Chapter 20
It was a hard and reckless kiss, delivered as if the world might end with the dawn.
Lavinia’s lips parted, startled, and for a single, wild moment she thought she might drown in the force of it—the taste of rain, the scrape of his unshaven jaw, the impossible heat of his mouth against hers.
Then, just as suddenly, the aggression faded.
The pressure gentled, shifting from anger to something raw and searching.
She felt his hands, so broad and sure, ease their grip on her shoulders.
One slid up to the nape of her neck, and the fingers splayed wide, as if he could steady himself only by anchoring her to the earth.
Lavinia kissed him back. She did not know why, only that to do otherwise would have been a lie. The truth was in the storm, in her shivering bones, in the frantic beating of her heart and the faint, frantic purr of the kitten trapped between them.
When they broke apart, it was not with passion’s triumph but with shock. They stared at each other, rain sluicing down their faces, both breathing as though they had been running for miles. The silence was immense.
Tristan spoke first. “You will catch your death,” he said, but the words were raspy and unsteady.
She wiped her face with her cloak and glared at him, “You might have warned me.”
He looked as though he might laugh or howl or strike the nearest tree. Instead, he ran a hand through his soaked hair and said, “Inside. Now. Bring the damned cat.”
She was too cold to protest. Besides, her boots had begun to squelch ominously, and the kitten was threatening to crawl down the bodice of her nightdress. She gathered it tighter and followed him across the churned lawn, mud clinging to her hem.
He did not touch her again; he did not even look at her as they passed through the servants’ entrance and down the dark back hallway. Only when they reached the main hall did he turn, gesturing her onward as if she were some recalcitrant livestock to be herded into safety.
The library was empty and faintly warm with the lamps turned low. Lavinia stood on the threshold, dripping water onto the Turkish carpet, her breath coming in small, involuntary gasps. The kitten, finally realizing it was safe, began to mewl with pathetic regularity.
Tristan disappeared for a moment, then returned carrying a heavy woolen blanket and a frown. “You should shed the drenched cloak first.”
She did while he turned away and held out the blanket. Lavinia wrapped it clumsily around her and Whisper. The edge slipped out of her grip and Tristan caught it. Then, more gently, he pulled the ends around her and tucked them tight, hands lingering at her collar.
His fingers brushed against her bare skin, just above the collarbone. Both of them stilled at the contact.
“Your skin is freezing,” he muttered.
Lavinia could not form a reply. Her teeth had started to chatter with such violence she feared she might bite off her own tongue.
“Sit,” he commanded, pushing her toward the chair by the fire.
As Lavinia sat, she held the kitten close, working the blanket tighter, and felt the wet chill begin to recede from her fingers.
Tristan moved to the hearth, kneeled, and attacked the coals with the single-minded ferocity of a man for whom the world existed only to be subdued. Within a minute the flames revived, sending light and warmth skipping across the dark paneled room.
He did not return to her side. Instead, he stood with one arm braced against the mantel, his head bowed, as if the act of making fire had used up the last of his resources.
They sat in silence, the only sounds the ticking of a longcase clock and the spatter of rain against the leaded glass. Lavinia stroked the kitten, who had begun to dry and now kneaded her thigh with tiny needle-point claws.
She ought to say something, but every possible comment sounded absurd in her mind: Thank you for rescuing me. Thank you for kissing me. Thank you for not shaking me until my teeth rattled, as I probably deserved.
At length, she managed, “You did not have to fetch me. I would have come back on my own.”
Tristan’s shoulders tensed, and he turned to regard her as if she had sprouted another head. “You would not have survived the walk.”
“I am made of sterner stuff than you think,” Lavinia replied. “And if you imagine I will drop dead of pneumonia for the sake of a kitten, you are giving yourself far too much credit.”
He did not answer. Instead, he turned his face toward the fire, the light painting sharp angles along his jaw.
Lavinia gathered her dignity—or what remained of it—and said, “I could not sleep, in any case. It is the first night I have spent away from Frances in… ever, I think. She will worry.”
“You sent word,” he said, his voice carefully even. “My coachman delivered your note.”
“It is not the same as being there.”
For a long moment, she concentrated on the kitten.
Its eyes were half-closed in ecstasy, purring with the tireless optimism of creatures too young to know what the world has in store.
Lavinia rubbed it dry with the edge of the blanket, then, when she was certain it would not expire from cold, nestled it on a velvet cushion beside her.
She caught Tristan watching, but his eyes were unreadable.
Then after what felt like a long moment, he said, “Lady Lavinia… What occurred—”
“Don’t,” she interrupted. “If you are about to apologize for what happened in the garden, please do not.”
He stiffened. “The contrary, actually. It should not happen again.”
Lavinia felt something sink within her. “Yes, you are right. It will not happen again.”
It would appear that he regretted the kiss, and that only made her feel mortified. She raised her eyes to look at him, and he seemed caught between relief and fury.
He studied her, and the silence between them was prickling. Then, abruptly, he crossed to the sideboard and poured two glasses of brandy. He handed one to her and said, “It will help.”
Lavinia eyed the glass. “Are you trying to finish me off?”
“It will warm you,” he said. “Drink.”
She took a sip. The heat seared its way down her throat, then blossomed in her chest, thawing places she had not known were frozen. She set the glass aside before she could embarrass herself by gulping the rest.
Tristan took his own seat, not across from her but angled just enough that they were still companions, not adversaries.
After a while, Lavinia spoke again. “Lady Sophia spoke of her mother today.”
He went still, but said nothing.
“She misses something she never even knew,” Lavinia said. “She believes herself insufficient—her word, not mine.”
He stared into the fire, his jaw tight.
“She thinks you do not love her,” Lavinia said softly. “Not because you are unkind. But because you never say it.”
Tristan’s hands balled into fists. When he spoke, his voice was nearly a whisper. “I have never been skilled at such things.”
She said nothing, letting the confession rest.
At last, he turned to her, his eyes nearly black in the firelight. “I suppose I owe you the truth,” he said, and the effort in his tone made her heart twist.
He stood, pacing the length of the hearth, then stopped, facing away. “My late wife. Mary. We were not… It was a contract and nothing more. The arrangement was between two families too proud to see sense. She did not want it and neither did I.”
Lavinia felt her own breath catch. She had heard rumors, but nothing so blunt.
“We agreed, after the first year, that we would go our separate ways once she gave birth. She wanted to live in London, to see the world. I wanted an heir, and nothing else.” His mouth twisted and the words emerged jagged.
“But then Sophia was born. Mary never got to leave. There was a carriage accident, and it claimed her. It was the cost of—” He broke off.
“Freedom,” Lavinia said, filling the silence.
“She died, and I was left with a child I never expected to raise myself. I have done what I can, but I am not a good father. I am not a good man, Lavinia.” He turned, finally meeting her gaze. “But I do not want to ruin another life. I do not want Sophia to think of marriage as a sentence.”
Lavinia pressed her lips together, fighting the urge to go to him and touch him. “You are not a bad father. She loves you.”
“She fears me.” He punctuated that with a short, bitter laugh.
“No,” Lavinia said. “She does not know you.”
He took a step closer, and the distance between them closed in an instant.
“Will you teach her?” he asked, and the question was as raw as a wound. “Will you teach her what I cannot?”
Lavinia looked at the kitten, sleeping on the cushion, its belly round and safe. She thought of Sophia, of Frances, waiting for her to come home. Of her own, stubborn heart.
“I will,” she said, “on one condition.”
He waited, his posture tense.
“You must allow her to keep the cat,” Lavinia said.
He blinked as if thrown off balance by the demand.
“It is important,” Lavinia continued. “She needs something to care for. Something that is hers. And perhaps, in time, you will see that not all love is a burden.”
He stared at her, then at the kitten, then back. After a long moment, he nodded once.
“Very well,” he said. “The cat stays.”
She felt the relief sweep through her, as absurd and overwhelming as it was.
Reaching for the remainder of her brandy, she gulped it down. When she looked up, she found Tristan’s eyes intently upon her.
“I… I should go to bed,” she murmured.
“Yes, you should.”
Swallowing, she rose and started toward the door, aware of his eyes still on her.
“Good night,” he said, and her heart raced. What had happened tonight had changed a piece, if not all, of her, and Lavinia did not know what came next.