Chapter Sixteen
“Henry has been most diligent,” Catherine said as she linked her arm through Elowen’s while they strolled across Lady Penelope’s broad lawn.
Sunlight dappled the grass through the high oaks, and the murmur of conversation drifted like a low hum around them.
It was a beautiful day. “Three visits in a single week—and always at the proper calling hours. Aunt Charlotte says it is most encouraging.”
Elowen smiled, warmed by her friend’s delight. “Encouraging indeed. I suppose Beaushire Hall has never seemed quite so hospitable to you as it does now.”
Catherine laughed softly, a sound that drew glances even from across the lawn. “You must not tease me, Elowen. Henry is… different. Gentle, steady. When he speaks, he listens as well. It is a quality I seldom encounter.”
“I should think so,” Elowen said. “Most gentlemen in town appear to prefer their own voices.” Her tone was light, though her thoughts flickered, unbidden, to Lord Cherrington—his smooth drawl and his endless catalogue of accomplishments.
Catherine’s expression softened. “Lucas approves. He said as much to Aunt Charlotte, and even to me. I do not think he gives praise lightly, even when it concerns his friend.”
Elowen’s heart gave a small, treacherous flutter at the mention of the Duke. She kept her gaze forward, pretending sudden interest in the fountains at the garden’s edge. “That must please you greatly.”
“It does,” Catherine admitted. “He is almost too protective, but then—I have never had a brother, and I suppose it is natural for him to play that part. Henry does not seem intimidated. In fact, I think Lucas’s approval means the world to him.”
Before Elowen could reply, her attention shifted.
Near the garden gates, two men stood in close conversation—Lord Cherrington and Lord Orvilleton.
At first glance, they appeared cordial, even friendly.
Yet Elowen’s eyes, sharpened by the unease of recent days, caught the tension in Lord Orvilleton’s shoulders and the sharpness behind Victor’s otherwise polished manner.
Victor’s hand cut once through the air—too quick, too precise. Orvilleton’s jaw tightened. They parted at last with exaggerated civility, the kind that masked everything but goodwill.
Elowen narrowed her eyes, watching them go. A few paces off, she noticed William standing near an oak, his expression alert. He seemed to have witnessed the exchange as well, for he turned and spoke quietly to someone hidden from view behind the tree.
“Tea is served on the terrace!” Lady Penelope’s cheerful call rang across the lawn, and the guests began drifting toward the long tables laid with gleaming china and pyramids of sandwiches and cakes.
Catherine tugged at Elowen’s arm. “Come—we must sit together.”
But Elowen was swept into the crowd and found herself, to her dismay, seated beside Victor at one of the central tables. His smile was the picture of gallantry, no hint of his earlier conversation showing as he served her tea.
“A cup for Miss Tremaine,” he said smoothly, brushing her hand with his fingers as he passed the delicate porcelain into her grasp.
“Thank you,” she murmured, withdrawing as quickly as politeness allowed. The touch was deliberate, she knew, and it brought no warmth—only chill.
Across the table, Lucas had taken his seat, his posture characteristically composed.
When his eyes met hers above the floral centrepiece, Elowen felt a jolt.
His gaze lingered only a heartbeat before he turned politely back to his mother beside him, yet the effect of that single glance made her teacup tremble in her hand.
Victor’s voice drew her back. “Lady Penelope’s gardens are the pride of London. Only last year she imported roses from France at considerable expense—though, of course, the blooms at my own estate thrive far more vigorously. The soil there is remarkable; my gardeners take great pride in it.”
Elowen offered a noncommittal smile. “I am sure they must.”
He leaned a fraction closer. “Perhaps you will see them yourself one day. The grounds are extensive. One does grow accustomed to space, you know, when fortune allows it.”
Elowen kept her eyes fixed upon her plate, grateful when conversation at the table shifted elsewhere. She sipped her tea, though the lavender-scented steam felt suddenly oppressive.
When at last she dared another glance upward, Lucas was watching her again. His expression betrayed nothing, but the faint curve of his mouth—somewhere between amusement and quiet protectiveness—steadied her far more than Victor’s endless gallantries.
When tea concluded, Lady Penelope rose and clapped her hands. “Games, my friends! Battledore on the east lawn—or a walk through the rose gardens for those less energetic. Choose your amusements!”
The company began to disperse. Elowen stood uncertainly until Catherine approached, Henry in tow.
“Miss Tremaine,” Henry said with a courteous bow, “would you and Lucas care to join us in the rose gardens? Lady Penelope insists they are in full bloom.”
Catherine smiled, laying her hand lightly on Henry’s arm. “Yes, do come. It will be far more pleasant than shuttlecock.”
Lucas appeared almost instantly at Elowen’s side. “A walk among roses sounds very agreeable.”
And somehow, Elowen thought, he was not speaking of roses at all.
“Come along then,” Catherine urged, tugging Henry forward with her usual cheerful determination. “I want to see if the white roses have opened—they were nearly ready yesterday, Lady Penelope said.”
Henry looked down at her with the kind of indulgent amusement Elowen had come to recognise. “Then we must confirm it at once.”
The pair moved ahead on the gravel path, Catherine’s lively chatter trailing behind them. The garden opened in a sweep of trellised arches heavy with bloom, the air rich with the scent of roses in every shade.
Elowen’s pace slowed unconsciously, and Lucas matched it, his stride easy beside hers.
“I suspect,” he said after a moment, “that Catherine intends us to fall behind.”
Elowen arched a brow. “Do you think so? Perhaps she is simply eager about roses.”
“Mm,” Lucas replied, the corner of his mouth twitching. “I have never known Catherine to be quite so eager about roses before Henry came into the picture.”
That earned a soft laugh. Elowen pressed her fingers to her lips as though to contain it. “You may be right,” she admitted.
They walked in companionable silence for a few moments, the crunch of gravel beneath their feet the only sound. At last, Lucas inclined his head toward a cluster of pale blossoms.
“What do you think of them?” he asked.
“The roses?”
“Yes.”
“They’re beautiful,” Elowen said simply.
“And yet,” Lucas said, his tone deliberately thoughtful, “beauty has long been a matter of debate. Some philosophers say it lies in proportion. Others in harmony. Still others in the pleasure it stirs in the beholder.”
Elowen cast him a sidelong glance. “And which do you believe?”
He smiled faintly. “I asked you first.”
Her lips curved. “Very well. I think beauty rests not in perfection but in meaning. A rose is lovely not merely for its form, but because it reminds us that life is fleeting. That, at least, is how I see it.”
Lucas studied her profile—the clear light in her eyes, the sincerity of her words. “That is very near to truth, I think.”
“You mean your truth,” she countered lightly.
“Perhaps.” His gaze lingered. “Though I suspect it is close to yours as well.”
She blushed faintly under his scrutiny and turned her attention determinedly to the blossoms ahead. “And what of you, Your Grace? What do you call beautiful?”
He hesitated, the honest answer pressing at the edge of his tongue—you. But he schooled his features and said instead, “I find beauty in candour. In those rare moments when people speak what they truly think, not what society expects.”
Elowen tilted her head, her curiosity piqued. “Do you?”
“I do,” he said softly. “It is a rarity in London drawing rooms. Like finding a single rose in winter.”
Her lips parted slightly before she looked away, visibly unsettled. “You speak as though you have found such a rarity.”
“Perhaps I have,” he said, his voice low.
The silence between them deepened—not uncomfortable, merely charged. Elowen’s steps slowed, and Lucas instinctively adjusted to match her pace.
At last, she said quietly, “You make conversation difficult, Your Grace.”
He smiled. “Do I? I thought we were merely discussing roses.”
Her laugh escaped then, unwilling but warm. “You know very well we were not.”
The sound of it lightened him. “If I can make you laugh, then I count it a success. Catherine will think me quite useless otherwise.”
Elowen shook her head, still smiling despite herself. “You are impossible.”
“Frequently told so,” he said with mock gravity. “And yet—here I remain.”
She tried to suppress another laugh, but it broke free nonetheless. The warmth of it lingered between them, easing what might otherwise have grown too intense.
After a moment, she sobered, glancing toward Catherine and Henry, who had paused ahead to admire another trellis. “I think my mother would be very pleased to see me walking here with you.”
Lucas arched a brow. “Indeed? And why is that?”
“Because you asked me to join you,” she said, her voice low. “That alone would satisfy her expectations. She is very eager on such matters.”
“Ah.” He folded his hands behind his back. “And what of you? Are you pleased?”
She hesitated, her lips pressing together. “I… suppose I am.”
Lucas caught the faint blush rising in her cheeks, and delight flickered in his chest. “Careful, Elowen. If you continue admitting such things, I may grow conceited.”
Her eyes flashed, though the corner of her mouth betrayed her amusement. “I should not like to contribute to your conceit.”
“Then you had better deny it at once,” he said mildly.
She turned her head away, the colour deepening. “I will not.”