Chapter Twelve #2
“Unkind, perhaps. But not untrue. Did you see how he questioned me about my studies? And how quickly he ceased listening the moment I began to answer?”
“I noticed it too,” Elowen murmured.
Mother and son turned to her. Elowen simply shrugged.
“He asked, yes,” Mama said carefully, “but perhaps he was only making conversation.”
“Perhaps,” Elowen agreed. “But he might have put a little more effort into pretending to care. And when I walked him out, he nearly turned toward Father’s study before correcting himself—as if he had meant to go there.”
William sat back, frowning. “Has he been here before?”
“I believe so,” Elowen said softly. “He recovered too quickly for it to have been a mistake.”
They fell silent. The quiet stretched, filled only by the gentle tick of the mantel clock.
Mama broke it at last. “He is a suitor, Elowen—or wishes to be seen as one. We should be grateful for his attention, not suspicious of it.”
Elowen set her book aside and tried not to sigh. She knew her mother was right. Truly. And yet... “And yet, that sparks no joy in me. When he brushed my hand, I felt nothing. Nothing at all.” She lifted her gaze, steady and serious.
“What of the Duke of Beaushire, then? Does he spark joy in you?”
Elowen twisted towards the fire, not wanting anyone to see the flush on her cheeks. “The Duke is different. He is... not Lord Cherrington.”
William gave a short, humourless laugh. “Thank goodness for that.”
Mama shot him a reproving glance, but she did not contradict him.
Suddenly feeling restless, Elowen rose and moved to the window, parting the curtain with a finger. The garden seemed to glow under the morning sunlight. The world beyond seemed ordinary, calm, and yet she felt as though some invisible thread had been tugged tighter around them.
Something told her there was more to Victor’s visit. He had not merely come to deliver flowers and poetry. His true purpose, she suspected, had not been to call on her at all—she felt it as keenly as if he had spoken it aloud.
But what did it matter? He could not have made his intentions clearer: he wished to court her—perhaps even marry her—and for that, she should be grateful.
Shouldn’t she?
***
Night came, and the house had grown quiet.
Mama and Papa had retired early, and William had withdrawn to their father’s study, muttering about notes he must order before he forgot them.
Elowen found her way back to the parlour after dinner, a single candle flickering beside her and the book Victor had given her lying unopened on the side table.
At least, she had meant to read. Perhaps she ought instead to have prepared for the Hartwell ball or answered the letters she had long promised to reply to. Instead, she sat motionless, her gaze fixed on the darkened corner of the room, her thoughts circling the events of the day.
Victor’s eyes lingered in her mind—the way they had swept the room, not with admiration, but with calculation. He had been taking stock of his surroundings, committing every detail to memory. But why?
There was something about him she could not name, and it unsettled her more than she cared to admit.
Inevitably, her thoughts drifted back to the Duke.
She saw again the museum—the way he had stood, hands clasped behind his back, looking at her as though she were a painting, as though he alone could see the colours that made her who she was.
Then came the dinner at Westbrook House, and their conversation after…
Good grief, why could she not put him from her mind?
With him, she had felt—what? Alive. Aware. Seen, perhaps, but that may very well be because he looked at her as if she were the only person he could see.
Victor’s attentions left her colder than before. Lucas warmed—and frustrated—her in ways she did not know how to name.
She pressed her hand against her chest, alarmed by the way her heart quickened at the memory.
The floor creaked, and she twisted to see William standing in the doorway. His hair was rumpled, looking dishevelled. “You are still awake?”
“So are you,” she returned gently.
He came to the fire, stirring the embers until they glowed brighter. “I cannot rest. My mind keeps circling back to what I saw at the club last night.”
“Why?” she asked quietly. “Why is it so important to you?”
William sighed. “Perhaps one day you will understand.”
Elowen bristled but said nothing. How was she to understand when no one ever explained anything to her? Yet she was too tired to argue.
“And now Lord Cherrington…” William shook his head. “There is something about him that I simply do not like.”
Elowen folded her hands. “Do you trust him?”
“The marquess?” William gave a short, mirthless laugh. “Not for a moment. Do you?”
She gave a small, wry smile. “I am not yet certain.”
He looked at her, his expression softening. “You see more clearly than Mother does. She wishes to think well of people.”
“She wishes to keep the peace,” Elowen corrected gently. “And she wants nothing more than to see me married—however impossible that may be. It is not quite the same.”
William’s mouth tightened. “I worry for you. He courts your attention too openly. If you do not want him—”
“I do not,” Elowen said simply.
William nodded once, as though that settled it. “Then we will find a way to be rid of him. Carefully.”
Elowen did not answer. Her thoughts had already returned to Victor’s slip near the study door. Perhaps it had meant nothing—a simple mistake, easily explained. And yet, something about it lingered, quiet and unsettling. What had he been about to do—and why the need to hide it?
“You seem tired, sister. You should go to bed.”
“I might say the same of you, little brother.”
William groaned. “Will you never stop calling me that? I am a man now, you know.”
She smiled faintly. “Yes, but you will always be my younger brother.”
He huffed a laugh, rolling his eyes as he rose. “Goodnight, Elowen.”
“Goodnight, William.”
But long after her brother had gone, Elowen remained by the fire, the clock chiming softly into the quiet. Her thoughts gnawed at her—the memory of Victor’s eyes, his slip near the study, the unmistakable sense that he wanted something from their household.
She had extinguished her lamp when at last she went to her room, but sleep would not come. The unease coiled tighter within her chest. Lord Cherrington wanted something. Of that she was certain.
But what? Was it her? Surely not. And yet… why not?
She had always trusted her instincts, and every instinct warned her there was more behind his interest than courtship. Only she could not yet see what lay in the shadows.
She rolled onto her side, pressing her cheek against the cool pillow, her heart restless, her mind crowded with suspicion—and something else entirely.
Lucas.
He appeared unbidden: standing beside her at the museum, smiling across the drawing room at Westbrook House.
She had not meant to think of him, yet her thoughts betrayed her, conjuring his steady gaze, his quiet attention, the sense that he truly saw her.
That single memory stirred her more deeply than any gallant word ever could.
Victor’s flowers, his poetry, his calculated touches—none of it stirred her at all.
It should have. By every standard, he was an enviable match: wealthy, charming, well-connected. Any other young woman would have been flattered. Mama certainly thought her fortunate. Even William, despite his distaste, could not deny that such notice was not to be dismissed lightly.
And yet Elowen felt nothing but unease.
She turned again, staring up at the ceiling.
Perhaps she was foolish to draw such sharp comparisons.
Perhaps she was only unsettled by the way she felt when the Duke turned his gaze on her and pulled her into infuriating, incredible, titillating conversation.
But deep within her, she knew it was more.
It was the difference between something genuine and something hollow. Between fire and polished glass.
Her chest tightened with the realisation.
What was she to do? She was warming to Lucas—there was no denying it. But he had shown no desire to court her. If he wished to, would he not have made it clear by now?
Should she speak with Mama about it? Her mother would only urge patience, politeness, acceptance.
William might understand, but he had burdens enough of his own, chasing secrets that already drew him into uneasy company.
Her father was far too ill to be burdened with such things, though she was fairly certain he would welcome it. And Lucas—
Her heart stuttered at the thought of him. She could not possibly.
She pressed her palms over her eyes, willing herself to sleep. But the darkness only sharpened her thoughts.
Victor was not to be trusted.
Lucas was not to be forgotten.
And the days ahead promised to entangle them all in ways she could scarcely foresee.