Chapter Six
“You have been awfully quiet, Miss Tremaine. Is everything quite all right?”
Elowen thinned her lips, resisting the urge to let the truth escape. She didn’t want to be here—he must have known that much already—but honesty with the Duke would only earn her a scolding from her mother later.
So she did what she did best: she pretended. “I am perfectly well, Your Grace.”
“No, you are not.”
Her irritation pricked sharper. She drifted toward the display of antique vases, feigning interest in the accompanying plaques though she was acutely aware of the Duke beside her.
Unsurprisingly, they were attracting a good deal of attention—far too much for her liking, though no doubt enough to please her mother.
That same mother who, at the last possible moment, had claimed that their butler had indeed more than enough work to occupy him, and that it would be best for her to remain at home to tend to Papa herself, sending a maid in her stead.
This meant that, for all intents and purposes, Elowen and the Duke of Beaushire were alone. The maid followed several paces behind, silent as a shadow, which would do nothing to stop tomorrow’s scandal sheets from writing precisely what they pleased.
Honestly, Elowen might have admired her mother’s quick thinking if she hadn’t been so annoyed by it.
And the Duke—good grief—was paying her far too much attention. She could not make sense of his motives.
Realising he was still waiting for her to speak, she said lightly, “Is it not natural for one to be silent while admiring such beautiful history?”
“Perhaps so—if that were truly what you were doing.”
“Are you suggesting I am lying?”
“I am suggesting you are hiding something.”
Elowen stopped walking. She clasped her hands behind her back to conceal how tightly they curled.
They were in public—she was painfully aware of it.
It was, in fact, one of the reasons her temper frayed so easily.
She hated the mask she had to wear, the constant tiptoeing lest she give society further cause to sneer.
And blast it, the handsome man beside her was testing every ounce of her composure.
“Your Grace,” she said at last, her voice level, “may I ask you a question?”
“Of course you may. As a matter of fact, there is nothing I would like more.”
“Did Miss Beaumont truly decide not to join us today?”
The Duke clasped his hands behind his back again. Now that they’d stopped walking, she had no choice but to face him—and immediately wished she hadn’t. Up close, his handsomeness was almost disarming enough to make her forget her annoyance.
“Well, I certainly didn’t tie her to her bedpost to keep her from coming,” he drawled.
Elowen couldn’t tell if he meant to be amusing, but she certainly wasn’t amused. “And Her Grace? What reason did she have for staying behind?”
“She felt unwell.”
“Did she?”
“You sound as if you do not believe me.”
“I do not,” she said plainly. A wiser part of her told her to keep her tongue, but she ignored it. “You are not nearly as convincing as you imagine, Your Grace. Still, I cannot imagine why you would feel compelled to invent a tale—though I believe I have figured out your intentions.”
The Duke tilted his head slightly, a lock of hair falling over his brow. Her traitorous heart gave a flutter.
“Go on, Miss Tremaine,” he said. “Tell me what my intentions are.”
“You wished for this outing to be private,” she said evenly. “To have me to yourself. Why that should be, I cannot fathom. I have nothing you could possibly want.”
Something flickered in his eyes—surprise, perhaps, or offence. “I do not require anything from you, Miss Tremaine. I am quite accustomed to managing on my own.”
“In wealth, certainly,” she replied, her tone still measured, “but I am a disgraced lady without influence or consequence. There are many others this Season more suited to your attention. It defies logic that you would single me out—unless there is another purpose behind it.”
“I do hope this is not your manner of speaking to prospective suitors, Miss Tremaine,” he murmured, amusement colouring his tone.
“I have no suitors, Your Grace,” she said flatly. “If that was not already evident, allow me to make it plain now.”
He regarded her for a long moment, his expression unreadable.
“At least tell me your reasoning,” she said at last.
“I will,” he said, “if you call me Lucas.”
There was no stopping the scowl that instantaneously overtook her face. “This is not a negotiation, Your Grace.”
“Nor is it an interrogation,” he countered with ease.
Were her mother present, she would have been forced to school her features into serenity. As it was, she allowed herself the luxury of glaring at him outright. To her increasing annoyance, he only looked faintly amused.
“Never mind, then,” she muttered, turning on her heel. He fell into step beside her effortlessly.
“You don’t wish to know any more?” he asked.
“Not particularly.”
“Now, who is the one being dishonest?”
She pressed her lips together. “I do not care for deception, Your Grace. Observing it in others is one thing; being its subject is another.”
“Look around you, Miss Tremaine. There is not a single person in London who is not pretending to be someone they are not. The civility, the conversation, the manners—all masks, worn to perfection. You are no exception.”
That stopped her cold. “I beg your pardon?”
He arched a brow. “You know it yourself. Though I daresay it wounds your pride to have me point it out.”
“If your intention was to make me like you, Your Grace, you are failing rather spectacularly.”
“Am I making you hate me, then?”
“Hate is rather a strong word—but you do seem determined to earn it.”
To her further vexation, the Duke laughed. His low chuckle seemed to reverberate through her chest, entirely against her will.
“This is not at all how I expected the afternoon to unfold,” he said.
“I suppose you thought I would be easily led,” she retorted.
“Not at all. Lord Trenton has told me enough about you to know that you are far too intelligent—and far too strong-willed—for that.”
The mention of her father tempered her annoyance somewhat, though she refused to let her scowl slip entirely. She resumed walking, mindful of the eyes that must surely be upon them.
“But,” he added lightly, “he did fail to mention how very stubborn you are.”
“I am not the only stubborn one here, Your Grace.”
“Ah, but you do not deny it.”
“I see no reason to deny the truth. Unlike certain people, I prefer honesty.”
“So do I—though mine is better offered at the proper time. For now, I only wish to enjoy this afternoon—with less quarrelling, if we might manage it.”
“Then tell me why you have sought me out.”
“It will not be so simple.”
“Then neither will this afternoon.”
He laughed again—utterly unbothered by her sharpness. “It is just as well I persuaded Catherine not to join us.”
“Aha!” she exclaimed, turning toward him. “So you admit it.”
“I never denied it.”
“You did not admit it, either.”
“Where would be the amusement in that?”
Under different circumstances, she might have enjoyed the museum, as she always had. But today, she could see none of it—only the infuriating Duke beside her, commanding her attention no matter how she tried to look away.
“I do not mean to upset or anger you, Miss Tremaine,” he said at last, his tone gentling.
She scoffed softly. “You have a peculiar way of showing it.”
His grin deepened. “And that, I assure you, is the absolute truth. I simply feel I must wait for the right moment to tell you what I wish to say.”
“Forgive me, Your Grace, if I am not eager to serve as a pawn in your unknown plans.”
“You are no pawn,” he said quietly. “If we are to speak in chess terms, you are the queen.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere,” she murmured. Yet warmth crept up her neck all the same.
“It is no flattery—it is truth. I have no wish to offend your intelligence. Only to ask that you be patient with me, for now is not the time to reveal my true intentions.”
“Then when?” she demanded, whirling toward him. She hadn’t realised how close they stood until the faint scent of sandalwood enveloped her, setting her heart to an unsteady rhythm.
The Duke inclined his head, his voice lowering to a murmur that sent a shiver along her spine.
“While I do wish to speak with you, Elowen, about something of great importance, at present I would simply enjoy your company—as I have wished to do for far too long.”
Elowen swallowed, her fingers tightening against the fabric of her gown. Just like that, every sensible thought scattered. His eyes held hers with quiet certainty; his nearness unsettled her more than she cared to admit. It was the sort of moment that might turn a foolish mind to dreams of romance.
And because she refused to think herself foolish, she took a deliberate step back.
She did not remark upon his use of her given name—he had done it so naturally, as if the barrier between them no longer existed.
To call attention to it would only invite another vexing exchange, and she had had quite enough of those for one afternoon.
Instead, she drew herself up and said, with careful composure, “Very well.”
As she turned away, she caught the faint curve of amusement at the corner of his mouth before he fell back into step beside her. Somehow, she could not shake the feeling that she had just conceded a battle she had not even realised she had walked into.
***
He had finally managed to keep Elowen from baring her fangs at him. Lucas hadn’t anticipated that, of all the challenges he might face today, softening her temper would prove the most formidable. She wore her defences like armour—bright, sharp, and difficult to pierce.
“My father speaks quite highly of you,” she said after a stretch of silence, during which he had been trying, without much success, to draw her into conversation. “I am curious how you two became acquainted.”
“It appears you are curious about many things, my lady.”