Chapter Nine
The only reason he was here was for Elowen Tremaine.
Ten minutes ago, Lucas might have convinced himself otherwise. He had questions, a plan forming in his mind, and William Tremaine might well hold the key to it. But the moment the door opened and the Tremaines entered the room, he realised how wrong he had been.
She was utterly gorgeous.
He did not believe there was a single lady in London—perhaps not in all of England—who could compare.
The way she carried herself, quiet and composed, slipping to the rear of her family as if she would rather not be seen, only made her beauty more striking.
She ought to have been at the centre of every room, the focus of every gaze.
How could anyone look elsewhere when she was present?
He knew he could not—and, if he was not mistaken, she struggled to look away from him as well.
Vaguely, Lucas was aware that he had risen, along with Catherine and his mother, to greet the new arrivals.
As head of his family, he was expected to welcome Lord Trenton first, and though he had truly been looking forward to seeing the older man again, to getting the chance to sit down and have a proper conversation with him after so long, he found it hard to focus.
“Forgive my cousin,” Catherine said brightly, stepping forward with a smile. “He seems to have drifted into thought—it happens to the best of us. Good evening, everyone.”
He tore his eyes away from Elowen just in time to catch William leaning toward her, whispering something that earned him a scathing glare.
Lucas cleared his throat, fixing his attention on the baron. “My lord, it is a pleasure to see you and your family again.”
“The pleasure is mine, Your Grace,” Eric said. Even though he looked rather unwell, he did not sound very worse for wear. “It is I who regrets not having been afforded your company these past few days. My wife and daughter tell me how they ran into you and your family at Hyde Park.”
“It was quite the pleasant coincidence, my lord,” Charlotte chimed in with a graceful smile. “I daresay Catherine has at last found a friend near her own age. Perhaps she will stop pestering her cousin.”
“Not likely,” Catherine said cheerfully, earning a few chuckles. Elowen did not laugh. In fact, Lucas thought she took the faintest step backward, as though wishing herself elsewhere.
“Well,” said Lady Westbrook briskly, “shall we begin dinner?”
She led the way, ushering the company from the room.
Lucas lingered a moment under the pretence of finishing his drink, allowing the others to go on ahead.
In any other house, it might have seemed irregular, but Lady Westbrook’s gatherings seldom stood on rigid ceremony.
When he at last stepped into the hall, the party had already arranged itself—the parents leading, Henry and Catherine talking easily ahead, and Elowen a little behind. He fell into step beside her.
“It is good to see you again, Elowen,” he said lightly, doing his best not to look directly at her. He feared that if he did, he would not stop. Across the hall, Catherine cast him a knowing glance over her shoulder, hiding a smile.
“It is good to see you as well, Your Grace,” Elowen replied, her tone perfectly polite—and perfectly bland.
“Come now,” he said. “Surely we may drop the formalities?”
“On the contrary, Your Grace,” she returned evenly, “I think it best we maintain them—so that neither of us grows too comfortable with the other.”
Lucas frowned at that. “Those are very particular words coming from a lady who intends to find a husband this Season.”
“Do you intend to marry me?” she asked softly, eyes forward.
His pulse stumbled. “I—that is, I have no intention of marrying at present.”
“Then you have answered your own question, Your Grace.”
As they neared the dining room, she slowed to a stop, turning to face him. “I have given some thought to our conversation at the museum,” she said calmly, “and I believe I have reached the only logical conclusion.”
He stopped too. “Have you now?”
She inclined her head, her expression unreadable, her composure flawless.
“You were close with my father once. Given my present circumstances, I imagine you feel some sense of obligation toward me. Your concern, though admirable, is unnecessary, Your Grace. I assure you I shall manage perfectly well on my own.”
“I think you have the wrong idea—”
“I doubt that I do.”
“Elowen, I can assure you that—”
“It’s Miss Tremaine, Your Grace,” she corrected smoothly.
He exhaled in frustration. “Miss Tremaine, while I understand why you may think that—”
“Good. Then we are of one mind. I am glad we have settled it so amicably.”
And with that, she was gone—sweeping past him before he could utter another word, her brother holding the door open for her. William caught Lucas’s eye as she passed, curiosity written plain across his face. Lucas could only manage a curt nod in return.
The company had already taken their seats by the time he entered. Elowen sat beside her mother—directly across from him. He could not decide whether that was a mercy or a torment.
She ignored him entirely. Not once did she glance up as the first course was served and conversation began to flow. She answered Lady Westbrook’s questions with grace but little warmth, the picture of polite restraint—so unlike her brother, who charmed the entire table with ease.
He could not make sense of her. What did she hope to gain by such reserve?
It was plain she took little pleasure in the evening, yet surely she was resolved to make the most of this Season.
Would that not require at least the pretence of good humour—a smile here, a pleasant word there—to ensure further invitations?
Or perhaps she saw no need for it. Perhaps, with Henry’s evident devotion to Catherine, she believed his own attentions born of pity rather than genuine interest.
The notion unsettled him more than he cared to admit. And worse still was the question that followed—would she have been so cold had the invitation come from the Marquess of Cherrington instead?
Dinner passed pleasantly enough for everyone else. For Lucas, it was a test of endurance—an exercise in trying not to stare too long, or too openly. But when Lady Westbrook at last suggested they adjourn to the drawing room, he felt a flicker of purpose again.
This evening had not gone to plan—but it was far from over.
“Catherine, why do you not play for us?” the Dowager Duchess suggested as soon as they had all gathered in the drawing room. She held an untouched glass of sherry and turned a proud smile toward Lady Westbrook. “Catherine is quite accomplished at all instruments, you know.”
“All instruments?” Henry echoed, one brow rising in disbelief.
Catherine lifted her chin as she stood. “Do you find that so difficult to believe, my lord?”
“Perhaps the pianoforte and the harp. Or even the cello. Any self-respecting lady should be able to hold her own with at least one or two of those instruments. But all? Every instrument?” Henry shook his head, looking around the room. “Surely that is an exaggeration.”
“Why should it be?”
The quiet challenge came from Elowen. Her tone was mild, but every head turned toward her. Lucas caught the quick, warning glance Lady Trenton shot her daughter—clearly anticipating what would follow.
Henry shifted in his seat. “Well... surely it is impossible, is it not?”
“Impossible?” Elowen tilted her head, her gaze steady. “Why so? Surely not because Miss Beaumont is a woman?”
“Of course not, Miss Tremaine!” Henry said hastily, colour rising in his cheeks. “I merely meant that there are so very many instruments—no one person could master them all, especially so young.”
“Then perhaps she is a prodigy,” Elowen replied lightly, one shoulder lifting in a delicate shrug. “That would explain the matter quite neatly, would it not? And I doubt Her Grace would exaggerate on something so unlikely.”
Lucas spoke before Henry could gather an answer. “If it is so unlikely, Miss Tremaine, then surely it is no wonder Henry questioned it.”
Elowen’s eyes slid to him. Lucas’s jaw tightened. There were emotions smouldering behind them, ones he couldn’t quite decipher. “Would you have done the same, Your Grace, had such a claim been made of me by my mother?”
She was putting him on the spot. Lucas didn’t mind all that much.
He'd never been one to cave under pressure.
“Perhaps not outright,” he said evenly. “But my hesitation would be born not of disbelief, only of the knowledge that you do not seem overly fond of me—unlike Catherine and Henry, who appear to be fast friends.”
Because they sat opposite one another, the others’ heads turned back and forth, following the exchange like spectators at a match. Then, with perfect composure, Elowen said, “I have never told you that I am not fond of you, Your Grace.”
“You did not have to.”
“Well,” she returned smoothly, “you are certainly not improving your case.”
“I doubt there is much I could do that would.”
Her lips tightened, but before she could reply, William leaned forward, a mischievous gleam in his eye. “Perhaps you should try agreeing with her, Your Grace. She does seem to like that.”
His words easily diffused the tension, making Lady Westbrook chuckle. “Which lady doesn’t?” she said. “I, for one, find Miss Tremaine’s candour most refreshing.”
Elowen had already turned her attention back to Henry. “I did not mean to sound imperious, my lord. Pray forgive me.”
Henry waved a dismissive hand, looking vastly relieved. “Imperious? Not at all, Miss Tremaine. Gallant would be nearer the mark.”
“Gallant indeed,” Catherine agreed, smiling broadly. “It is a comfort to know you would so readily defend my honour, Elowen.”
Elowen gave another mild shrug. “We are friends, are we not?”
Catherine drew in a theatrical gasp. If Lucas hadn’t known better, he might have thought her near tears. “You have made me the happiest creature alive,” she sighed dramatically.
“Please don’t expire on my account,” Elowen replied, though a flicker of amusement softened her words.
“I shan’t!” Catherine declared. “Instead, this piece shall be dedicated to you. And,” she added, turning to Henry, “my mother speaks nothing but the truth—I play the pianoforte, harp, cello, flute, and even the guitar. As Elowen so wisely presumed, I am what one might call a prodigy.”
“How modest of you, Catherine,” Lucas drawled.
“Another one of my virtues,” Catherine replied with a brilliant smile before gliding to the pianoforte.
As her fingers struck the first chord, Lucas felt the faint prickle of awareness at the back of his neck. He glanced, almost without meaning to, toward Elowen.
She was not watching Catherine.
Her eyes were fixed on him instead, her brow faintly furrowed—as though studying him, trying to make sense of something she could not quite grasp. And when their eyes met, she did not look away.
She held his gaze—calm, searching, intent.
Good, he thought, a flicker of something like satisfaction curling through him. At least the confusion is mutual.