Chapter One

 

Elowen Tremaine wished to be anywhere else but here.

At that moment, observing her from across the room, Lucas could be convinced of nothing else. She’d changed since she’d first walked into the ballroom of Beaushire Hall. Her gentle smile was dimmer, her shoulders slightly slumped. Every now and again, she glanced at the door as if wishing for an escape before reengaging herself in the conversation with the older woman standing with her and her father. She was quite adept at hiding it, he must confess. But he’d been watching Elowen long enough to know her tells by now.

Lucas absently plucked a glass of wine from the tray of a footman who wandered by, not taking his eyes off Elowen for a second. Hosting the evening’s ball had, at least, afforded him one small mercy: the privilege of greeting the Tremaine family upon their arrival. Since that moment, he had kept Elowen within sight, attuned to each subtle shift in her expression, each flicker of her waning spirits.

All for noble reasons, of course. He would never stare at a lady in any other circumstance.

Still, it helped that Elowen was a sight for sore eyes. Her rich brown hair—flashing auburn beneath the chandeliers—was piled high in a tumble of curls, a few soft tendrils framing her heart-shaped face. Her eyes, ever shifting with her mood, must tonight glow a weary shade of tawny brown; yet he could recall times when they gleamed a lively green, most often when she smiled—or laughed. He supposed most would describe them as hazel, but he was not like most men.

Her frame was small, almost dwarfed by her father’s tall stature, and she had a lovely, glowing complexion akin to that of a porcelain doll. 

She was, by society’s measure, a diamond.

It was a pity she was shadowed by a scandal.

It was the only reason Lucas watched her. The Tremaine family stood apart from everyone else, outcasts in many ways. He could see the burden of that infamy in the eyes of Eric Tremaine—Baron Trenton—once esteemed, now branded a corrupt parliamentarian. He studied the lady speaking with them with a hint of wariness that Lucas was almost certain no one else noticed. William Tremaine, the baron’s son and Elowen’s younger brother, was away at Oxford, and Lady Trenton had pleaded illness and remained at home.

Only father and daughter stood to face the scrutiny of the masses.

“What are you staring at so intently?”

“Goodness—” Lucas nearly jumped out of his skin, his wine sloshing dangerously close to the edge of the rim. He looked over to see his cousin once removed, Miss Catherine Beaumont, staring up at him with innocent eyes. Their resemblance still startled him at times—both possessed dark, near-black hair and striking blue eyes.

“Did I frighten you?” she asked, tilting her head.

“You know good and well you did that on purpose,” Lucas grumbled. 

Catherine’s lips curved into mischief. “I would never dream of it,” she said sweetly. “So? What were you staring at so intently? Or, rather, whom?”

Lucas was already turning his back to her, not needing her to finish the question. A part of him hoped she would take the hint and leave him be—or, at the very least, grow so offended by his brusque dismissal that she might forget her inquiry altogether. But Catherine had been residing at Beaushire Hall for nearly one year now, so Lucas had grown to understand his cousin’s ways.

Which meant, of course, that she followed close at his heels.

“Why are you avoiding the question?”

“I am not avoiding anything,” he muttered.

Catching sight of Henry across the room, Lucas made a beeline for him, hoping to shake Catherine off in the process.

“Yes, you are,” she insisted, gathering her skirts and all but trotting after him, undeterred. “It is an easy enough question to answer, you know.”

He knew. But there was no possible way to tell her the truth—and not a single believable lie sprang to mind.

No one needs to know how closely I watch the Tremaine family. They would not understand.

“Should you not be partaking in this dance set?” he asked. Henry had already noticed his approach and raised an eyebrow, clearly discerning the urgency in Lucas’s expression. “This ball was thrown for you, Catherine. You should be making the most of it.”

“And while I acknowledge and appreciate that,” she said, “I am tired. I have been dancing all evening. My feet ache.”

Lucas bit back a retort, guilt pricking him instead. Catherine had become his ward nearly a year ago, after her parents were lost in a carriage accident. Despite the tragedy, she had arrived at Beaushire with a spirited determination to make the best of her first Season.

‘It was all they ever hoped for,’ she would often say.

Lucas only wanted to see her well settled. Yet at eight-and-twenty, still learning the weight of his new title as Duke of Beaushire, Lucas was barely managing his own affairs—let alone guiding another through the labyrinth of society. His father’s death remained a constant shadow in his mind.

Catherine deserved a guardian of steady wisdom. Instead, she had one who seemed to solve every problem by throwing money at it.

“Where are we going?” she asked, breaking into his thoughts.

His irritation returned in a rush. She was like a little sister, forever clinging to him, delighting in every opportunity to provoke him. He was almost certain she pestered him precisely because she knew she could.

Lucas refused to give her the satisfaction. At least she had moved on from her earlier question.

“I am going to speak with someone I have not seen in some time,” he said pointedly. “You, meanwhile, will find my mother—or another of your friends—and cease shadowing me.”

“You know I have no friends,” Catherine said without a trace of self-pity. “And Aunt Charlotte is nowhere to be found. Besides, I would much rather uncover why you are avoiding my—”

“Henry!” Lucas greeted his friend with exaggerated enthusiasm, cutting her off. Henry’s brows lifted, amused. “How have you been? Bath treated you well, I hope?”

“Well enough, I suppose,” Henry replied, his brown eyes glinting with humour. “Though I was not expecting such a reception upon my return. Have you missed me so dearly?”

“He only hopes to silence me,” Catherine interjected before Lucas could answer. She dipped a graceful curtsy. “I am Catherine Beaumont, Lucas’s cousin and ward. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Catherine,” Lucas sighed, “I am meant to conduct the introductions.”

She blinked at him innocently. “Were you? Well, do not let me stop you.”

“It is rather too late for that, I think,” Henry said, chuckling as he extended his hand. Catherine placed her gloved fingers in his, her brows lifting as he brushed a polite kiss across them. “It is very good to meet you at last, Miss Beaumont. Lucas has told me much about you.”

“Has he now?” Catherine asked, tilting her head. “Curious. He has not made a single mention of you.”

“Perhaps because he did not think me worth mentioning,” Henry replied easily.

Catherine gave him a measured look, eyes sweeping him from head to toe. “I cannot imagine why not.”

Lucas blinked. Surely these two were not flirting—right there, before him?

Henry, to Lucas’s utter lack of surprise, flushed scarlet. His friend had never fared well when confronted with a lady’s attentions. Catherine’s delighted smile did not go unnoticed.

“Oh, forgive me,” Henry said hastily. “I have failed to introduce myself properly.”

“I believe Lucas claimed that task,” Catherine returned sweetly. “So no forgiveness is required. Lucas?”

Lucas wished fervently to be elsewhere. He swallowed a sigh. “Henry, allow me to introduce my cousin, Miss Catherine Beaumont. Catherine, this is my friend Henry, the Viscount Westbrook.”

“Now it is I who am pleased to make your acquaintance, my lord,” Catherine said with a dazzling smile. “And I do hope it will not be our last.”

Henry’s lips parted—then closed—then parted again, though no sound emerged. Catherine giggled behind her hand.

Before he could recover, another gentleman approached, offering his hand and claiming Catherine for the next dance. She concealed her reluctance admirably before accepting.

“Please excuse me,” she murmured with practised grace—but her eyes lingered on Henry’s a fraction too long before she turned away.

Henry watched her go, clearly transfixed.

“You’re smitten,” Lucas observed.

“That I am,” Henry admitted without hesitation. “You neglected to tell me your cousin was such a radiant beauty—or that she possessed a tongue of silver when speaking to the opposite sex.”

“I did not think her beauty bore any mentioning to you in my letters,” Lucas told him. “And I am as surprised as you to witness her flirtation. She has never been so with anyone else, though she has ever been the sort to speak first and consider later.”

“Is that so?” Henry was still watching her as she danced, his expression softened. Catherine, caught once or twice glancing back in his direction, smiled each time she met his eyes.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Lucas muttered. “She could at least attempt subtlety.”

“Her directness is quite refreshing,” said Henry with a faint smile. “After enduring so many nobles who cloak their meaning in flourishes and artifice, her honesty feels… quite the relief. I believe I shall ask her for a dance.”

“If she has any space left on her dance card,” Lucas said dryly. “I wish you the very best of luck.”

Henry was quiet for a moment, still staring after Catherine. And in the silence, Lucas found himself staring at another lady in attendance.

Elowen had moved from where she’d been standing. She was alone now, sipping on a glass of lemonade as she watched the room around her. Lucas supposed he should look to see where Eric was, but the sight of her kept him captive. Every time she took a sip and then lowered her glass, her finger tapped against the side of it. She was growing restless.

“How have you fared during the Season thus far?” he heard Henry ask. “I know you have never been one to enjoy such gatherings. I confess myself surprised that you chose to host a ball at all.”

Lucas wrenched his gaze away, returning it to his friend. “Had it not been for Catherine, I would not have bothered. And I did none of the planning, naturally—Mother was quite happy to take that burden upon herself. I merely loosened the purse strings whenever she deemed it necessary.”

“Well, it seems to have been worth the trouble. I cannot recall the last time I saw so many of the ton assembled in one place. Even Lord Trenton and his wife and daughter are here.”

Lucas could not help himself. His eyes sought Elowen at once, finding her just as she finished her glass of lemonade, looking as though she did not quite know what to do with herself.

“I am glad they decided to attend,” he said quietly.

“I heard they have not shown their faces in society since the scandal.”

“For a man who has been away for over a year,” Lucas murmured, “you seem remarkably well-versed in London’s gossip.”

“Not by choice, I assure you. Lord Trenton’s fall from grace seemed to be widely known throughout all of England.”

Which was exactly why Lucas had wanted the baron to attend. Eric Tremaine had shown him kindness and guidance at a time when he had been adrift, as aimless as a plank upon the tide. Lucas often wondered whether the baron realised how much his friendship had meant—that, during those years of his father’s anger and disapproval, Eric had shown him there was more to life than the ceaseless pursuit of perfection.

The scandal that had ruined the Tremaines ran deeper than most suspected. That, too, was why Lucas could not look away from them. He knew—though he could not prove it—that the affair had something to do with the death of the late duke of Beaushire, his father.

Perhaps that was why he watched the baron’s daughter so intently. Or so he liked to tell himself.

He straightened when he noticed Elowen do the same. Her manner had shifted; gone was the weary detachment from moments ago. Now she stood alert, her gaze fixed upon someone approaching through the crowd. Lucas followed it—and saw Victor, the Marquess of Cherrington, striding towards her with unmistakable purpose.

Lucas’s eyes darted between them, noting the marquess’s determination and Elowen’s calm wariness. His fingers curled into a fist, an absurd impulse rising in him—to reach her before Cherrington could.

“How long does a single dance set last?” Henry was saying, but Lucas hardly heard. Elowen had just curtsied to the marquess, who was speaking to her with a broad smile on his face.

“That gentleman is becoming rather too familiar with Miss Beaumont,” Henry continued, undeterred by Lucas’s silence. “Perhaps someone should intervene before matters go too far.”

Lucas still did not reply. He could scarcely hear past the rush of blood in his ears as Lord Cherrington bowed and pressed a kiss to Elowen’s hand.

“Should I go? I should go, should I not?”

“I should,” Lucas muttered absently.

“Pardon me?”

He blinked, torn abruptly from the edge of some emotion he could not yet name. Henry was frowning at him.

“Were you listening to a word I said?” Henry asked.

Lucas nodded, though unconvincingly. He tried not to look back at Elowen—tried not to notice that Lord Cherrington was leading her out to the centre of the ballroom while Catherine was being escorted away in the opposite direction. Eyes followed them; whispers rose in their wake. The sight of a marquess dancing with a scandal-shadowed lady was more than enough to set tongues wagging.

“There he goes again,” Henry muttered. “Good gracious, I do not recall you being half so absent-minded before I left for Bath.”

“Who are you speaking of?” Catherine demanded as she returned to their side, barely sparing her partner a farewell glance. “Lucas? He has been like this all evening. Quite odd, is he not? I wonder who he is watching.”

“None of your concern,” Lucas said shortly, though he knew full well that such a dismissal would never deter her.

“Is it Miss Tremaine, perhaps?” she asked, and it took all his restraint not to react. “She seems to be causing quite the stir.”

“The daughter of the Baron Trenton?” Henry asked.

Catherine nodded. “It appears Lord Cherrington has asked her to dance. Though I cannot say I am surprised.”

“And why not?” Lucas asked, attempting nonchalance.

“Well,” she replied in a sing-song tone, “I noticed that he has been eyeing her all evening. I am merely surprised it took him this long to make his move. And I cannot fault him for it—she is quite beautiful.”

“Why would you notice such a thing?”

Catherine shrugged, flicking open her fan. “I enjoy observing others.”

“I am astonished you have had the leisure,” Henry said rather bashfully, “considering you have been dancing all evening. Or so Lucas tells me. Not that I doubt it, of course!”

Catherine laughed lightly behind her fan. “I assure you, my lord, I can manage more than one amusement at once.”

Lucas paid them no mind. His attention remained fixed on Elowen and Lord Cherrington, gliding together in the steps of the waltz. The marquess was speaking; Elowen seemed to listen, though her eyes wandered—until they met his.

For the first time that evening, their gazes locked. Mere eye contact—and yet the world seemed to tilt. The air thickened; the chandeliers burned brighter. She did not look away. Neither did he.

It lasted but five seconds. Yet in that brief eternity, Lucas knew his life had altered course.
He could no longer remain a silent observer.

Tonight, he had to meet her.

Chapter Two

 

Lord Cherrington was quite the talker.

Elowen did not think she had managed more than five words before he launched into yet another tale—this time of his exploits in the army or his travels abroad. His stories might have been interesting, had it not been so very clear that he chiefly enjoyed hearing himself speak.

Not that she minded overmuch. She listened politely, offering her “indeed”s and “I see”s where propriety required, unwilling to offend him. Though she would far rather have remained at the edge of the ballroom, observing the evening unfold from a comfortable distance—with, of course, a glass of that divine lemonade in hand—she could not deny that the marquess’s attention was something to be appreciated.

After all, she had promised her parents she would make an effort tonight. They still held out hope that she might find a suitable husband, though she was already one-and-twenty and invitations to fashionable events had grown scarce since the scandal. To be seen at the debut ball of the Duke of Beaushire was, therefore, an honour—and an opportunity she could not lightly dismiss.

Not that she held any true interest in Lord Cherrington himself. But perhaps a dance with so prominent a gentleman might draw the notice of others. It might remind society that she was not the dreadful creature the gossip sheets had painted her to be.

“Do you not agree, my lady?” Lord Cherrington asked, twirling her lightly back toward his chest.

“Quite so, my lord,” she replied automatically, having no idea what she was agreeing to.

He nodded, pleased. “I thought as much. Perhaps I might invite you to the Epsom Derby, so that you may see for yourself.”

“That sounds delightful, my lord. I should be honoured.”

“As should I, to have a lady such as yourself upon my arm.”

She returned his smile out of politeness. He was, objectively, a handsome man—somewhere in his late thirties—with an easy charm and the confidence of rank. With his looks and title, he might have commanded the interest of any lady present. She was not naïve enough to forget how fortunate it was to have caught even a moment of his attention.

“Excellent,” he said, his grin widening. “I shall see that you receive the particulars.”

“Does that mean our conversation is at an end for the evening, my lord?” she asked, lowering her lashes in a manner her mother had once instructed her to employ. “How very disappointing.”

It seemed to have the desired effect, for Lord Cherrington replied at once, “It need not end—if you would rather it did not.”

“I would not, my lord. I find our conversations most… stimulating.” Even though I have barely said twenty words in the past ten minutes.

“As do I,” he said warmly. “You are not at all what I expected, Miss Tremaine.”

“And what, pray, did you expect?”

He tilted his head slightly. The next figure of the dance drew them apart, but when they came together again, he still had not answered.

“Surely you did not think I would refrain from asking?” she teased, lifting a brow.

“The fact that you did ask, Miss Tremaine, only proves my point. You are unlike any other lady I have met this evening.”

“In what way?”

“In all the ways that matter.”

It was a vague reply—vague enough to irk her. Elowen turned her gaze aside to hide the flicker of annoyance that threatened to show. And when she did, her eyes met those of the Duke of Beaushire once more.

He stood out like a beacon amid the glittering crowd. And for some inexplicable reason, she had the distinct impression that he had been watching her for some time.

Why?

She had never spoken to the Duke, though she knew of him—as did every lady in the room. She had overheard countless whispers about his handsome countenance and his indifference to the marriage mart, a combination that seemed to drive the ton quite mad. Who could help but be curious about such a man? She herself had observed him earlier in the evening, as he conversed with his cousin, Miss Beaumont, in whose honour the ball was being held.

Yet something felt… different now. When their eyes met, he did not seem a stranger at all. A peculiar shiver passed through her, the hairs along her arms rising as though she looked upon someone returned from the grave. She could not account for the sensation.

“Alas,” Lord Cherrington said, drawing her attention back with regretful cheer, “our dance has come to its end.”

I can see that, she wanted to say. Instead, she stepped away and nodded. “It appears so.”

A part of her hoped that he would continue this. This was her first chance at landing a potential suitor, after all, and she wanted to capitalise on it as much as possible. But a greater part of her wanted him to leave her be. She didn’t like social functions, deeming them a necessary evil because this was simply the world she had been born in.

“Good evening, my lord. Miss.”

Her heart quickened before she even turned. She could not have said why—only that something in the stranger’s voice gave her pause, stirring a faint unease she did not quite understand. The fine hairs along her arms rose, and at last she turned to face him.

The Duke of Beaushire was the sort of handsome that almost felt unfair. Elowen could not imagine any lady receiving his attention and remaining unaffected. Those piercing blue eyes seemed to look straight through her; that dark hair—surely as soft to the touch as it appeared—framed features too fine to be ignored. He stood tall enough that she had to tilt her head to meet his gaze, his broad shoulders and steady bearing suggesting effortless strength. There was a hardness to his mouth, a directness in his gaze, a quiet intensity in his manner—tiny flames that drew her toward him despite herself.

But he was not alone. The Dowager Duchess of Beaushire stood to his right, and Miss Catherine Beaumont to his left, both ladies regarding Elowen with frank curiosity. Before she could find her voice, she felt her father’s presence by her side. 

“Your Grace,” Papa greeted, his tone gruff but respectful—so respectful, in fact, that Elowen glanced at him in surprise. Her father had grown wary of the ton and most of its members, yet he seemed almost fond of the Duke.

“Lord Trenton,” the Duke returned with a courteous nod before turning to the marquess. “Lord Cherrington, I trust we are not intruding?”

“Not at all, Your Grace,” Lord Cherrington replied smoothly. “In fact, I was just about to take my leave—but not before bidding Miss Tremaine goodnight.”

He turned his back to the others, took Elowen’s hand, and pressed a kiss upon it. Somehow, she managed a polite smile.

“I shall be certain to call upon you, Miss Tremaine,” he murmured, his tone intimate though clearly audible to all.

“It would be my pleasure to receive you, my lord,” she answered graciously. That seemed to satisfy him, for he grinned, straightened, and took his leave.

Elowen did not watch him go. Her attention remained on the Duke, noting the stiffness in his shoulders as his gaze followed the marquess’s retreat. Not wishing to be caught staring, she turned instead to the elegant woman at his side.

“Please accept our gratitude for this evening’s invitation, Your Grace,” she said to the Dowager Duchess, sinking into a curtsy. Elowen had been introduced to her briefly upon arrival and remembered her name—Charlotte Beaumont—but doubted the lady remembered hers.

“Oh, there is no need for thanks,” Her Grace replied with a gentle wave. Her expression softened into a warm smile. “I am simply delighted to have you both here. Lucas has spoken most highly of your family, and I have every confidence in his judgment.”

Elowen’s brows lifted in astonishment before she could check them. Her father noticed.

“Did I not tell you I was acquainted with His Grace before?” he asked mildly.

“No, Father, you did not.”

“It is not a particularly riveting tale,” the Duke interjected. His eyes met hers, their smouldering intensity unchanged. She felt her skin flush beneath their weight. “Lord Trenton was a guiding influence to me when I returned from Eton.”

“Do not worry,” Miss Beaumont whispered conspiratorially, leaning closer. “He never told me that either.”

Elowen wasn’t sure how to reply. Fortunately, her father spared her the trouble.

“You give me too much credit, Your Grace.”

“And you, too little,” the Duke replied. “I have never forgotten your kindness.”

“It seems you made quite the impression, my lord,” Miss Beaumont said brightly. Elowen found herself liking her—the girl’s confidence was tempered by warmth, a combination Elowen had always admired.

Her Grace gasped softly. “Oh! Where are my manners? I have not introduced you to my niece.” She gestured toward Miss Beaumont with a gloved hand. “This is my dear niece, Miss Catherine Beaumont. Catherine, allow me to present Lord Trenton and his daughter, Miss Elowen Tremaine.” 

Catherine curtsied. “It is a pleasure to meet anyone my aunt and cousin hold in such high regard,” she said to Papa.

“My lord.” The Duke’s attention returned to her father. Elowen felt a small, foolish pang of disappointment and swiftly smothered it. “How fares your health?”

Papa’s brows—of the same soft brown as his daughter’s—rose slightly. “Well enough, though I have certainly fared better. But it is nothing of concern.”

Quite the understatement. Since the scandal, his health had waned steadily. There were days when he could scarcely rise from bed or keep down a meal. Today had been one of those days, yet he had insisted upon attending despite her protests.

Now she knew why. The Duke of Beaushire looked at her father with the same concern she felt. 

“Something tells me it is not quite as you would have it seem,” he said gently. “But I will not press the matter. Only promise me you will take better care in future.”

“Certainly, Your Grace. My daughter would never forgive me if I did not.”

The Duke’s gaze flicked toward Elowen—briefly, yet with such force that her breath caught.

“That,” he said quietly, “is something we appear to have in common.”

And before she could make sense of that remark, he addressed her directly. “Miss Tremaine, may I have this next dance?”

His request stunned them all. Elowen might have laughed at the identical expressions of surprise on the dowager’s and Miss Beaumont’s faces—the latter’s mouth had fallen open—had she not been so dazed herself.

Somehow, she managed to speak without sounding as thrown as she felt. “It would be an honour, Your Grace.”

If she had drawn notice while dancing with the Marquess of Cherrington, it was nothing compared to the scrutiny that descended now. Every gaze in the ballroom seemed fixed upon them, whispers spreading like wildfire. The Duke of Beaushire, dancing with the disgraced daughter of Baron Trenton.

Elowen tried to ignore it, though the weight of their curiosity pressed like a hand against her back.

They must think he pities me, she thought.

And perhaps he did. Her beauty had always been her saving grace, but it could not outshine the stain upon her family’s name. No charm or wit could erase such a mark; it had doomed her to a quiet spinster’s fate long ago.

Then his hand closed around hers, and a spark ran through her—startling, heady. She told herself it was nothing more than natural attraction, a mere physical response any woman might have to so striking a man.

“How have you enjoyed the evening thus far, Miss Tremaine?”

His voice nearly startled her, deep and rich. When he drew her nearer, and the first notes of the waltz began, her heart fluttered wildly.

Goodness, I must compose myself.

“I am not, Your Grace.”

“I beg your pardon?”

She blinked, realising too late what she had said. “I meant—I do not need much to enjoy myself, Your Grace. You have hosted a splendid ball.”

“Something tells me that was not what you first intended to say.”

“It was,” she insisted lightly. “I should never dream of offending my host.”

“But would you think it?”

She frowned up at him, caught off guard. His question startled her enough to make her forget the intoxicating scent of his cologne—or the warmth of his hand at her waist.

“I’m sorry?”

He looked down at her without smiling, his expression unreadable, yet she sensed a keen intelligence behind it. “I could not help but notice you earlier this evening, Miss Tremaine. And, if I am not mistaken, your expression suggested that you were not enjoying yourself.”

“I would never presume to suggest such a thing,” she said quickly.

“But would you dare to think it? That is my question.”

Her frown deepened. “It sounds, Your Grace, as though you wish me to admit that I am dreadfully bored and long to be anywhere but here.”

“How… descriptive.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “That is precisely the last thing I wish to hear. As host, I should like all my guests to depart content.”

“And I am certain I shall.”

“After this dance, perhaps.”

Elowen bit her tongue to keep from replying too sharply. She could not decide whether the Duke’s persistence came from good nature or sheer arrogance—and she did not particularly care to find out.

“I hope you did not feel obliged to ask me to dance simply because you thought I was not enjoying myself,” she said.

“Obliged? No. Inclined? Quite so.”

“I do not see much distinction between the two.”

“The difference lies in the motivation behind them.”

“And what, pray, is your present motivation?”

“I was curious about you.”

She didn’t like the sound of that. The only reason anyone was curious about her was the scandal that still clung to her family name, and that was the last topic she wished to entertain.

“How interesting,” she murmured, noncommittal, turning her gaze over his shoulder in the hope he would let the matter fall.

But of course, he did not. “Are you not going to ask why I am curious?”

“No, Your Grace, I am not.”

“And why not?”

“I think the answer would be rather self-evident,” she replied, her tone a little crisper than she intended.

“Ah, and now my curiosity grows,” he said lightly.

There was a pause, one she hoped would last for the rest of the dance because she wasn’t certain she could navigate this conversation any longer, but she had no such luck when he spoke again. 

“I am not being particularly gracious, am I? Forgive me, Miss Tremaine. This is not at all how I imagined our first conversation would proceed, and I am already making a hash of it.”

That drew her eyes back to his despite herself. Her heart gave a startled leap to find he was already watching her closely.

“I find it difficult to believe,” she said softly, “that you imagined conversing with me at all beyond our brief introduction. There is nothing of note in me to inspire such thought.”

“I sincerely doubt that.”

“You do not know me,” she felt obliged to point out—save, perhaps, for the gossip that has ruined my family.

“And that,” he said, his voice low, “is the first thing I should like to remedy.”

The final notes of the waltz faded, forcing them apart. “Thank you, Miss Tremaine,” he said.

Thinking he referred merely to their dance, she inclined her head politely. “You are most welcome, Your Grace. I enjoyed it.” She was surprised by how much she meant the words.

“As did I—and I usually detest dancing.”

“Well, then you are free to abstain for the remainder of the evening,” she replied lightly. “It is your ball, after all.”

“Will you dance with me again?”

“Of course not.”

Elowen froze. Her eyes widened in horror. Good gracious, what have I said? She prided herself on her composure—how could she have let such a thought slip?

“I meant—”

“I know what you meant,” he interrupted, laughter colouring his tone. To her shock—and her relief—he seemed thoroughly amused. “Though the sting is real, it is refreshing to encounter such candour. And you are quite right: a second dance might invite speculation, and I should hate to be the cause of a single raised eyebrow on your account.”

“Since you understand perfectly, Your Grace, I see no need to belabour the matter.”

“On the contrary.” Without warning, he caught her hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm as they began their slow return toward their waiting families. “I feel compelled to make amends for our limited opportunity. Perhaps I shall hound you for the rest of the evening.”

Elowen’s lips curved despite herself. “Oh, I cannot think of anything worse,” she said lightly.

“No need to spare my feelings, Miss Tremaine,” he drawled.

A laugh escaped her—light, genuine, and startling after so many months of restraint. “You do not seem to mind when I speak plainly, so I hardly thought you would take offence.”

“I do not,” he said with mock solemnity. “Go on then—tell me how little you relish the thought of enduring another moment in my company.”

She laughed again, the sound almost foreign to her ears. It had been too long since she had truly laughed. “You are very kind, Your Grace—and rather charming. But I am afraid others will begin to talk if you linger in my company much longer.”

“Perhaps,” he said, his tone deliberately casual. “But I must admit, my motives are not entirely altruistic. I hoped to make use of you.”

Her brows rose. “Make use of me?”

“To deter the other ladies from approaching. You are a most effective shield.”

“You hardly need me for that, Your Grace. You possess a perfectly adequate weapon of your own.”

“Oh? And what would that be?” he asked, a faint scowl creasing his brow.

She slowed her steps, her lips curving. “That look you wear so well—one hint of a scowl, and the boldest of debutantes will think twice before approaching.”

His expression deepened, though amusement glimmered beneath it. “And give them nightmares for days, no doubt.”

“That would be impossible,” she returned, unable to suppress a smile. “You are far too handsome for that.”

His brows shot upward. Elowen froze, mortified. Mercy, did I truly just say that aloud?

She cleared her throat quickly and turned away. “The others are waiting,” she said, her tone brisk, and she walked off before he could reply. It felt suspiciously like running—and she did not run from anything. Yet the warmth creeping up her neck urged her to escape before she said anything equally foolish.

Her father and the Dowager Duchess were still deep in conversation when she returned, though both looked up at once. Miss Beaumont had vanished. Papa’s brow furrowed immediately, sensing something amiss.

But Elowen could not meet his gaze just yet. She had to first manage the Duke still at her heels. Turning, she summoned the composure she had promised herself she would maintain throughout the evening.

“Thank you for the dance, Your Grace,” she said, her voice calm, distant.

He regarded her a moment longer than necessary—long enough for her pulse to quicken once more. “You are welcome, Miss Tremaine.”

She inclined her head. “If you will all excuse me, I believe I should fetch something to drink.”

She left before anyone could answer. The prickling at the back of her neck told her, however, that the Duke’s gaze followed her every step.

For the life of her, she could not understand why.

Chapter Three

 

“Your butler does not like me, you know. I hope you are aware of that. The man despises my very existence.”

Lucas resisted the urge to sigh, removing his spectacles and setting them upon the mahogany desk before him. Frederick Wells came bounding in, clutching his leather satchel, and claimed the very edge of the sofa a few feet away. He opened the satchel at once and began extracting papers in a flurry.

“Good day to you too,” Lucas drawled, loud enough to carry.

“Good day, Your Grace. Did I not say good day?”

Unlike Lucas, Frederick wore his spectacles at all hours. Sometimes Lucas wondered if he truly needed them, or if he simply enjoyed the affectation of pushing them up his nose every few seconds.

“You did not,” Lucas said dryly. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“It is never a pleasure to be here, Your Grace. I prefer my own office—it has far less natural light.”

“And that is a virtue, is it?”

“Of course.” Frederick pushed up his spectacles again. “The light is distracting. I can scarcely think in this room.”

“Goodness only knows how you survived the journey here, given your perilous exposure to daylight.”

“I took a carriage,” he replied solemnly. “Barely survived the ordeal.”

Ordinarily, Lucas found Frederick’s eccentricities amusing. As his solicitor, the man visited often enough to provide regular entertainment. Today, however, Lucas was not in a humour to be entertained.

It had been three days since the ball, and he had accomplished nothing of worth. His thoughts were too restless—too drawn, despite himself, toward the Tremaine family. He remained unconvinced by Lord Trenton’s insistence that his health was improving and found himself tempted to call upon them. It would, after all, be polite to pay his respects to Lady Trenton, whom he had missed that evening… and of course Miss Tremaine would be there.

He pushed that thought away. Distraction had already cost him three days of work, and the neglected ledger before him was evidence enough of his poor focus.

“Allow me to come straight to the point, Your Grace,” Frederick said suddenly, springing to his feet. “I have discovered something of the utmost importance, and you must hear it at once.”

He spread several papers across the desk, pointing agitatedly. They were covered in figures.

“What precisely am I meant to be seeing?” Lucas asked, picking up a sheet and scanning it without comprehension.

“Surely you recall the documents found in your father’s study?”

Lucas nodded, unease stirring in his chest. He had not stepped inside that room since inheriting the dukedom. After sending the contents to Frederick for review, he had left it untouched.

“Painstaking work, Your Grace, I assure you,” Frederick went on. “But I have uncovered something most alarming. These documents suggest that the late duke of Beaushire entered into a private investment shortly before his death.”

“And that alarms you because?”

“Because, as you can see here,”—Frederick seized another page and jabbed at the bottom with his finger—“he withdrew at the very last moment. Only weeks before his death! Do you not see what this implies?”

Lucas felt his earlier flicker of indulgence fading rapidly, replaced by that sinking feeling that he was not going to like whatever Frederick was getting at.

“Enlighten me.”

“Note the names, Your Grace.” Frederick adjusted his spectacles, eyes bright with excitement. “These are the very same gentlemen who later accused Baron Trenton of corruption. Is it not curious that the late duke had nearly invested with them, only to withdraw abruptly?”

Lucas sat straighter. The names were indeed familiar—men whose shadow seemed to linger over his father’s death, though he had never known why.

“That is not all, Your Grace.” Frederick went back to his satchel, making his way back to the desk with the entire thing in his hand. He dug his hand in and pulled out a few crumpled papers that he straightened before handing them to Lucas. “These notes accompanied these documents, Your Grace.”

“I appreciate your careful handling,” Lucas muttered sarcastically.

“My apologies, Your Grace. I came in haste. Still, everything of importance is here. I am attempting to match the notes to the transactions, but one line in particular stands out.” He pointed to a section he had circled.

If Redley does not agree to my demands, I will expose everything. This entire operation ends with me. September 9.

“And if you notice,” Frederick continued, “that date coincides with the withdrawal—only three days apart. What do you suppose this ‘operation’ refers to?”

“I have no notion,” Lucas said curtly.

“Well, it is a riddle I mean to solve,” Frederick declared, planting his hands on his hips, a glint of purpose in his eye. “It suggests the late duke discovered something unsavoury about the investment and, when his demands went unheeded, withdrew—only to meet his end soon after—”

“Enough.”

Frederick blinked, taken aback. “Have I said something amiss?”

He often did. Usually, Lucas tolerated his lack of tact, but not today. He did not need a reminder of his father’s sudden and violent passing.

Gathering the papers, Lucas thrust them back across the desk. “You seem to be making fine progress, Frederick. I trust you will report back when you have something more substantial.”

“You may depend upon it, Your Grace!” said Frederick, his earlier blunder forgotten as he packed the papers into his satchel.

Lucas barely heard him. Heat prickled behind his temples. The name Redley echoed in his mind—Lord Redley, one of his father’s old associates. Lucas had never trusted the man. Now it seemed he had reason not to.

But had his father truly been the innocent party? Had he entered the arrangement unaware of its corruption, or had he simply chosen to abandon it once it turned inconvenient?

He wanted to believe the former. Yet he knew the kind of man his father had been—unyielding, ambitious, and far from gentle. Eric Tremaine had always seemed his opposite: steady, honourable, guided by principle rather than pride. It was little wonder Lucas had once looked to him for counsel.

Still, he had loved his father, in his way. And he wanted—needed—to believe that the late duke of Beaushire had possessed at least a spark of conscience.

“I shall set to work at once, Your Grace!” Frederick announced, swinging his satchel over his shoulder, far too cheerful for the gravity of the subject.

Just as he reached the door, it opened to admit Catherine. Her eyes lit with surprise, and a sly smile touched her lips.

“Mr Wells! How delightful to see you.”

Frederick stiffened. He had met Catherine only a handful of times, and Lucas was convinced he liked her even less than he liked the butler. Catherine, for her part, delighted in teasing him, which Frederick decidedly did not appreciate.

“Miss Beaumont,” he said stiffly.

“Are you leaving already? Had I known you were here, I would have invited you to take tea with Aunt Charlotte and me.”

“Regrettably, Miss Beaumont, I must be going. His Grace has entrusted me with something quite pressing.”

Catherine ignored him entirely and slipped her arm through his, unfazed by his discomfort. “Oh, I am certain it can wait a little longer. Can it not, Your Grace?”

Lucas replaced his spectacles and returned his gaze to the ledger, though concentration was now hopeless. “Catherine, leave Frederick be.”

“I am not bothering him. Am I, Mr Wells?”

“As a matter of fact, you—”

“See?” she interrupted brightly, flashing a grin at Lucas. “He quite enjoys my company—almost as much as I enjoy his. A pity we have already finished tea, but you are always welcome to accompany us on our promenade through Hyde Park.”

“Promenade?” Lucas and Frederick echoed in unison.

Catherine frowned. “Did you not remember that you had agreed to go on a promenade with Aunt Charlotte and me through Hyde Park this afternoon, Lucas?”

Lucas sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He’d completely forgotten, and right now, that was the last thing he wanted to do. “Perhaps we can do it another day.”

Catherine whipped around to face him, releasing Frederick in the process. Frederick took the chance to escape, basically running out the door. Lucas watched him go, but Catherine’s attention was on her cousin instead, her arms crossed.

“We cannot do it another day, Lucas,” she protested. “We must do it today.”

“Why?”

“Because… I want to.”

He sighed. “And Mother insists you are not spoiled.”

She thinned her lips, scowling at him. “I have been looking forward to it all morning, Lucas. Now that I am out in society, I must be seen about the town at least a few times a week or else I will be forgotten!”

“After the ball, I doubt you stand the slightest danger of being forgotten, Catherine.”

“The ball was three days ago!”

“And in those three days you have received half the gentlemen of London calling upon you—not to mention the hordes of flowers coming to our door every hour.”

“None of which included your friend, might I add.”

Lucas removed his spectacles, resigning himself to the fact that he would accomplish no work today. “Henry?”

“Yes, Henry.” She marched to the nearest armchair and dropped into it with dramatic flair. “I thought he was interested in me that evening, but clearly I was mistaken.”

“I doubt that. I have never seen Henry so besotted.”

“Besotted?” A tiny smile curved her lips. “If he is so besotted, then why has he not called upon me?”

“Perhaps he is busy? How am I to know, Catherine? I’m not the man’s keeper.”

“You are of no help whatsoever,” she said, pouting again. “Very well—then we shall go for our promenade so that I may forget this slight.”

“Am I to suffer for my friend’s neglect?”

“Yes.” Catherine leapt to her feet, her good humour instantly restored. “I am so pleased you understand. Now, I must fetch my gloves and parasol.”

She swept out of the study before he could reply. Lucas remained seated a moment longer before rising with a reluctant sigh. If he did not follow, Catherine would return in a far worse temper.

Perhaps the walk would do him good after all. With everything on his mind, he certainly needed it.

 

***

 

Hyde Park was far too populated at this time of the year, Lucas decided. He shuddered at the thought of having to take part in the Season himself one day. When it was time for him to find a wife, he imagined that the number of indiscreet looks of approval he was receiving would only double.

Though, if Charlotte Beaumont had anything to say about it, Lucas would have found his wife the moment he inherited the dukedom.

“What do you think of her, Lucas?” She gestured offhandedly with her fan at Lady Tilly and her three daughters, who were seated by one of the ponds. “I hear Lady Tilly intends for all three of her daughters to debut this year. She is being rather presumptuous, don’t you think? But perhaps you could help her.”

Lucas did not bother looking. He knew Lady Tilly well enough to recall that her three daughters—each a year apart—were tiresome company and not particularly blessed in countenance. Lady Tilly had quite the challenge ahead of her.

“Am I to assist her by relieving her of one of them?” he asked with a sigh.

“It would not be such a terrible match,” Charlotte went on, linking arms with Catherine, who giggled at his tone. “The Tillys are wealthy, and I am certain each comes with a considerable dowry.”

“That would be endearing,” Lucas said, “had I any need of money. Which, as you know perfectly well, I do not.”

“I am merely reminding you of the options before you. It is plain enough that, left to yourself, you would make no effort to find a wife at all.”

“That is because I do not want a wife,” he replied. “At least, not until I must.”

“Oh, do not waste your breath, Aunt Charlotte,” Catherine interjected airily, waving a hand in his direction. “You know as well as I that pressing Lucas never works. If you wish to see him married, you will have to be sly about it.”

Charlotte bent her head toward her niece, amusement sparkling in her eyes. “Do you have a plan, then?”

“Yes, let us hear it,” Lucas said. “Though I doubt there is anything you could contrive that would make me do something I have no desire to do.”

“Oh, you would be surprised, Lucas,” Catherine said with a grin.

He rolled his eyes, though a reluctant smile tugged at his lips. Perhaps the outing was not such a terrible idea after all. Though the park was busy, they were spared intrusion; there was little reason to be irritated.

Catherine suddenly halted, gasping in delight. “Is that Henry?” she whispered, wide-eyed.

“Henry?” Charlotte looked around, puzzled. “Do you mean the Viscount of Westbrook?”

“Yes, Lucas’s friend! How do I look? Am I flushed?” She patted her cheeks anxiously, eyes fixed ahead.

Lucas caught his mother’s amused glance. “It appears she’s quite taken with him,” he murmured. “I’m surprised you missed it. They spent half her debut ball exchanging glances.”

“Is that so?” Charlotte’s face brightened. “Catherine, have you been keeping secrets from me? When I asked if any gentleman had caught your eye, you said nothing of Henry. Would you like to go and greet him?”

“Too late,” Lucas said under his breath. “He’s seen us.”

Henry was indeed trudging over, flexing his hands at his side as if bracing himself for the interaction. Lucas could tell that his friend was nervous, even more so when he stopped in front of Catherine and she flashed him a broad, welcoming smile. He didn’t seem to know what to do with himself, his mouth opening but no words coming out.

“It is a pleasure to see you again, Lord Westbrook,” Charlotte quickly said, filling the silence. “His Grace tells me you were in Bath all this time?”

“Ah—yes, Your Grace.” Henry looked grateful for the rescue. “I returned only recently. And I had the honour of meeting Miss Beaumont a few days ago.”

“Was it truly an honour, my lord?” Catherine asked sweetly, tilting her head. “You have not called upon me once since, though I have been looking out for you.”

Henry flushed scarlet. “Forgive me, Miss Beaumont. I have been uncommonly busy these past few days. I have scarcely had a moment to myself.”

“Then it is fortunate we have time now,” Catherine said brightly. She took a step closer and extended her hand toward the path with a look of clear expectation. “Shall we?”

Henry hesitated only a moment before offering his arm. Catherine accepted it with a triumphant little smile as they began to stroll ahead.

Lucas watched, amused, as his friend allowed himself to be led away. He and the Dowager Duchess hung back a few paces to give the pair some privacy.

“I see Henry has not changed in the least,” Charlotte remarked, smiling.

“If anything, Catherine makes him even more flustered than usual. And I believe she delights in it.”

“She has always been a peculiar child,” Charlotte said fondly. “Most young ladies prefer a more commanding gentleman. Someone like you, for instance. I am sure one of Lady Tilly’s daughters would—”

“I have no interest in any of Lady Tilly’s daughters,” he cut in quickly.

“Then what of Miss Rachel? She is a dear girl.”

“She hardly says two words,” Lucas said.

“Which should suit you perfectly, given your dislike of conversation. The two of you could retire into blissful seclusion together!”

He frowned at her. “And that would not bother you?”

“Not in the least. Once you are married and have produced an heir, there is no further need to parade yourself about London if you do not wish it.”

Lucas sighed. He was clearly fighting a losing battle.

“And,” Charlotte continued, “now that I think on it, you would do quite well away from London’s pressures. But—my, is that not Lady Trenton?”

Lucas halted, his heart tripping over itself. It was for just a brief moment, hopefully brief enough for his mother not to notice—though he doubted that. But he wasn’t focused on his mother right now, though he was certain she was staring at him as he scanned the area. If Lady Trenton was out and about, then that must mean…

The moment his eyes landed on her, he forgot how to breathe. It had been so long since he’d seen Elowen in the light of day, and he’d almost forgotten the radiance of her beauty. Under the warm glow of chandeliers, surrounded by powdered faces and upturned noses, she was a rose among thorns. But, as she calmly meandered along the path, heading directly towards them, Lucas couldn’t help but admire her ethereal grace, like an angel on earth. 

“Miss Tremaine!”

Catherine’s excited squeal drew the attention of those nearby. Lucas noticed the exact moment Elowen stiffened and watched the way she pulled her shoulders back, tucked away her wariness, and plastered a smile onto her face as Catherine hurried over, all but towing Henry along beside her. Lucas just barely remembered to unstick his feet from the ground to approach from behind.

“Good day, Miss Beaumont,” he heard Elowen say as he approached. She looked at the older woman next to her, who was the spitting image of Elowen with only fine lines around her mouth and streaks of white through her auburn hair. “Mother, this is Miss Beaumont—Catherine. She is the cousin and ward of the Duke of Beaushire and we met at the ball three days ago. Miss Beaumont, my mother, the Lady Trenton.”

“But please, call me Margaret,” the baroness said with a warm smile. “Elowen has told me all about you, Miss Beaumont.”

Catherine brightened visibly while Elowen shrank. “Has she?” she chirped. “I hadn’t realised that I’d made such an impression.”

“Well, Elowen does not have many friends, you see—”

“And that may not be entirely my fault, Mother,” Elowen cut in, cutting a warning glare in her mother’s direction. But Margaret Tremaine only laughed, clearly unbothered by the look in her daughter’s eyes.

It was one of the things he’d loved most about Lady Trenton. He’d met her only once before, and he’d quickly learned that she was the sort of lady who did not care to mince her words, who said exactly what was on her mind in the most endearing and down-to-earth manner possible. It was rather refreshing to see that she was still the same despite the scandal that hung over their heads.

Lady Trenton turned her attention to Lucas and Charlotte with that same warm smile. As did Elowen, though her smile was simply polite. Lucas tried not to stare at her.

“Why, it is good to see you, Your Graces,” Lady Trenton greeted, sinking into a graceful curtsy, with Elowen dipping beside her. “You are out enjoying a family stroll, I see.”

“It is nice to see you again, Lady Trenton,” said Charlotte kindly. She had always spoken well of the Tremaines, though to Lucas’s knowledge, they had never been especially close. “Are you out for the same purpose?”

“Yes. I was longing for some fresh air,” Lady Trenton replied with a light laugh. “I quite had to drag Elowen out with me, or I should have been forced to promenade alone.”

They all laughed at that—even Henry. Only Elowen remained quiet, her gentle smile unmoved, and Lucas found himself far too absorbed in watching her to follow the conversation.

“And what of Lord Trenton?” Catherine asked. “Was he not inclined to join you?”

Lady Trenton’s smile softened. “My husband has been rather unwell of late. But rest assured, I intend to persuade him to come with us next time.”

“Do let us know when that will be,” Charlotte said warmly. “Perhaps we might accompany you.”

“Yes!” Catherine exclaimed. “The more the merrier, after all. Wouldn’t you agree, Lord Westbrook?”

“If I say no?” Henry asked, smiling.

“Then I shall be obliged to leave you behind.”

There was a pause—then Henry said with mock gravity, “The more the merrier, then,” which earned a ripple of laughter.

Except from Elowen. And from Lucas.

He could scarcely pay attention to the chatter. Some distant part of his mind registered that their parties had agreed to walk together, but his focus remained elsewhere—on Elowen’s quiet composure, on how her gaze darted now and then toward the murmuring passers-by. He knew precisely why she did it.

And though he had no right, he felt the sudden, powerful urge to protect her—from the stares, from the whispers, from the unkind scrutiny of the world.

So instead, he simply fell into step beside her—telling himself that he had no reason to feel so unaccountably nervous.