright with triumph. “Elowen will be overjoyed to visit the museum again.”
And I have a mouth of my own, Elowen thought.
Ironically, however, she didn’t bother to use it.
She’d learned the hard way how easily she could let her words get away from her, and she had no intention of saying anything that may upset or offend the Duke and his mother.
They were influential figures in London, after all.
And she—well, she could hardly compare with them in consequence.
“It is settled, then,” Catherine announced. “We shall all visit the museum on the morrow. An excellent idea, Lucas.”
“I am occasionally capable of them,” he replied dryly. Yet beneath the dryness, Elowen thought she heard the faintest trace of humour—a warmth she had not expected from him.
How foolish she was to have presumed to know his character at all.
They had shared but one dance, and she had spent the past three days thinking of it—of him.
It had been her only pleasant dance of the evening, pity-born though it may have been.
She had no reason to imagine that the handsome, wealthy Duke of Beaushire could spare a second thought for a woman such as herself.
And yet she had thought of him—of his laughter, of the steadiness of his hand, and of the faint scent of sandalwood that seemed to linger in her memory. She dared not allow her thoughts to wander further. Still, she could not drive him from her mind.
And now she was to visit the museum with him and his family?
Elowen could not decide whether to be alarmed or secretly delighted.
The attention of the Beaumonts might improve her standing—or ruin what little peace she still possessed.
She had no fondness for being noticed, particularly when attention was seldom kind.
“Miss Tremaine—”
“Good afternoon, everyone.”
Elowen halted, glancing at the Duke, who—she was almost certain—had been about to speak to her. But now his attention shifted to the newcomer. His jaw tightened, his easy manner vanishing at once.
“Good day, Lord Cherrington,” said the Dowager Duchess pleasantly. “How do you do?”
“Exceedingly well on such a fine afternoon, Your Grace,” replied Victor with a practised smile. Elowen forced her gaze from the Duke and toward the marquess—the only other gentleman who had paid her much attention of late.
“I trust you are well also, Miss Tremaine?”
“Quite so, my lord,” she said, schooling her tone into polite neutrality.
Victor’s smile deepened. Reaching for her hand, he bowed and brushed a kiss across her glove. The act, perfectly proper in form, nevertheless drew every eye. Whispered speculation stirred around them like a chill breeze.
The last thing she wanted was to be the centre of attention—again.
“It is a pleasure to see you once more, Miss Tremaine,” he said. “Might I join you?”
“Of course you may, Lord Cherrington,” Mama answered before Elowen could protest. She managed not to sigh aloud.
The marquess’s grin broadened as he moved to her side, slipping easily into step beside her and guiding her a little ahead of the others. Her mother, predictably, made no effort to reclaim her.
It was all rather vexing. But then, the entire Season had been nothing but vexing. And so she did what she had learned to do best—she smiled, said nothing, and waited for the gentleman to fill the silence.
“I have not been able to keep you from my thoughts since our dance, Miss Tremaine,” he began, his voice low and smooth. “You have quite consumed me—heart and soul.”
“It is a wonder how one dance should have such an effect, my lord,” she replied before she could stop herself.
“That is how remarkable a lady you are. But surely, I am not the first to tell you so.”
You are. And you know it perfectly well.
She offered a small, noncommittal smile. “It is kind of you to say so.”
“So kind, indeed, that I must beg you to accept this.” He reached into his coat and withdrew a small leather-bound volume. “A book of poetry. I saw it this morning and thought instantly of you. Fate must have had a hand in our meeting again so soon.”
Elowen blinked, accepting the little book with care. “That is… most generous of you, my lord. You need not—”
“Oh, but I insist. I am certain it will please you.”
She tentatively took it. She did love poetry—yet somehow, receiving such a gift from him felt less a kindness than a complication. “You are very thoughtful, my lord. I thank you.”
“The pleasure is mine,” said Lord Cherrington, casting a brief glance over his shoulder—toward the Duke, perhaps? She could not tell. A faint smirk touched his lips before he tugged her closer to him, patting her hand. “Now, Miss Tremaine, let me tell you about my day...”
Elowen allowed her attention to drift. The marquess’s voice became a dull murmur against the hum of the park.
Whatever satisfaction he took in his own speech, she found little in it.
Yet with the gift of the book and his overt attentions, she could not help but wonder—perhaps, after all, this Season might not prove the hopeless disaster she had feared.