Page 17

CHAPTER 17

“ Y ou would not have honored the invitation without a litany of complaints had it come from me,” Elaine said, tilting her glass with a pointed look.

Isaac accepted his glass of port with a faint smile as he settled into the comfort of the drawing room chair. He was in the company of his brother-in-law, the Marquess of Darlington, who had—supposedly—insisted on a small, private dinner to celebrate Isaac’s newly announced engagement.

The evening carried a rare softness, and laughter drifted easily through the air.

Isaac tipped his head, a quiet amusement stirring in his chest.

“Perhaps because Samuel exercises a measure of subtlety,” he said. “You might learn a thing or two from him, Elaine.”

Elaine sniffed and flicked open her fan with a dramatic flourish.

“Last I checked, I was your sister, not Samuel.”

Isaac lifted his glass in lazy salute.

“Are you jealous of your own husband, Elaine?”

Samuel, lounging beside her, chuckled and tapped his glass lightly against hers.

“Be kind to me, Elaine,” Samuel said, “and perhaps I shall reveal the secret that coaxed your brother here.”

Isaac gave a short laugh, setting his glass down on the side table with a muted clink.

“You speak as if I were some reluctant rodent, tempted from my hole with promises of cheese.”

Elaine laughed, her hand fluttering to her throat as if to contain it.

“I am practically overflowing with kindness, Samuel darling. Now, do tell me your secret,” she said, leaning toward him with a mock-pleading glance.

Isaac stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankle.

“When kindness spies you from miles away, Elaine,” he drawled, “it flees in terror.”

Elaine shot him a mock glare, tapping her fan against his knee in reprimand.

“You wound me, brother,” she said, her lips curving despite herself.

Their laughter rose again, buoyant and bright, mingling with the occasional clink of glass and the low crackle of the fire.

Isaac leaned back, savoring the rare sense of ease that threaded through his chest—a fragile thing, but welcome nonetheless.

Samuel’s hand stilled over his glass, and his features sobered.

“Canterlack is in trouble,” he said.

“What is new?” Isaac drawled, swirling the port in his glass with idle disinterest.

Samuel leaned forward, resting one elbow upon his knee.

“I mean it,” he said. “He has ruined a young lady—Miss Aldridge, no less—and refused to appear at the duel site after her brother issued a challenge.”

Isaac arched a brow, though he could not summon true astonishment.

Why should I be surprised? Canterlack could, and has, done far worse.

The familiar bitterness rose like bile, and Isaac set his glass down with a deliberate thud.

“A coward, too,” Elaine observed, reaching for another sip of her port.

Samuel nodded. “He is shamed beyond repair. Word is he cannot show his face in any respectable gathering.”

Isaac allowed himself a thin smile.

“Society could do with fewer men of his ilk,” Elaine added, her tone sharpening to a rare edge.

Isaac caught her eye and inclined his head in silent agreement.

Indeed. Some things—and some men—never change.

The fire popped in the hearth, filling the momentary lull.

Elaine, ever the mistress of redirecting a conversation, clapped her hands lightly together.

“Enough of unpleasant topics,” she declared. “We are gathered to celebrate, after all.”

She leaned toward Isaac, her eyes alight with mischief.

“As a matter of fact, I have invited the lady in question to take tea with me tomorrow afternoon.”

Isaac’s brows rose.

Elaine smiled sweetly—too sweetly—and sipped at her glass.

“Yes, brother. Lady Fiona will be here tomorrow. And I expect you to join us.”

Isaac opened his mouth to protest, but Elaine lifted a hand to forestall him.

“That is not a request, Craton. It is an order.”

“You realize this is bullying, Elaine?” Isaac said, leaning back in his chair with an exaggerated sigh.

Elaine snorted into her sherry. Isaac turned to Samuel with a pleading look. “You see what I must endure, Darlington?”

Samuel raised his hands in a mock gesture of surrender.

“That is my daily lot, man. You have my sympathies,” he said, his mouth twitching with barely contained laughter.

Isaac shook his head slowly. “Your choice,” he said, arching a brow. “I, at least, never chose her.”

Elaine gave a triumphant little shrug.

“That’s right, brother. God decided to bless you with me,” she said, her expression maddeningly smug.

The room filled with their laughter once more, warm and easy, broken only by the crackle of the fire.

Isaac tilted his glass toward her in mock salute.

“Bullying must be your second nature,” he observed, setting the glass back down with a soft clink.

Elaine fanned herself dramatically.

“What can I say? A girl must have her hobbies.”

Isaac shook his head, chuckling under his breath.

“And that,” he said, “is precisely how you ooze kindness.”

Elaine leaned forward, a wicked glint in her eye.

“Tea. Tomorrow afternoon. Do not be late, Isaac,” she said, her voice light but her meaning unmistakable.

Isaac gave a long-suffering sigh, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him with the faintest twitch of amusement.

There is no escaping her. There never was.

Fiona smoothed a hand over her skirts as she was ushered into the Marchioness of Darlington’s drawing room, the warmth of the space doing little to ease the anxious fluttering in her chest.

Compose yourself. You are not here to be judged. At least, not openly.

She had never been introduced to Lady Darlington before, and now, here she stood, not merely as a guest—but as a future sister.

Before Fiona could think of what to say, the Marchioness swept forward and enveloped her in a warm embrace, the faint scent of roses clinging to her gown.

“Oh, Fiona dear, it is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance,” Elaine said, holding her as though greeting an old friend.

Fiona, surprised by the casual familiarity, found her rigid posture softening. Some of her nerves began to unravel, soothed by the easy brightness that seemed to radiate from the woman.

How very different she is from her brother. Night and day, truly.

Gathering herself, Fiona offered a small, genuine smile.

“It is an honor, my lady,” she said, dipping into a polite curtsy.

Elaine waved a hand as though batting away the words.

“Oh, do drop the formalities. Call me Elaine. We are sisters now,” she said, her eyes twinkling with undisguised delight.

Fiona chuckled, the sound bubbling forth before she could restrain it.

Not sisters yet, she thought, but found she did not mind the assumption.

As they settled near the hearth, a footman entered and laid out the tea service, the delicate clink of porcelain filling the quiet.

Elaine busied herself with the teapot, pouring with a graceful hand honed by countless similar afternoons.

Fiona lifted her cup, inhaling the familiar, rich scent that wafted toward her.

She took a sip and smiled faintly.

“Pomegranate,” she murmured. “Reminiscent of Turkish brews.”

Elaine looked up with interest.

“Oh? Have you been to the Ottoman region?” she asked, curiosity lighting her features.

“Oh, no,” Fiona said with a soft laugh. “I have never stepped beyond English soil, I am afraid.”

She set her teacup down with careful precision and folded her hands in her lap.

“But I have a great fondness for tea and herbs,” she continued. “I enjoy experimenting with different flavours and brewing methods.”

Elaine leaned forward with a conspiratorial gleam.

Fiona smiled, encouraged. “I once obtained a pomegranate blend from a merchant who traded with Turkey. This tea reminds me very much of that,” she added.

Elaine’s eyes widened with genuine delight.

“My, what an exciting endeavor,” she said. “And you are quite correct. This is indeed pomegranate tea. It was a gift to the Duke from a Turkish business partner.”

They sipped companionably, the fine china clinking softly as Elaine poured another round.

Between sips and laughter, Elaine asked more questions, and Fiona found herself speaking freely of her modest herb garden—the lavender and mint she coaxed each spring, the rare Chinese teas she managed to collect through her friends’ kind connections.

“You are full of pleasantly surprising treasures, Fiona,” Elaine said, setting her cup aside with a warm smile.

Her gaze flicked toward the clock on the mantelpiece, something unreadable passing across her features. She glanced briefly toward the door, almost expectantly, before returning her attention to Fiona.

“I am so very glad to welcome you as my sister,” she said.

Fiona returned her smile, feeling a curious warmth settle within her.

As she lifted her cup once more, her gaze wandered and landed on a magnificent pianoforte tucked elegantly into the far corner of the room. The carved wood gleamed under the afternoon light, and delicate gold filigree danced across its surface.

Fiona could not help but stare, admiration softening her features.

Elaine followed her gaze and laughed lightly. “Oh, that? I had it crafted and shipped all the way from Russia.”

“Would you like to take a closer look?” Elaine offered, her eyes alight with a sparkle that bespoke both pride and mischief.

Fiona smiled and allowed herself to be led across the room to the magnificent pianoforte.

As they approached, Fiona noticed several stacks of parchment scattered across the cushion before the instrument. Elaine let out a sheepish chuckle and hastily gathered them into a neat pile.

“Never mind all these,” she said, brushing a wisp of hair behind her ear. “I was working rather late last night.”

Fiona’s gaze lingered on the parchments—sheet music, she realised. Some pages bore careful notations, while others were littered with cancellations and splatters of ink, as though the creator had wrestled fiercely with the muse.

It is as if I have stumbled into a composer’s private domain.

“Never say you write music too?” Fiona exclaimed, her eyes widening in genuine astonishment.

A delicate flush crept across Elaine’s cheeks as she gave a modest nod.

“I dabble,” she admitted.

Fiona’s smile deepened, admiration plain upon her face.

“Oh, you must produce the most beautiful melodies,” she said, tracing a reverent finger over the intricate gold filigree adorning the pianoforte. The craftsmanship was exquisite, each detail so finely wrought it seemed a shame not to display the instrument in a Russian palace.

“Perhaps I shall give you a performance next time, and you may judge for yourself,” Elaine said with a playful lift of her brow, her gaze straying once more to the clock on the mantel, and then to the door.

Fiona noted the glances but made no comment, choosing instead to smile.

“I should very much look forward to it,” she said warmly.

Elaine, seeming to shake off her distraction, turned back to her with renewed interest.

“Do you play?” she asked.

Fiona gave a self-deprecating laugh.

“Oh, I plunk when the mood strikes, but I hardly possess either the talent or the passion to appreciate music properly, let alone compose it,” she said.

Elaine waved a dismissive hand.

“You are a humble little creature, are you not? I am certain your skills amount to more than mere plunks.”

Fiona tilted her head, a mischievous glint entering her eye.

“Perhaps I shall perform for you next time and allow you to judge for yourself,” she said, her voice light with teasing.

Their laughter chimed together, filling the drawing room with a warm, easy sound.

Elaine’s smile softened, her hands folding neatly in her lap.

“Fate has indeed smiled upon my brother by bringing you into his life,” she said.

Fiona’s cheeks coloured, and she lifted a hand in gentle protest.

“Oh, I hardly?—”

“Never mind the fact that he can be an utter bore at times,” Elaine interjected, her grin widening. “You need only continue being your delightful self. Once you know him better, you will see—he is a darling, truly.”

Fiona pressed her lips together to smother a smile.

Craton, a darling? The notion was almost laughable. Yet some part of her—the part that had seen fleeting glimpses of gentleness in his gaze—felt an odd, bubbling curiosity.

As if summoned by her very thoughts, the drawing room door opened, and the man in question stepped inside.