Chapter Sixteen #3
He tilted his head. “You suggest I am certain, but not convicted?”
“I suggest only that the loudest voices do not always speak the deepest truths,” she said calmly.
For a moment, silence hung between them. Victor’s smile faltered, then returned. “You grow bold, Miss Tremaine. I like it.”
Lucas huffed a mirthless chuckle. No one knew better than he how bold she could be. She placed another card, her hand steady despite Victor’s renewed scrutiny.
Watching, Lucas noted the brief flicker of displeasure that Victor quickly smoothed away. He shifted in his chair, restless. Catherine glanced across at him.
“You cannot sit much longer, can you?” she whispered.
“Not if he continues in that vein,” Lucas muttered.
Catherine sighed. “Elowen conducts herself with grace. Leave her be.”
Lucas’s reply was terse. “Grace should not be required in the face of such impertinence.”
At the table, the final trick was won. Victor leaned back, triumphant. “There, Miss Tremaine. Proof that we are invincible together.”
“I think the proof lies in the cards,” she said, her tone light but distant.
Victor chuckled, tapping his fingers on the table. “Ah, but cards without players are nothing. With you beside me, victory is assured.”
Elowen forced another polite smile. Her gaze drifted across the space, seeking something—someone.
Lucas’s eyes met hers.
For the briefest instant, all the noise faded. Her steady look anchored him; something in his chest loosened, enough to let him breathe.
“Shall we play another hand?” Victor asked, and the moment dissolved.
Elowen hesitated. “I should see whether my mother requires me,” she said, composed.
Victor arched a brow. “Surely she can spare you another round?”
Lucas rose and approached, his expression courteous, his tone measured. “Miss Tremaine’s consideration for her mother does her credit, Lord Cherrington. It would be unkind to monopolise her further.”
Victor’s jaw ticked, almost imperceptibly, but he inclined his head with elaborate grace. “As you say, Your Grace. I should not wish to seem unkind.”
He stood, offering Elowen his hand. She touched it lightly and withdrew at once. Lucas extended his arm; she took it without hesitation, relief unmistakable in her eyes.
As they moved away, Victor’s gaze followed—his smile smooth, his eyes dark.
“Are you quite well?” Lucas asked as they stepped through the French doors onto the terrace. His voice was low, meant for her alone.
Elowen released a faint breath. “Perfectly well. Though I suspect another round of whist might have undone me.”
“It was not the game that threatened to undo you,” he said, allowing the faintest smile.
Her eyes flew to his, startled, but he did not look away. He merely adjusted his stride to match hers, guiding her toward the gravel paths winding between Lady Penelope’s rose beds.
“Do you often speak so plainly, Lucas?” she asked after a moment.
“Only when needed,” he said. A slight quirk touched his mouth. “Or when I cannot help myself. Though I’m sure you must understand since you are very much the same.”
She made a sound—half laugh, half huff. “You imagine a great deal.”
“I imagine very little,” Lucas returned smoothly. “I observe. Observation requires no imagination at all.”
“And what did your observation conclude?”
“That Lord Cherrington has yet to learn the virtue of restraint,” he said dryly.
A quiet, genuine laugh escaped her; she covered it at once, though the sound had already slipped free.
Lucas lifted a brow in mock solemnity. “You see? Even you cannot help admitting the truth.”
Her cheeks warmed. “You are insufferable.”
“Only when I am right,” he said with deliberate lightness.
They had reached a curve in the path. There, the roses opened in a wide array, crimson, blush, pale cream, their fragrance perfuming the air. Elowen slowed, touching one of the blossoms lightly with her gloved fingers. Lucas let the silence linger a moment before speaking again.
“Tell me,” he asked quietly, “did you enjoy the orchestra last evening?”
Her face brightened at the change of subject. “I did. The strings in the second act—oh, they were exquisite. I wished it might have continued longer.”
“A pity we were not seated together,” Lucas said with a faint smile. “I should have profited by your commentary throughout.”
Her head turned, eyes widening. “I—yes, that would have—” She broke off, colour rising swiftly.
Lucas’s smile deepened, delight flickering in his eyes. “Did you just agree with me?”
She looked away, flustered. “I merely acknowledged that it might have been agreeable.”
“And now you blush,” he teased, very softly.
“I do not,” she said quickly, pressing her hand to her cheek as if that was enough to cool the heat there.
“Oh, you do,” he murmured, his tone gentler now. “And it is most… endearing.”
Her breath caught. “You ought not to say such things.”
“Why not? They are true.”
Elowen turned her face away, pretending to study the roses. Her blush deepened, much to her frustration. “You are provoking me, Lucas.”
“Perhaps,” he conceded under his breath. “But your honesty is refreshing. So much of society is lived behind masks. I am grateful when your truth slips through.”
Her gaze returned to his, soft despite herself. “I fear you will make me regret speaking openly.”
“Never,” he said—quiet, certain.
This time she smiled so broadly he thought, for an absurd instant, that he might fall to his knees.
“Better,” Lucas said softly.
“What is better?”
“You, smiling. So beautiful. So utterly beautiful.”
Her colour rose again; the smile faltered as she turned back to the roses. “You will have me blushing all day if you continue.”
“Then I shall count the afternoon a triumph,” he said lightly.
She shook her head, but the smile returned.
For a moment, Lucas almost forgot the watching eyes of society, the weight of whispers that shadowed her steps—the tasks that awaited him, the web he must unravel.
Almost.