Chapter 23
Tristan surveyed the room, though he did not appear to see Lavinia at first. Instead, he made the prescribed greetings to the nearest host, shook off the advances of two desperate mamas, and accepted a glass from a hovering servant.
But then his eyes moved across the room, seeming somewhat disinterested in everything, until they caught hers.
The effect was as physical as a blow, and Lavinia stiffened while her hand froze on her fan. He looked at her, just looked, and the memory of the rain and the storm and the kiss that was not supposed to happen crashed through her all over again.
He did not look away.
The room seemed to shrink, the other people blurring into nothing. It was as if the two of them stood alone, a hundred yards apart but connected by a taut wire. Her breath caught, and she forced herself to look down at the fan, to will her heart back to its proper place.
Lord Dawnford reappeared at her side with a glass in hand and oblivious to the world shifting beneath his feet. “Are you quite well, Lady Lavinia?”
She startled. “I—yes, thank you,” she replied, too quickly.
Dawnford followed her gaze, then saw the Duke. His demeanor changed; his shoulders drew back, and his smile sharpened. “I see the competition has arrived,” he murmured.
She arched an eyebrow. “Are you running a race, Lord Dawnford?”
“Always.” He laughed, but it sounded forced.
She shook her head. “I do not think you need worry about the Duke. He is not here for me.”
Dawnford’s smile thinned. “Everyone is here for you, Lady Lavinia. Some simply hide it better than others.”
A movement at the edge of her vision drew her attention back to Tristan, and he was breaking from the line of guests, making his way away from Lady Montfort, who hurried after him with the obsequiousness and predation reserved only for men of his rank.
Lavinia watched as Montfort angled herself to intercept, her feathered turban nearly taking flight with enthusiasm.
God preserve us all.
“You know, you could do far worse than me, Lady Lavinia.” Dawnford drew closer. “Dukes are not as powerful as they appear, you know.”
She did not dignify his words with a reply, and moved closer to the unfolding drama.
“Oh, Your Grace! What an honor!” Lady Montfort’s voice soared above the music.
The effect on the crowd was immediate as all attention moved to Tristan. Lavinia watched as Lady Montfort sailed across the floor and captured Tristan’s arm with an authority that brooked no resistance.
“You must dance with my niece,” she announced, as if unveiling a rare painting or an unusually well-behaved dog. “Lady Frances, you recall His Grace, the Duke of Evermere.” They were now close enough for Lavinia to hear them without strain.
Lavinia rolled her eyes because her aunt was behaving as if her sister and the Duke were not acquainted with each other. “She is a great admirer of Greek verse and also,” her aunt continued, “I am told, the finest French scholar of her year.”
Frances, caught mid-bite of a candied violet, nearly choked. She curtsied, color rising, and offered, “Your Grace.” Her voice trembled as though she were in mortal peril.
“Lady Frances.” Tristan nodded. He was polite, as always, but Lavinia noted that he did not allow himself to be drawn in more than absolutely necessary.
His gaze, after the initial greeting, slid past Frances and locked onto Lavinia.
The look was brief, almost a reflex, but Lavinia felt it like the startle of lightning.
“Such refinement, Your Grace,” Lady Montfort went on, fanning herself with a movement that suggested she could, if needed, put out a house fire.
“I have always said Frances would make an excellent duchess, though perhaps a few years hence. But she is a quick study. Quick! She writes a letter in French every day, don’t you, Frances? ”
Frances nodded, shooting Lavinia a look that said please save me, or at least put me out of my misery.
Glancing at Dawnford, she found him in conversation with another gentleman, and Lavinia used that opportunity to escape. She moved closer to her sister and the Duke, while still observing them.
“I am delighted to hear it,” Tristan said, though his inflection indicated he would be equally delighted to hear of a crop failure in Kent. “The study of languages is greatly undervalued. But I am sure you excel at more than epistolary pursuits.”
Frances, lips parted, appeared unsure whether to confess or simply faint. Lady Montfort continued to steer the conversation as though piloting a barge down a narrow canal. “And Lady Sophia? I am told she is progressing wonderfully. Frances, did you not prepare a small watercolor for her?”
Frances turned a vibrant shade of tomato and produced a folded scrap from her reticule. She passed it to Tristan with her hands trembling. “I hope she will not mind. It is only a view of the lake.”
Tristan unfolded the sketch. “She will be delighted,” he said. “Thank you, Lady Frances. I will ensure she receives it.”
Lady Montfort gave a satisfied nod, the matter was handled to her satisfaction. She flicked her fan in Lavinia’s direction. “Lavinia, my dear, why are you lurking in the shadows? You look positively ghoulish.”
Lavinia advanced. “Your Grace,” she said, dipping into a curtsy.
“Lady Lavinia.” He did not move, but the intensity of his attention was such that it required no movement at all.
Lady Montfort clapped her hands together. “Splendid! Now, if you will excuse me, I must consult the musicians. I have heard rumors that they intend to play that dreadful Polonaise again, and I cannot allow it. Frances, you will be safe here with His Grace.”
Lavinia endured a silence that was, to her, a familiar and even comfortable thing. She could weather silences for hours, if needed. But Frances, cornered between a Duke and her sister, had no such fortitude.
“It is a lovely evening,” Frances blurted. “Do you like music, Your Grace?”
“It depends on the music,” Tristan replied.
“And the company, I suspect,” Lavinia said.
He turned his attention to her, the weight of it almost physical. “Exactly so.”
She felt a prick of heat at the base of her neck, but did not allow it to rise to her cheeks.
Frances, encouraged by the lack of overt hostility, tried again. “I think Lavinia plays the piano quite well, when she chooses to.”
“Not tonight,” Lavinia said. “Tonight, I am merely an observer.”
Tristan’s mouth curved into almost a smile. “That is a difficult position for you, I imagine.”
“Oh?” she said. “Why is that?”
“You seem to prefer action to observation,” he replied, “even if you pretend otherwise.”
Frances watched the exchange with increasing bemusement.
Lavinia’s retort was ready when a sudden, unwelcome presence materialized at her left shoulder.
“Lady Lavinia,” Lord Dawnford said. “What a delight to find you again. I was just telling Lady Featherstone that you are the only woman in London who can make an insult sound like a compliment.”
“I am flattered by your attention, my lord,” Lavinia replied, drawing away only slightly. “Though I cannot imagine you wish to be associated with insults.”
“On the contrary, I thrive on them,” he said, placing his hand on her elbow in a gesture that might have passed for gallant if he had not used it to turn her bodily away from the Duke and Frances.
Lavinia sidestepped, forcing Dawnford to either release her or create a scene. He released her, though his eyes glinted with calculation. “Are you enjoying the evening?”
“Immensely,” she replied, keeping her fan deployed between them as a shield. “The conversation is especially stimulating.”
He grinned. “You are merciless.”
“I am practical,” Lavinia said, voice even.
“Practicality is so dull,” Dawnford replied. “I hope you will indulge me in another dance later.”
She drew herself up, deploying her full arsenal of cold civility. “I fear my dance card is full, Lord Dawnford. Perhaps you should ask other ladies.”
The air crackled, and Dawnford laughed, but there was a dark edge to it. “You are unattainable, Lady Lavinia.”
“I do try.”
He inclined his head, retreating a step. “Then I will leave you to your company, though I shall not be discouraged.”
She watched him vanish into the crowd, not missing the way he paused to glare at the Duke before resuming his predatory tour of the ballroom. She returned her attention to Frances and Tristan, but not before catching the barely perceptible clench of the Duke’s jaw.
So you do care, she thought. The knowledge was both gratifying and faintly dangerous.
Frances whispered, “I do not like Lord Dawnford.”
“I cannot imagine anyone does,” Lavinia replied, then realized she had spoken aloud. Frances giggled and nearly dropped her reticule.
The musicians struck up a quadrille, and couples began to form sets. Frances was immediately conscripted by an overeager gentleman, leaving Lavinia and Tristan side by side. For a moment, neither spoke.
Then he said, “He is not your equal.”
She did not bother to feign ignorance. “Which ‘he’ do you mean, Your Grace?”
“Dawnford. He is beneath you. And I would not see you harmed by his attentions.”
She met his gaze, which was, for once, devoid of irony. “I am well-armed, as you have probably noticed.”
“I have noticed,” he said. “But even the best armaments sometimes require support.”
She was startled by the admission. “Is that your way of offering to duel Lord Dawnford on my behalf?”
He allowed himself a rare, genuine smile. “It is my way of offering to escort you from his vicinity at a moment’s notice.”
She pretended to consider. “Would it require violence?”
“Only if necessary.”
Lavinia could not help it, she laughed, startling both herself and Tristan. For a moment, the years and titles and expectations fell away, and she was simply Lavinia, alive and, for the first time in memory, unburdened by anything but the lightness of the moment.
The quadrille ended, the room erupting in applause and new pairings.
Tristan extended his arm. “Will you walk with me?”
She accepted immediately, her hand resting on the crook of his arm as if it belonged there. They strolled the edge of the ballroom, out of direct sight of Lady Montfort, who was still terrorizing the musicians.
“I did not expect to see you tonight,” Lavinia said, keeping her voice low.
“Nor did I expect to come,” Tristan replied. “But I find myself… interested.”
She considered this. “Interested in preventing a scandal?”
Tristan did not flinch. “Interested in you. Though preventing a scandal is a noble cause.”
She studied his profile, the lines of his face rendered more vulnerable in the uncertain light. “You do not owe me anything, Your Grace. I am only your daughter’s tutor.”
He stopped walking and turned to face her. “You are more than that. You are—” He seemed to catch himself, then finished, “—a remarkable woman.”
Her heart skidded. “That is very kind,” she managed.
“It is not kind,” he said. “It is accurate.”
Lavinia, accustomed to parrying words, found herself suddenly without defense. They paused at the edge of the dance floor. “I came to this ball to rescue you from Dawnford, but I am pleased to see you armed yourself well against him.”
“You came for me.”
His mouth curved into a grin that was almost devilish. “Do not feel flattered, Lady Lavinia.”
“Oh, you are no gallant prince, Your Grace,” she threw back. “There is no flattery to be felt from your attention.”
He laughed, then stopped. “I shall see you soon.” Tristan’s touch lingered on her arm before he released her.
She watched him depart and pressed her hand to her bodice, feeling her heart hammer against the silk and whalebone. The room seemed to tilt around her, and for the first time, she wondered if Frances had been right.
She was not as she once was.
Lavinia was in love.