Chapter 35
“Ah!” Dawnford turned when they entered the drawing room with a smile wide enough to swallow a lesser woman whole. “Lady Lavinia, I declare myself the luckiest of men to see you today.”
“Lucky indeed,” Lady Montfort said from her place on the settee, her fan snapped open and oscillating with the tempo of a fencing master.
Lavinia made a curtsy so shallow it was an insult. “My Lord.”
Dawnford crossed to her and seized her hand, bending low enough to brush his lips against the air just above her glove. “I could not wait another day without seeing my bride, even if only to assure myself that her beauty had not been a figment of my longing.”
Lady Montfort cut in. “Isn’t it extraordinary, Lavinia? Lord Dawnford has acquired a special license! A true coup. You must understand, very few are able to secure such a thing, not even peers.”
Lavinia summoned all her discipline not to look at Frances, whom she could sense vibrating with suppressed laughter—or were they sobs? —at the far end of the room. “Indeed. How…efficient.”
Dawnford’s smile curdled for a moment, but he recovered. “I am a man who knows what he wants and will not be denied, my Lady.”
“And what you want is… me,” Lavinia said, as if reciting the lead in a riddle.
“And your hand. And your smile. And, if I may say so, the pleasure of your conversation.” He released her hand, but his gaze lingered in a way that suggested he had not released anything at all.
“Would you grant me the honor of a stroll in your gardens? I have much to say, and I cannot bear the thought of parting without at least a few words alone.”
Lady Montfort made a pleased little tsk. “How romantic. Lavinia, be a darling and show your fiancé the rose arbor. I will keep Frances company. There are matters of her own future to discuss, after all.”
Frances, who had never in her life been able to keep her face blank, gave Lavinia a look that could only be interpreted as Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.
Lavinia replied in kind: I intend to do several things you would never dare. Then, with a curtsy, she let Dawnford lead her out of the room, his hand unctuously light on her arm.
They crossed the hall in silence, his steps perfectly matching hers, but always with just enough pressure at her elbow to remind her of the balance of power. The door closed behind them with a sound like a tomb sealing.
The air in the gardens was cold, still, and sharper than any inside the house. It made Lavinia feel braced, alive, if also aware that she was walking into an abattoir with a man who fancied himself both butcher and connoisseur.
Dawnford kept just half a pace ahead, then dropped back, then surged forward as if trying out different strategies for walking with a woman. At last he settled for steering her bodily toward the rose arbor with a grip at her elbow that suggested he would not mind if she bruised.
The only reason Lavinia was out here with him was to determine whether or not he was their benefactor.
When they reached the first break in the hedges, he stopped, pivoted, and trapped her with a look. “I confess,” he began, “I expected more resistance. I am not ungrateful, mind you, but it is a rare woman who submits to the hand of fate so gracefully.”
“I have found,” Lavinia replied, “that fate often takes the form of a man in a cravat. Why not surrender to the inevitable?”
He laughed, but the sound was a bit too loud, as if he were reading from a cue card marked ‘Mirthful.’ “You are very droll, My Lady. I shall be in want of your wit to brighten the future.”
They resumed walking, though it would be more accurate to say she was led. Dawnford’s hand remained at her elbow.
“I intend you to be the envy of every woman in London. I am not one to stint on luxury. I have already ordered the jewels, and the dressmaker is under pain of death to have your trousseau ready by next Thursday.”
“You flatter me with your efficiency,” Lavinia said. “And your commitment to the use of capital punishment.”
He grinned at that, but it faded quickly. “It is nothing. My mother says I am impulsive, but I find that only the bold prosper. You are bold, too, are you not? That is what drew me to you, among other things.”
Lavinia was now fully aware of the fact that Dawnford only wished to marry to save his reputation and declining business, but she still wondered why he wanted her.
He allowed the moment to hang so that she would be forced to acknowledge the compliment. Lavinia did not. Instead, she stopped abruptly, forcing him to stop as well.
“My Lord,” she said, “there is a matter I wish to raise with you.”
Dawnford’s eyebrows lifted as if he were truly surprised she had thoughts of her own. “By all means.”
She drew in a slow breath, feeling her own pulse in her teeth. “You are aware of the Fairwick situation, I assume. The debts.”
He waved a hand, almost bored. “Of course. But it is of no consequence. Once we are married, all of it will be gone. You have my word.”
“But—” Lavinia tilted her head, searching his face for even a tremor of subterfuge. “You do not mind that I am, for all intents and purposes, a pauper?”
He stepped closer, and his eyes narrowed.
“I have never courted a woman for her money. I have plenty of my own. More than you can imagine, I dare say.” His grip on her arm tightened, and he leaned in, dropping his voice.
“What I want from you, My Lady, is not coin, but fire. A woman who will not wilt at the first sign of trouble. A woman who can hold her own against me, if she has to.”
She studied him, seeing for the first time the streak of mania just behind his charming exterior. “And if I were to say I did not wish to be held against you, My Lord?”
Lavinia was certain now that Dawnford was not the anonymous donor.
His mouth curved into a smile that was all teeth. “Then I would have to convince you, wouldn’t I?”
With that, he pulled her suddenly, bodily, to him, so that her ribs pressed to his chest. The force of it startled a breath from her, and before she could protest, his mouth was at her ear.
“You are exquisite,” he murmured. “I have dreamed of this. Of you. For months now.”
Lavinia managed to wedge a hand between them and brace it against his coat. “You are too kind, but I must remind you—”
“I know what you must remind me of,” he said, cutting her off.
“Your virtue, your dignity, your iron-clad sense of what is correct. But the truth is, Lavinia, that you do not want to be proper. Not really. I see it in you. The way you look at me. You want to be ruined. I am only offering you a way to do it without consequence.”
She laughed, though the sound was thin and unfamiliar. “Your self-regard is truly a marvel, My Lord. I congratulate your mother.”
His fingers dug into her arm. “You can insult me if you like. I enjoy it. But it will not change the fact that by tomorrow, you will be my wife. And I will have you, in every sense. So why not enjoy it?”
She felt the world tilt, the path beneath them suddenly unreliable. With all her strength, she twisted out of his grip, a maneuver made easier by the fact that his own forward momentum nearly pitched him into the frozen roses.
“I beg your pardon, Lord Dawnford, but I am not in the habit of being had. In any sense.”
His face went white, then red. “You think you are too good for me, is that it?” His voice was louder now, a raw edge showing through. “Because you spent a few weeks as the Duke of Evermere’s plaything?”
She drew herself up, ignoring the shaking of her hands. “I am not yours.”
He took a single step forward, closing the gap she had opened. “You think the world will reward you for standing alone, Lady Lavinia? You think that Duke will save you, or that anyone will?”
“I do not need to be saved,” she said, “only allowed to live as I wish.”
“Which is to do what, exactly? Languish in genteel poverty? Be the governess to some other man’s brats?”
She wanted to slap him, but instead she bared her teeth in a smile. “At least I would not have to endure the company of men like you.”
That did it. Dawnford lunged, catching her by both wrists and dragging her flush against him. “I will show you that you are not to be trifled with. And I will show that bloody Duke, too. No one can have you but me, do you understand?”
She tried to twist free, but his grip was unyielding, his breath sour on her cheek. “Let me go,” she said, “or I shall scream.”
He laughed again, but it was high and frantic. “Go ahead. Who will come for you, Lavinia? Your precious sister? The servants? You will be too ruined for any man!”
Tristan was shown into the drawing room, but instead of finding Lavinia there, he saw Lady Montfort and Lady Frances. Both looked up at once, and Lady Montfort leapt to her feet with the force of a pistol.
“Your Grace!” she trilled, arms wide as if expecting him to embrace her on the spot. “What a fortuitous delight! Frances and I were just remarking upon the singular charms of the morning. Weren’t we, Frances?”
Frances, who had gone even paler than usual, managed a nod. “Yes, Aunt.”
Tristan advanced to the hearth and planted his boots on the rug as if anchoring himself to the planet. “Lady Montfort. Lady Frances.”
“Tea!” Lady Montfort nearly shrieked at the footman, who bolted. “You have come to see Frances, I assume. Such gallantry. She is a delicate soul, is she not? A girl of rare sensibility.”
Tristan, who had not come to see Frances at all, ignored the comment. “Where is Lady Lavinia?”
Lady Montfort blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“I wish to speak with Lady Lavinia. Alone.” He drew a breath, steadying the words as if they were horses apt to bolt.
“Oh!” The woman’s eyes darted between the sisters, then back to Tristan. “I… why, that is quite out of the ordinary. Lavinia is not accustomed to such attentions, Your Grace. She is likely in the garden, as she prefers fresh air to society.”
He turned to Frances, who sat on the edge of her chair as if ready to leap into the nearest coal scuttle. “Is she in the garden?”
Frances nodded. “Yes. Near the rose arbor.”
He strode for the door. Lady Montfort scrambled after him, feathers bobbing. “Lord Dawnford is with her!” she called, voice going up an octave.
Tristan did not reply, but picked up his pace. Frances’s warning chased him down the hall: “Be careful, Your Grace!”
He reached the garden doors and flung one open, nearly taking it off its hinges. The wind stung his cheeks, the smell of cold earth and dormant roses strong enough to bring back childhood memories of punishment and resolve.
He saw them at once, Dawnford and Lavinia, near the farthest trellis, their bodies locked in what, at first, he dearly hoped was not an embrace. Then Lavinia wrenched her arm back, and Dawnford’s hand snapped forward to seize her wrist.
Tristan’s pulse went arctic.
He crossed the distance in twelve strides, grabbed Dawnford by the shoulder, and twisted him away from Lavinia with a force that surprised even himself.
The Earl staggered, spun, then recovered with a balled fist aimed straight for Tristan’s jaw. It was a good punch, well-aimed and full of intention. Unfortunately, it was met by the much better punch Tristan returned, which connected with Dawnford’s left eye and sent him sprawling onto the ground.
Lady Montfort appeared at the edge of the terrace, wailing “Oh! Oh!” and clutching her turban as if her skull might explode. Frances was right behind her.
Dawnford wiped his mouth, and the hand came away bloody. He looked at the spatter with a kind of morbid interest, then at Tristan. “You brute!” he began, but Tristan was already hauling him upright by the lapel.
“If I see you touch her again,” Tristan said, “I will leave you with less than your dignity.”
Dawnford spit into the grass, blood and bile in equal measure. “She is mine. She said yes.”
Tristan’s voice was low and lethal. “She has changed her mind.”
Dawnford looked to Lavinia, but she did not spare him a glance. She was clutching her own arm, face white as the marble statues that watched from the hedge.
Lady Montfort rushed forward, flapping her fan at them. “What are you doing? You are gentlemen! This is a family garden, not a prize ring!”
Dawnford yanked himself free, straightened his coat, and glared at Lavinia. “You are ruined,” he hissed. “No one will have you now.”
“That is not your concern,” Lavinia said.
Dawnford staggered back a step, then turned on his heel and limped off toward the house, one hand to his swelling eye.
Lady Montfort collapsed against the balustrade and began to fan herself. Frances ran to Lavinia’s side, and Tristan, feeling the tremor in his own hands, turned to face her.
She was shaking. Not out of fear, but from the release of something tightly wound.
“Are you hurt?” he said.
She shook her head. “I am unhurt.”
Tristan took a step toward her, his eyes never leaving hers. “Marry me, Lavinia!”
He was not sure if he had said it out loud, but the look on Lavinia’s face told him he had.
Lady Montfort stopped wailing instantly. “What?”
Frances gave a little scream, muffled by her own hand. Tristan rook another step forward, his whole body singing with the necessity of the moment. “Lady Lavinia, I ask for your hand in marriage. Here. Now.”
Lavinia’s eyes widened, then filled, then shimmered with something he had only ever seen in his wildest, most idiotic hopes.
He waited.
She did not speak.