Duchess Howthrone gestured for a footman, who appeared at once, as if summoned by thought alone.
"Have someone fetch Adrien," she said calmly. "Tell him our guests have arrived."
"Yes, Your Grace." The footman bowed and disappeared down a side corridor.
The three women moved into the grand entry hall, their footsteps echoing across marble and vaulted ceilings. Light spilled through the tall windows, glinting off gilt frames and polished stone. Duchess Blackwell's gaze swept the space with practiced appraisal—measuring, judging, remembering.
Eveline followed a step behind, as she always did. Yet as they crossed the threshold, her fingers tightened briefly inside her gloves. She lifted her eyes just long enough to take in the hall, then lowered them again.
Duchess Howthrone noticed.
They had barely taken their seats when hurried footsteps echoed from the far end of the hall. A young man appeared, clearly trying—and failing—to seem unruffled.
"Mother," Adrien said, straightening his coat. His eyes flicked to the guests, then widened slightly. "Ah. Duchess Blackwell."
"My lord," Duchess Blackwell replied, her tone cool and expectant. "You took your time."
"My apologies," he said smoothly. "I wasn't informed at once."
Duchess Howthrone raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
"And this—you know her," Duchess Blackwell continued, turning slightly. "My daughter, Eveline."
Adrien's gaze shifted to Eveline.
She curtsied perfectly—precise, graceful, rehearsed. When she straightened, their eyes met for the briefest moment.
Something passed between them. Surprise, perhaps. Or recognition.
"Lady Eveline," Adrien said, inclining his head. "It is always a pleasure."
"Yes," Eveline replied softly. "The pleasure is mine."
Duchess Howthrone watched them both, her sharp mind already rearranging pieces on a board only she could see.
Careful restraint, indeed, she thought again.
And she had the distinct feeling this engagement was going to be anything but quiet.
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