Chapter 3 #2
The drawing room that afternoon was full when Elena stepped inside.
Not full in the crowded London sense, Rosebery Park was too grand for that, but full in the way that mattered.
It was full of curious gazes, opinions, and full of people who believed they were witnessing the shaping of a marriage.
She believed everyone thought Rosebery would be the victor in the end, but none of them knew her or her mettle.
Elena strolled over to a window where Rowan stood.
She was watching servants carry arrangements through the hall.
Arrangement that were most likely intended to be part of the wedding preparations.
She hated every second of it all. The earl was not ready to concede and call off their wedding.
“Your restraint is admirable,” Rowan murmured, her voice dry. “I would have overturned a table by now in pure rage.”
Elena’s mouth curved faintly. “Do not tempt me.”
Across the room, Lady Peregrine spoke quietly with Horatia, her expression thoughtful and her gaze turned to Elena at intervals. Elena could feel it…the gentle coaxing and the subtle pressure of concern. It was suffocating.
Damian stood near the mantel, speaking to a gentleman with controlled ease.
He appeared to be discussing something dull, improvements to roads, perhaps, yet Elena suspected he was doing precisely what he’d declared at breakfast. Controlling and shaping what he believed would be inevitable, but she wholeheartedly disagreed about.
The wretched man was ensuring the room saw what he wished it to see.
The doors opened, and a footman announced, “The Marquess of Kinross.”
The name struck like flint and Rowan went very still. Elena’s gaze snapped to her friend. “Rowan?”
Rowan’s light blue eyes were suddenly too bright. “So,” she said, voice smooth, “the universe does have a sense of humor.”
A man entered. He was tall, impeccably dressed and had a composed carriage of someone accustomed to command.
His gaze swept the room, assessing everyone in a single glance.
It was most definitely Julian Cameron, the Marquess of Kinross.
He was handsome in a severe, arrogant way.
Like a portrait come to life. His expression was polite enough to satisfy etiquette, but there was a sharpness beneath it that made Elena think of blades hidden in velvet.
He was also the head of the family that Rowan’s had been feuding with for a century.
Damian’s gaze lifted at once, the calm in his face warming into something like genuine welcome. “Kinross.”
The marquess’s mouth curved faintly. “Rosebery.”
They clasped hands. The grip was firm and familiar.
Their friendship forged in some way that it appeared unbreakable.
A bond like that meant they had known each other for some time, and she did not like it.
Elena watched them with a wariness that settled in like cold rain drenching her to the bone.
Men like that were never simple and they would make demands, not ask for anything.
The marquess turned, and his gaze landed on Rowan. For one heartbeat, he paused. Not because he was stunned by her beauty, though Rowan was beautiful, but because he recognized her. The air between them changed. Rowan’s chin lifted. Her mouth curved into a smile that held no warmth. “Lord Kinross.”
The marquess’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if pleased by the tension. “Lady Rowan.” He must enjoy needling Rowan because he seemed entirely too pleased with himself.
Elena felt the shift in the room. The subtle alertness of guests sensing a new spectacle about to unfold.
At least this time it was not her providing their entertainment.
Rowan stepped forward, posture perfect and her voice like silk over steel.
“I had not realized ye would be in attendance. How…unexpected.”
His smile turned sharper. “One could say the same at my discovery of yer attendance.”
Rowan’s lashes lowered. “I suppose Rosebery is collecting nuisances. It is a terrible character flaw of his.” A soft gasp came from somewhere.
Someone looked scandalized. Someone else looked delighted.
Damian’s brows lifted. Horatia’s eyes widened.
Lady Peregrine pressed her lips together as if trying not to smile.
The marquess’s gaze did not leave Rowan’s face. “Ye always did have a talent fe kindness. This house party is going tae be delightful.”
Rowan’s smile widened just enough to be dangerous. “And ye always had a talent fer presuming ye were welcome and trust me, my lord, yer delight is not something I aim tae achieve.”
Elena watched in astonishment. Rowan rarely lost composure, but this was not composure lost. This was composure weaponized.
The marquess took a slow step closer. “Tell me,” he said, voice mild, “do ye take pleasure in insulting men or am I just the lucky recipient of yer attention?”
Rowan’s eyes glittered. “It depends on the man, but in this case, ye may consider yerself fortunate.” The room went very quiet.