Chapter Sixteen #2
Lucas’s grin widened before he quickly suppressed it. “Then I shall treasure that answer.”
Their steps brought them beneath another arbour, fragrant with bloom. Catherine’s laughter drifted back to them, mingled with Henry’s low voice—but for a moment, the world seemed narrowed to the space between Elowen and Lucas.
“You are quite unlike other gentlemen of society,” she said suddenly, her tone quiet but certain.
“Unlike?”
“Yes. You do not speak merely to fill silence. You listen. You observe. You respond accordingly, with interest.”
Lucas studied her, searching her face. “Your candour strikes me again, Elowen.”
She drew a breath, her eyes meeting his. “And I, again, wonder if I shall regret saying it.”
“You will not,” he said firmly, though his voice gentled on the words.
Silence settled again—charged but not uneasy—until Catherine’s cheerful call summoned them to admire the white roses. The spell broke, leaving both a little unsteady.
Elowen glanced away, smoothing her skirts as though grateful for the interruption. Yet Lucas, watching her profile, knew she felt the same quiet disquiet that had taken root in him.
The group returned toward the house some time later, gravel crunching softly beneath their shoes. Catherine and Henry walked ahead, their conversation light and teasing. Lucas and Elowen followed a step behind, the air between them still touched with the memory of what had passed.
As they approached the terrace, the hum of polite voices grew louder—the flutter of fans, the clink of china, the steady murmur of contented guests. It will be talked of for weeks, Elowen thought absently.
“Ah, Miss Tremaine, there you are,” came a smooth, familiar voice.
Elowen’s shoulders stiffened before she turned. Victor was detaching himself from a group of gentlemen near the French doors, approaching with his usual graceful confidence, his expression pleasant but his eyes fixed on her with unmistakable possession.
“Lord Cherrington,” Elowen said, her tone carefully neutral.
“You have been elusive this afternoon,” he observed, bowing slightly before straightening with a smile. “I began to fear you would deprive me of your company altogether.”
“I was admiring Lady Penelope’s roses,” Elowen replied.
“Indeed? Then I must be jealous of her roses,” Victor said smoothly.
He offered his arm, though the gesture had the air of command rather than invitation.
Elowen resisted the urge to frown. “I was hoping you might favour me with a hand at whist. The tables are set, and Lady Penelope insists upon my participation. I should be gratified if you would be my partner.”
Elowen hesitated, her fingers brushing lightly against her skirts. “I do not play often, my lord. I should be loath to disappoint you.”
“Nonsense,” Victor said, ignoring Lucas entirely, though he stood at her side. “You could never disappoint me.”
Lucas’s jaw tightened, though his voice, when it came, was even. “Lord Cherrington, Miss Tremaine has only just returned from her walk. Perhaps she might be allowed a moment’s rest before being pressed into service?”
Victor’s smile did not falter, though his eyes hardened. “Ah, Your Grace—ever the gallant protector.”
“I would not presume to protect Miss Tremaine,” Lucas said calmly. “Merely to respect her preference.”
Victor turned back to Elowen, his tone deceptively light. “And what is your preference, Miss Tremaine? Would you rather sit idle while others amuse themselves, or will you allow me the honour of your company at the table?”
Elowen felt her throat tighten. Lucas’s steady presence on one side and Victor’s insistent gaze on the other left her little room for refusal. Politeness demanded an answer, though her heart recoiled from it.
“If you insist, my lord,” she said softly.
Victor’s smile widened, victorious. “Excellent. Come, then.”
He offered his arm again, and this time, under the weight of expectation, she rested her hand lightly upon it.
As Victor led her toward the tables, Lucas followed a pace behind with Catherine and Henry. Elowen heard Catherine whisper, “He is far too forward with her.”
“I have noticed,” Lucas replied, his tone quiet but edged.
At the card tables, Victor drew out a chair with exaggerated courtesy, his hand brushing against hers as she sat. “We shall make an unbeatable pair, you and I,” he said smoothly.
Elowen forced a polite smile. “I would not raise your expectations too high, my lord.”
“You underestimate yourself,” he returned, taking his seat beside her. “I have excellent instincts in these matters. Together, we cannot fail.”
Across the table, another guest chuckled. “Careful, Cherrington—confidence has undone better men.”
Victor’s smile deepened. “Confidence,” he said, “is merely clarity of vision.”
As the cards were dealt, Elowen folded her hands in her lap, resisting the urge to glance toward Lucas. She felt his gaze nonetheless, boring a hole into her cheek.
Victor leaned closer, lowering his voice so that only she could hear. “It pleases me that you agreed. I had begun to fear you were avoiding me.”
“I had no intention of giving offence,” Elowen said quickly, hating that she couldn’t just be honest.
“You could not offend me,” Victor said, his tone threaded with something darker than charm. “But I do not like to be denied.”
The implication in his words chilled her, though she forced a neutral smile and turned her attention to the game.
Meanwhile, Lucas had taken a seat a short distance away, feigning polite conversation with a gentleman about the prospects of the upcoming parliamentary session. But his attention was as fixed on Elowen as hers was on him, even though her eyes were focused on the table.
Elowen lifted her gaze briefly, her eyes finding Lucas’. The connection was quick, but in that single glance, she felt moored, pleased that he’d opted to stay.
Victor noticed, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly, though his smile remained intact. “Shall we begin, Miss Tremaine?” he said.
“Yes, my lord,” she replied quietly.
The game commenced.
The dealer shuffled briskly, cards snapping against one another before he fanned them out across the green baize table. Elowen accepted her hand quietly, arranging the cards in her hand. Victor leaned close, his shoulder brushing hers as though by accident.
“You needn’t fret,” he murmured, low enough for only her to hear. “Your inexperience will only charm the table. Leave the strategy to me.”
Elowen kept her eyes upon her cards, already weary of his proximity. “I shall do my best, my lord.”
“Call me Victor,” he said, his breath brushing her ear.
Her spine stiffened. “That would be improper.”
He smiled, unbothered. “Improper only if overheard. Between us, it would signify nothing but understanding—would it not?”
Elowen said nothing, refusing to meet his gaze. She placed a card carefully in the centre of the table, hoping the small motion might distract from the disquiet coiling in her chest, and make him move on from this conversation.
How long is a hand of whist? she wondered grimly. Whatever the time, it was far too long for her liking.
***
Across from them, Lucas pretended to follow a discussion about shipping tariffs, though his eyes flickered often toward the table. He caught the angle of Victor’s lean towards Elowen and the stiffness in Elowen’s shoulders. His fingers drummed once against his chair, then stilled.
Catherine, seated nearby with Henry, leaned toward Lucas. “He hovers like a hawk. Poor Elowen.”
Lucas did not answer. His jaw worked, but his eyes never left the table.
***
Victor chuckled lightly at a remark from another player, then lowered his voice. “You are tense, Miss Tremaine. Surely the company of friends ought to relax you.”
“Perhaps,” Elowen said softly, her eyes upon her cards.
“Or is it,” Victor pressed, “that other company suits you better?”
Her pulse quickened. She knew where his gaze pointed without looking. “I enjoy many kinds of company, my lord,” she replied evenly.
Victor’s smile widened without any hint of mirth. “A diplomatic answer. One might think you have been coached in subtlety.”
Elowen ignored him and laid a card. The play was neat and correct—hardly bold.
Victor clapped softly when the trick was theirs. “There, you see? Already, we make a formidable pair.”
Elowen inclined her head. “If you say so.”
“I do,” he returned, holding her gaze until she was forced to look away.
***
From his vantage, Lucas saw the faint colour rise in Elowen’s cheeks—not the warmth he had drawn from her earlier, but discomfort.
He wanted to walk right over and place himself squarely between her and Victor, but propriety bound him.
Intervention without cause would only mark him as jealous, perhaps even ridiculous, and it may embarrass Elowen, who hated attention.
Henry, catching the strain in Lucas’s posture, murmured, “You needn’t glower holes through him. Everyone notices.”
Lucas’s mouth quirked without humour. “Then perhaps he will as well.”
Henry shook his head, amused. “He will not. Men of his sort seldom see themselves clearly.”
The game went on. Victor grew increasingly animated, narrating his moves with flamboyant assurance, praising Elowen’s “innate skill” even when her choices were cautious and plainly steered by him.
“You have instincts, Miss Tremaine,” he declared.
“A rare gift. Some labour for it; you simply possess it.”
Elowen’s lips curved faintly. Lucas had seen that polite, false smile a dozen times before. “Perhaps it is luck.”
“Luck favours those who deserve it,” Victor said.
“I wonder if Fortune would agree,” she murmured.
Victor’s eyes sharpened, but he laughed as though she had made a jest. “A philosophical answer. Delightful. Tell me—have you considered how neatly philosophy and politics align? Both require conviction. Conviction comes easily to me.”
“Conviction and certainty are not the same,” Elowen replied.