Chapter Fourteen
The Hartwell ballroom blazed with light, crystal chandeliers scattering glimmers across the polished floor.
A string ensemble played a lively air, weaving through the hum of a hundred conversations until the entire room seemed to move in time with it.
Velvet draperies of deep burgundy softened the walls, drinking in the gold of the candlelight.
The scent of roses mingled with the faint, sharp tang of wax, and liveried servants—blue, black, and white—glided silently through the throng, their trays flashing with wine and sugared delicacies.
Elowen entered on her parents’ arms, each step measured, her composure carefully arranged.
William had elected to stay home, offering no explanation, which left her beneath her mother’s gentle yet watchful guard.
Margaret Tremaine’s gaze was already sweeping the room, assessing every potential suitor within sight.
So when Elowen caught sight of Catherine across the room, engaged in lively conversation with a small circle that included Henry, a quiet rush of relief washed through her.
“Pardon me, Mama, Papa,” she murmured, inclining her head before slipping away—swiftly, before the baroness could object.
As she moved off into the crowd, she heard her father’s low, indulgent voice behind her: “Leave her be. You may hound her when the dancing begins.”
Elowen hid her smile.
The subtle warmth between Catherine and Henry was the first thing she noticed as she approached.
Henry’s gaze never wavered from Catherine, and her laughter—bright, unrestrained, perhaps even a deterrent to other gentlemen—only made her shine the brighter, a flame to which Henry was helplessly drawn. How refreshing, Elowen thought.
Watching them, she felt an unfamiliar pang of longing. Had it been easy for Catherine to form such a connection? Would it ever be easy for her—if possible at all?
Before she could make it to Catherine’s side, Lord Cherrington stepped neatly into her path.
The air about him seemed to shift, the nearest ladies turning with soft whispers and appreciative glances at his immaculate attire.
He paid them no mind and bowed with practised grace, taking Elowen’s hand without invitation.
“Miss Tremaine,” he murmured, voice low and polished, “may I claim the dance I was promised?”
Elowen barely nodded, irritation quick and quiet beneath her composure. She allowed herself to be guided to the floor, every movement measured, her expression serene.
As he drew her into the waltz, she found her gaze wandering—searching for a familiar dark head among the crowd.
As they moved into the patterns of the dance, Victor’s voice flowed easily, carrying over the music.
“You know,” he began, “I had the most remarkable morning. Went down to the stables to see my new colt run. Magnificent creature—swift as the wind. I’ve every confidence he’ll take first at the Autumn Stakes. ”
Elowen tilted her head politely. “I’m sure he’s very swift.”
Victor laughed, oblivious to the faint edge in her tone. “Fast? My dear Miss Tremaine, that is an understatement. He practically glides. It’s not merely speed, of course—it’s breeding, lineage, strategy. I have an eye for such things.”
“I see,” she murmured, focusing on maintaining her balance and the rhythm of the waltz, feeling the practised pressure of his hand on her back. And hating every second of it.
Victor’s eyes sparkled with pride. “Yes, indeed. My estate, my horses, my investments—all flourish under my hand. It is something of a gift, really. Some strive for years and never achieve what comes naturally to me. Remarkable, wouldn’t you say?”
She would not. But she gave him a small, polite smile. Her gaze swept the room again.
Is Lucas here?
Victor continued blithely. “And, of course, the ladies notice. You might think a man in my position would find it difficult to choose among them, but no—offers arrive unbidden. It is, I confess, most gratifying.”
“That must make things… convenient for you,” Elowen replied, her tone so even it could have been mistaken for sincerity.
“Convenient? Oh, delightful, rather. But you, my dear, you have held my attention from the first.”
She hardly cared who held what at that moment. She only wished the music would end. Her thoughts drifted again—unbidden—to Lucas.
He would never boast like this. He would ask about Father. About me. He would listen.
She caught herself. Since when have I come to think the Duke’s inquisitiveness a good thing?
Victor’s voice pulled her back, animated and self-congratulatory. “The waltz is a passion of mine. A gentleman must move with grace, mustn’t he? There is poetry in motion, and I do so enjoy a lady who can match my step. You, Miss Tremaine, are most accomplished.”
Elowen barely heard him. In her mind, it was Lucas’s hand at her back, not Victor’s. His eyes meeting hers with quiet intensity, not this smug gleam of self-approval.
“Few men can claim such natural ease on the floor,” Victor went on, undeterred. “Lady Hartwell herself once declared it ‘a pleasure to behold my steps as part of the music.’”
Elowen forced a smile. “I’m sure she said so.”
He laughed, missing the dryness entirely. “You see, I am modest, of course. But truly, confidence is the key—to dancing, to living. Confidence opens all doors.”
Her eyes wandered again, refusing to linger on him.
Victor’s hand tightened slightly at her back. “I do enjoy this,” he said, lowering his voice. “The conversation, the movement—it allows one to speak freely. And I must confess, I find a lady who can keep pace with me, in every sense, most rare.”
“I’m glad you find it… rare,” she murmured, voice smooth as glass.
He smiled, utterly unaware. “Yes, Miss Tremaine, you are extraordinary. My equal in wit and composure—my match, in every sense.”
A shiver ran through her. He leaned closer. “Are you cold?”
“A bit,” she lied. Goodness gracious, how long is this dance?
“We shall remedy that soon,” he promised, with that same glib charm. “Rest assured.”
Elowen nodded faintly, her mind elsewhere—caught on the question that would not leave her. Would Lucas dance tonight? Watch, perhaps? Think of me at all?
The waltz finally ended. Victor bowed deeply, returning her hand with a flourish. “I trust the experience has been enlightening?”
“It has been… delightful,” she replied, her voice perfectly calm, her thoughts already gone.
“Excellent!” Victor beamed. “I shall not stay away long, I assure you. I’m afraid I must make my rounds, but I could not let the evening begin without showing you where my true interest lies.”
Elowen inclined her head. “Yes, my lord,” she remembered to say.
Thankfully, he returned her to her mother’s side without further display. She could not even summon the energy to pretend interest.
“How was your dance with Lord Cherrington, my dear?” Mama asked, eyes bright with expectation.
Elowen straightened, her voice measured, unflinching. “It was… unremarkable.”
She scanned the crowd for Catherine and realised suddenly that she had lost sight of her entirely. The girl had vanished somewhere among the clusters of dancers and well-dressed guests.
Mama’s brows rose slightly, but she said nothing beyond, “Perhaps you will receive other requests to dance before the night is through.” Her tone was light, but beneath it lay that familiar note of hope Elowen always dreaded.
Elowen inclined her head politely, though inwardly she doubted it. Other requests? From whom?
Victor had claimed the first dance, and few others were likely to trouble themselves to approach her—the lady tainted by scandal. She said nothing, letting her attention drift as her mother continued to speak.
“The evening has been so beautifully arranged,” Mama went on, glancing about with evident satisfaction. “The orchestra exquisite, the company lively—so many eligible young men in one place. It is the perfect setting for a lady to find her husband.”
Elowen’s mind had already wandered. Her eyes moved idly over the room—and then froze. Across the crowded ballroom, Lucas’s gaze met hers.
The moment it did, her breath caught. Warmth unfurled through her chest, quickening her pulse until she felt as though her heart itself were reaching for him across the room.
He looked as though he might come to her—then Catherine appeared at his side, touching his arm, her face alight with excitement. Lucas’s lips curved in a small, distracted smile. Henry joined them, his own expression bright with affection.
Elowen’s fingers tightened slightly at her sides. She told herself to look away, yet found herself watching as Catherine spoke and laughed, drawing Lucas’s full attention. Then Catherine moved off again, Henry close behind—and Lucas was alone.
Her pulse stumbled when he began crossing the floor toward her. Relief, anticipation, and something dangerously like joy tangled in her chest.
“Your Grace,” she said when he reached her, inclining her head with care.
“Elowen.” His voice was low, steady, his bow precise. “It is good to see you.”
She smiled faintly, her words measured. “You insist on using my given name, I see.”
“And you insist on pretending you mind.” His answering smile deepened—but only enough for her to see it, pitched low so that no one else might overhear.
Then he turned politely to Margaret Tremaine. “Good evening, my lady.”
Mama curtsied, pleased beyond measure. “Your Grace.” Then, with a meaningful glance at Elowen, she drifted away toward another group of guests, her satisfaction evident in the faint curve of her lips.
“Do you care for balls, Elowen?” Lucas asked lightly.
“I do not mind them.”
“That sounds dangerously honest.”
“I suppose it is,” she said, her lips threatening a smile.
“Good,” he said, feigning relief. “I would hate to learn you secretly detest dancing and be forced to imagine your silent protests while I trample your toes.”