Chapter 17
"Come quick!"
Frances’s voice carried down the hallway with such piercing intensity that Lavinia considered whether she should bring bandages or a mop. She set aside her breakfast cup and hurried out to the hall, expecting catastrophe, or at least spilled jam.
Instead, Frances waited at the drawing room door, dancing in place with hands pressed to her mouth, eyes bright as new glass.
“You must see it—right now!” Frances grabbed Lavinia’s hand, and the next thing she knew, Lavinia was tugged through the threshold and into a world gone mad.
The entire drawing room had been transformed.
Every available surface was weighted with vases, baskets, and jars, each brimming with flowers: lilies and ranunculus in the window, bluebells and gardenias teetering on the pianoforte, and in the center of the table—like a crown for the Queen of England—stood a towering arrangement of red roses so garish they appeared to have been bred for intimidation.
Frances let out a little shriek of delight and pressed her cheek against Lavinia’s shoulder. “Look at them! There must be hundreds. And the card—read the card.”
Lavinia did, turning it in her hand with all the enthusiasm she would accord a tax bill.
For Lady Lavinia, whose wit is matched only by her beauty.
The rest of the card was a poem that was heavy on the wit and light on the actual poetry.
Lavinia read it aloud, “Roses are red, the rumors are true; if you would have me, I’ll make a countess of you. Sincerely, Lucien, Lord Dawnford.”
Frances’s eyes grew wider. “It’s a marriage proposal, isn’t it?”
“I believe it is a threat,” Lavinia replied, setting the card back in its metal prongs.
A throat cleared from behind the couch. Mrs. Down materialized, carrying a watering can and wearing the expression of someone who had already spent the morning arranging the entire population of Holland in her mistress’s parlor.
“They arrived at six, my lady. With a note that Lord Dawnford wishes to call this afternoon, if convenient.”
“Six?” Lavinia asked with a cocked eyebrow.
“There was a footman for every basket,” Mrs. Down replied, a note of wonder creeping into her voice. “The roses are from Kent, the lilies from London, and the bluebells from—well, bluebells are common enough, but these look as though they were paid a handsome sum to be here.”
Frances flitted from table to sideboard, plucking sprigs and inhaling deeply. “They are beautiful,” she said. “Do you think he knows how much you dislike roses?”
“I think Lord Dawnford has never met a symbol of romance he did not wish to strangle with overuse,” Lavinia replied.
Frances laughed, but Lavinia did not.
If she married Dawnford, it would end the debts in a single stroke. Frances would have a dowry; Mrs. Down would never be turned out; Pembroke Manor could keep its roof and its name. It was the solution to every practical problem they had. And yet—
Lavinia stared at the roses. All the beauty in the world, and still, something in her heart shied away.
A commotion in the hall signaled the arrival of Lady Montfort, whose entire presence seemed to sweep the flowers into disarray. She entered with her turban at a rakish angle and her cane deployed for maximum authority.
“Good morning, girls.” Her eyes lit on the roses immediately. “For Frances, I presume? From young Mr. Perry?”
Frances colored, but Lavinia cut in: “They are for me, Aunt.”
Lady Montfort paused, lips parted, as if she had just discovered a bee in her jam tart.
“You?”
Lavinia gestured to the card. “From Lord Dawnford.”
A flash of calculation darted across Lady Montfort’s face. She stepped to the table and scrutinized the bouquet with a jeweler’s precision. “Well, I suppose there’s no accounting for taste.”
“Aunt!” Frances sounded genuinely aggrieved.
“Oh, do not be offended, child. Lord Dawnford is infamous for his—how shall I put it—eclectic tastes.” She plucked a single rose from the vase and sniffed it with something like suspicion. “Regardless, it is not every day one receives a proposal before breakfast. He is eager, I grant him that.”
Mrs. Down began gathering the deadheaded blooms from the basket, quietly exiting the scene.
Frances hovered in the wake of Lady Montfort, all nerves. “Do you suppose he will really call today?”
“If he does, you will be prepared,” Lady Montfort said, turning her attention to Frances and smoothing an invisible wrinkle from the girl’s sleeve. “We must find you something suitable to wear—”
“It’s for Lavinia,” Frances reminded, with the stubbornness of one who had spent her whole life being overlooked.
“Exactly,” said Lady Montfort, “and what Lavinia needs is to be presented as a woman with options. One must always negotiate from a position of strength, Frances. You’ll recall the story of your late uncle and the Prince Regent’s cat—”
“I do not,” said Lavinia, but this was ignored.
Lady Montfort returned her focus to the flowers, as if seeking some coded message within the petals. “You must accept the call, Lavinia. Refusing would be a tactical error.”
“Tactical,” Lavinia repeated, only just resisting the urge to roll her eyes.
She glanced at Frances, who watched her with a worried hope. The room, so full of fragrance, felt suddenly airless.
“Very well, Aunt,” Lavinia said. “If Lord Dawnford wishes to call, let him call. But I must remind you—”
“Remind me what?” Lady Montfort said, already eyeing the next vase, probably envisioning how it would look on the mantel at her own house.
“I have no intention of marrying him,” Lavinia said.
Lady Montfort turned, her expression gone brittle. “Oh, child. Intentions are so rarely relevant.”
The line was meant to be flippant, but it landed with a weight that lingered.
Lavinia excused herself, brushing a rose petal from her sleeve as she left the room. “I must prepare for my lesson with Lady Sophia,” she said, and the door swung quietly shut behind her.
Left in the parlor, Frances and Lady Montfort faced the mountain of flowers as if it were a siege to be withstood.
“I am not even out yet,” Frances whispered, looking at the blooms.
“Investments are made early,” Lady Montfort said, not unkindly. “Some girls are betrothed to dukes before they’ve lost their milk teeth. One must not fall behind.”
Frances nodded, but her eyes followed the door where Lavinia had gone.
She, too, knew what it meant to be overlooked.
“His Grace requests your presence in the study, My Lady,” the butler said as soon as Lavinia arrived at Evermere. “Immediately, if convenient.”
“Which is to say immediately, regardless of convenience,” Lavinia muttered, surrendering her bonnet and gloves. “Is Lady Sophia in the conservatory?”
“She is, my lady. Shall I announce you to His Grace?”
“No need,” Lavinia said. “I know the way. And the hazards.”
She walked down the hallway and paused just outside the study door. Tristan’s voice sounded within, low and controlled. She took a single breath and stepped inside.
The Duke stood at the window, back ramrod-straight, hands clasped behind him. On the desk before him rested a rectangular package wrapped in heavy cream paper.
“Lady Lavinia,” he said, turning at the sound of her step. “Thank you for coming.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” she replied, dropping the requisite curtsy. “How may I be of service?”
He gestured to the desk. “That is for Lady Sophia. A new set of watercolors. Her… sketch showed promise.”
Lavinia blinked. Was he attempting… kindness?
“She will be delighted,” Lavinia said, managing to keep the surprise from her voice. “Thank you. I shall present it to her after our lesson.”
He nodded, but his eyes did not soften. Instead, he produced a folded sheet from the inside pocket of his coat and offered it to her. “This is the sketch.”
Lavinia took the page and unfolded it. The lines were tentative, but the composition was unmistakable: the wild sweep of the west garden, the distant oak, the suggestion of clouds threatening rain. It was not a child’s drawing, but the careful effort of someone desperate to prove herself.
“She worked from memory,” Lavinia said quietly. “I was not aware she still thought so much of the outside world.”
“Nor was I,” Tristan replied. “Until you arrived.”
Lavinia felt the compliment like a pebble in her shoe—small, sharp, and impossible to ignore.
She returned the sketch. “I will tell her you admired it.”
Tristan inclined his head, then transfixed her with a stare so intense it nearly pinned her to the spot.
“There is another matter,” he said.
Here it comes, Lavinia thought.
“I received word this morning,” he said, “that the Earl of Dawnford intends to call on you today.”
She set the sketch on the desk. “News travels quickly. Shall I assume you have spies in every parlor in London, Your Grace?”
He did not smile. “I have a duty to protect my household from unnecessary scandal.”
“And you imagine that my acceptance of a floral arrangement will lead to scandal?” Lavinia said, unable to keep the sarcasm from her voice.
“Not flowers. The man behind them.”
Lavinia folded her arms. “If you have a warning to deliver, do so plainly.”
He met her gaze, unflinching. “Men like Dawnford do not pursue marriage. They pursue diversion.”
She nearly laughed. “Is that so? He must be disappointed to find such a dreary target as myself. I have been a spinster long enough to know when I am being handled.”
“I am not handling you,” Tristan replied. “I am informing you that his interest is not in your welfare, but in the conquest itself.”
“And yet you would have me accept his call? Surely you see the contradiction, Your Grace.”
He took a step forward, voice lowered. “I would have you exercise caution. The world is not kind to women who gamble their reputations on a man’s promise.”
“And you are the world’s appointed chaperone, I suppose?” Lavinia’s anger was gathering force now, pushing her forward even as her sense urged retreat. “You hired me to instruct your daughter, not to be instructed myself.”
“I hired you,” Tristan said, his own voice clipped and hard, “because you were the only person in the county with a hope of reaching her. But that does not give you leave to jeopardize her future.”
It struck her, then, that he was not talking about Lady Sophia at all.
“Do you think I am so desperate?” she said, quietly. “That I would let a man like Dawnford undo everything I have built for my family?”
He did not answer.
Lavinia reached for the package, the edges digging into her palms. “You presume much, Your Grace.”
“And you,” he said, “are too proud to admit you are vulnerable.”
She let that stand, not trusting herself to reply.
The silence stretched. Then at last, Lavinia said, “If you have finished with your warnings, I should like to begin Lady Sophia’s lesson.”
He did not move. “I have finished with warnings, Lady Lavinia.”
She turned to go, but his next words stopped her mid-step.
“I apologize,” Tristan said.
It was so soft, she barely heard it.
She looked back and saw that his hands were no longer behind his back, but open at his sides—an unfamiliar gesture of uncertainty.
“I apologize,” he repeated, “for overstepping. It is not my place.”
The world tilted, just a fraction.
She did not smile, but she did nod. “Apology accepted, Your Grace.”
He inclined his head, and she left the room, the watercolor set balanced in her arms.
In the hallway, Lavinia paused, steadying herself against the wall. The memory of his voice, so different from every other time they had spoken, lingered in her mind like a question.
For the first time that day—perhaps for the first time in her life— she wondered what it might feel like to be chosen not for convenience, or for advantage, but for the simple fact of being seen.