Chapter 14
Tristan scanned the garden party until he saw her.
Lady Lavinia stood at the edge of the rose walk with her sister at her elbow. The sight of her with her chin up and mouth set with the barest pretense of a smile sent a pang through him that he was not prepared to acknowledge, even in the privacy of his own mind.
Don’t be an idiot. You are only in attendance because Moira asked you to come.
He set off and was halfway there when, out of nowhere, Lady Montfort materialized directly in his path. She wore a turban and a look of such high determination that it was impossible to evade her without resorting to violence.
“Your Grace!” she called, seizing his attention. “How very fortunate! I was just extolling the virtues of my nieces to Lady Featherstone, who is, of course, a distant cousin of your own family.”
He gave a shallow incline of his head. “Lady Montfort. How... thoughtful of you.”
She ignored the faint mockery in his tone. “Lady Frances is at the right age for a match. Seventeen, but with the maturity of someone much older. And she is, of course, from the Fairwick line, which—if I may say so—has always complemented the Evermere blood rather handsomely. Do you not agree?”
She turned to draw him bodily toward Frances, who, upon seeing him, went pale and curtsied with such haste she nearly lost her footing. Next to her, Lavinia looked as though she would rather be at the bottom of a well.
Tristan allowed himself to be herded, but only so far. “Lady Frances,” he said, bowing formally. “A pleasure.”
She managed a demure, “Your Grace,” before retreating into the shadow of her sister.
Lady Montfort pressed on. “And Lady Lavinia, as you know, is a credit to our family—her poise, her intelligence, her unwavering devotion to duty. It is only a pity she will not consider another season, but I am sure you will agree, Your Grace, that when one’s responsibility is to the family—”
Tristan cut her off, not rudely, but with the kind of finality that admitted no contradiction. “Actually, Lady Montfort, it was Lady Lavinia I wished to address.”
The effect was instantaneous. Montfort’s mouth snapped shut. Frances’s eyes grew so wide they threatened to eclipse her face. Lavinia herself looked stricken, but not displeased—merely unready to be singled out in such a fashion.
“May I claim you for a dance, Lady Lavinia?” he asked, extending his hand.
It was a calculated risk. The dance floor was visible to all, and the gossip would begin before they had even taken their places. But he preferred an honest battle to a siege.
Lavinia’s eyes narrowed, as if she suspected a trap, but then she placed her hand on his arm, her touch so light it might have been accidental.
“I would be honored, Your Grace,” she replied, voice even but colored by something he could not name.
Lady Montfort managed a strained smile. “How lovely. Frances, shall we go and admire the tulip beds?”
Frances looked like she would rather be set upon by wolves, but Montfort was not to be denied. They drifted away, Montfort’s turban bobbing with every step.
Tristan led Lavinia onto the terrace, where the musicians struck up a waltz of improbable sentimentality.
Around them, the dancers arrayed themselves in patterns as old as the hills: the debutantes spinning with nervous energy, the married couples moving with either romance or mutual resentment, and the bold ones staking out the corners for private conversation.
He placed his hand at her waist, and they began to move.
She surprised him by matching his tempo perfectly, her posture flawless and her balance light as air. For a moment, he wondered if she had spent the last six months secretly training for this one dance.
“You hate parties,” she said, not as a question but as a fact.
“I do,” he replied. “But I value efficiency.”
She almost smiled. “So, I am a chore to be dispatched?”
“No,” he said, steering them through a tight turn. “You are a puzzle. I have always preferred puzzles to people.”
“Is that so?” Her voice held the edge of a dare. “And what is my mystery?”
He met her eyes, blue on blue. “You appear at the edge of every room and command the attention of everyone in it, yet you act as if you would rather be invisible. I find that—unusual.”
She glanced away, the barest motion of her head. “Perhaps I prefer not to be seen for what I am.”
“And what is that?”
She said nothing, but her jaw tightened. He felt it beneath his hand, the subtle tension of muscle and bone.
“I have been told I am proud,” she said at last, “but it is more accurate to say that I dislike pity.”
“Is that what you think I feel?” he asked.
“Not you, in particular. But the world at large. They see us—my sister and me —as a cautionary tale. Poor relations, noble blood but no money, no prospects. A burden to be managed.”
He steered them into the shadow of a trellis. Here, the crowd thinned, and the music grew softer, as if the world were offering them a moment alone.
“I do not see you as a burden,” he said.
She almost laughed. “You see me as a puzzle.”
He tightened his hold fractionally. “I see you as someone who has done the work of three people since your father died. Someone who keeps her family together by sheer force of will, who sacrifices her own future so her sister might have one.”
She tried to deflect. “Anyone would do the same.”
He leaned in, just enough for only her to hear. “Don’t lie to me, Lady Lavinia. Most would have married the first man with a title and a pulse. Or worse, surrendered altogether.”
She went silent, her breath hitching as if she’d been caught out in a secret.
They danced the next measures in silence, the only sound the swish of silk and the distant, insistent waltz. He watched her carefully, noting the way her eyelids shuttered when the steps brought them close, the way she set her jaw when the movement required him to steady her.
When the music changed, and the dance drew to a close, neither moved to leave the floor.
He spoke first. “I will not insult you by offering advice, or by pretending to understand what you’ve endured. But I will say this: my daughter laughs now. She never did before you arrived.”
Lavinia’s eyes widened, then shimmered with what looked dangerously like tears.
“That is your doing,” he said, voice rougher than intended.
For a heartbeat, they simply stood, joined at hand and waist, as the world spun on without them.
A throat cleared—loudly—from the edge of the terrace.
Lavinia dropped her hands, stepped back, and composed herself in a single, graceful motion. The mask slid back into place.
“Thank you for the dance, Your Grace,” she said, inclining her head. “You are better at it than you pretend.”
He smiled, for the first time in weeks. “So are you.”
She moved to leave, but he caught her hand, just briefly. Not enough for anyone to see, but enough for her to feel.
“If you require anything, Lavinia, I am here.”
She said nothing, but her fingers curled around his for the briefest instant before she slipped away.
He watched her go, the blue of her dress bright as the sky, and wondered how many puzzles he would have to solve before he could allow himself to be the answer.
The music resumed, and the dance floor filled once more, but for Tristan, the evening was already over.
Lavinia slipped away before her knees could betray her. The world beyond the waltz was as she’d left it, and somewhere among the roses, Frances waited, probably replaying her own conversation with Mr. Perry-or-Percy, and likely dreading the next onslaught of her aunt’s schemes.
Lavinia’s first impulse was to gather her sister and vanish, but duty demanded she reassemble herself. She scanned the lawn for Frances and found her at a white-draped table, cheeks still flushed, hands folded with a decorum that bordered on the tragic.
Before Lavinia could reach her, Lady Montfort materialized once more, this time with a new player in tow. The man was handsome, immaculately turned out, and wore his self-regard like a medal pinned to his lapel. His smile was so quick it bordered on predatory.
“Lavinia, darling, there you are!” Montfort sang out, drawing both Lavinia and Frances into the gravity of her social orbit. “I have someone you simply must meet. Lord Dawnford—Lucien Ashwick—one of the most eligible men in London, and such an admirer of literature. I thought of you instantly.”
The earl bowed low, his eyes on Lavinia as if there were no one else within five miles. “Lady Lavinia, a privilege. I have heard so much about you—none of it adequate to the reality, I see.”
He extended his hand, palm up, waiting for Lavinia’s to land. She obliged, the chill of his ring cool against her skin.
He did not release her at once. “Would you grant me a moment’s conversation? I assure you, I am quite harmless. At least in public.”
She extricated her hand. “My time is not my own, Lord Dawnford. But you are welcome to join my sister and me, should you find the company of unchaperoned young ladies agreeable.”
He grinned, unabashed. “I find it ideal.”
Frances shot Lavinia a pleading look, but Lavinia only shook her head, the message clear: Endure, and I’ll extract us at the first opportunity.
Lady Montfort settled herself at the table’s edge, fanning vigorously, her gaze darting from Lucien to Lavinia and back, as if the match might be struck then and there. “Lord Dawnford is an expert on Byron,” she said, “and a favorite in every salon. Isn’t that marvelous, Frances?”
Frances managed a strangled “Yes, Aunt.”
Lucien turned the full force of his charm on Lavinia. “Your aunt tells me you are a keen reader, Lady Lavinia. I had hoped we might discuss poetry. Or anything else that comes to mind.”
“Poetry is a pleasant diversion,” Lavinia said. “Though I have little time for it these days. Real life, you see, is far more demanding than a stanza.”
“Is it?” He leaned in with his elbows on the table. “I would have thought poetry the finest training for society’s wars.”
She held his gaze, refusing to blink. “If this is a war, Lord Dawnford, I would suggest you are already losing.”
He laughed, surprised, and sat back, his eyes dancing. “They warned me about you. Said you had a mind like a rapier. I believe it now.”
Lady Montfort gasped, and her eyes widened. “You see? Isn’t she clever? Frances, dear, don’t you think your sister ought to let herself be courted more?”
Frances, to her credit, gave an evasive, “Perhaps.”
Lucien looked at Lavinia with the easy patience of a man who always got what he wanted, eventually. “If you would allow me to call, Lady Lavinia, I assure you, I can be very persistent. I never surrender.”
She smiled, cold and flat as ice on a winter pond. “That is a valuable trait in a solicitor, Lord Dawnford. Less so in a poet.”
His eyes narrowed, just a fraction. He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “It is also valuable in a suitor.”
She felt a sick twist in her stomach. She’d heard the rumors—Dawnford’s ruined conquests, his great wealth, and his total lack of shame. Frances was watching, wide-eyed, all too aware of the danger.
“Perhaps you should find someone more receptive to your persistence,” Lavinia said, and this time she stood, forcing both Frances and Lady Montfort to rise with her.
Lady Montfort sputtered, “But you’ve only just—”
“We must thank our hostess,” Lavinia said. “Frances, would you come with me?”
Frances nodded, clutching her reticule.
Lucien did not attempt to stop them, only watched with a slow, pleased smile as they left.
Montfort hurried after. “Lavinia! He’s a very good prospect. Wealthy, titled—”
“He is a predator,” Lavinia said quietly, so only her aunt could hear. “And not for me.”
Montfort’s mouth thinned. “You are too proud. One day you’ll have no options left at all.”
“That is my business,” Lavinia replied.
When Lavinia looked back, Lucien was still standing at the table, that same patient smile on his lips, as if he had all the time in the world to wear her down.
She had survived creditors, pity, and the withering stares of London society. But Lavinia knew, with the certainty of a soldier watching the enemy amass on the ridge, that the true battle had only just begun.