Chapter 37
“Are those real Grecian columns, or has Evermere merely pillaged the Parthenon?” Lady Montfort craned her neck out the window of the coach, pressing her nose to the glass with the fortitude of a naturalist glimpsing an extinct specimen.
“Do you require the carriage to circle a third time?” Lavinia asked, her patience running low and her gloves wringing themselves into early retirement.
“I should like to see the portico in full daylight. The Duke’s taste has always been greatly complimented by the ton,” Lady Montfort said, ignoring the question entirely.
“How is it that for all your closeness with the Duke, you have never been to his estate, Aunt Petunia?” Lavinia asked.
“Well, he has been rather reclusive.”
Frances, seated between them, hummed with excitement and nerves. “I think it is splendid,” she whispered, eyes wide as they took in the marble steps, the impossible height of the entrance, and the intricate stonework that climbed the facade like ivy.
Lavinia counted the seconds until the footman opened the door. When it swung wide, Lady Montfort was halfway out before the man could even lower the step.
Once inside the entrance hall, the grandeur nearly knocked them backward. Frances’s breath caught audibly. “Oh! It’s like something from a book.”
Lady Montfort swept her gaze over the columns, the inlaid marble, the rows of statuary. “It is exceedingly well-executed for a pastiche,” she murmured, but her posture had acquired two additional inches of height.
A figure approached from the far end of the hall. Lavinia braced herself, but it was not the Duke, nor a butler, but Sophia, dressed in a dress of pale blue and bobbing with barely controlled excitement.
“Lady Lavinia! You’re here!” Sophia darted forward, then paused, hands clasped and twisting the skirt of her dress.
“Lady Sophia,” Lavinia said, bending slightly so their eyes met. “This is my sister, Lady Frances.”
Frances curtsied, caught between nerves and awe. “It is very nice to see you again, Lady Sophia.”
Sophia beamed. “Likewise.” She turned to Lavinia. “I made another ribbon for Whisper.” She held out a pale blue ribbon, the same shade as her dress. “Is it all right?”
Lavinia laughed. “Oh, I am sure he will adore it!”
“Will you show me where he is?” Frances asked.
Sophia nodded with such enthusiasm her curls nearly sprang loose. “He’s in the green drawing room. We tried to keep him upstairs, but he likes to explore.”
Lady Montfort cleared her throat, drawing all attention back to herself. “I should like to see the room as well. It is important to survey the environs into which one’s charges are admitted.”
Sophia looked slightly cowed, but Frances took her arm at once. “Would you show me the way?” They disappeared down the hall.
Lavinia waited for Lady Montfort to comment and was not disappointed.
“I suppose the child is as shy as reported,” Lady Montfort said, shaking her head.
“But at least she has some sense of manners. Unlike certain other residents of Evermere, who keep their guests waiting in the vestibule like so many parcels.” She said it loud enough to be heard through the stonework.
On cue, a shadow crossed the threshold, and there he was, dressed as always in flawless black, though the line of his mouth was softer than she remembered.
“Lady Lavinia,” he said, bowing.
Lady Montfort’s eyes widened. “A duke does not bow!”
Tristan grinned as he straightened. “This one does before his beloved.”
Lavinia’s breath caught, and she forced herself to meet his gaze. “Thank you for inviting us.”
“Of course,” he replied, and the barest hint of a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. Taking her hand, he bent over it and brushed his lips against her gloved knuckles. Never in her wildest dreams had she thought him capable of the subtlest, yet most intense romance.
They were interrupted by a shriek from the drawing room. Lavinia tensed, but then a giggle followed, and Frances’s voice came, “He is trying to wear it as a sash!”
Sophia’s voice came next, brighter and louder than Lavinia had ever heard it, “He can be the Prince of Evermere! Do you think he would like a crown?”
Tristan’s jaw relaxed. “They appear to have found common cause.”
Lady Montfort sniffed, but the look she shot Lavinia was full of something like approval. “Your daughter is very clever. She could teach Frances a thing or two about confidence.”
Lavinia did not miss the way the Duke’s eyes tracked her every movement. She felt, quite suddenly, the absurdity of the whole situation: her, standing in this palace, as if she belonged to it.
They made their way to the drawing room, where Whisper was in the midst of a performance, twining between Frances’s feet while Sophia narrated his every movement with the earnestness of a royal biographer.
“He likes you,” Sophia said. “He never lets anyone touch his tail, but you did, and he didn’t even try to bite.”
Frances laughed. “He’s never met a true friend before. I think he is in love.”
Sophia’s cheeks pinked at that, and she glanced at Lavinia, as if asking permission to enjoy herself. Lavinia nodded, and for the first time in a year, she felt something soft and hopeful unfurl inside her.
Lady Montfort surveyed the room with her eyes narrowed. “It is quite well-appointed, for so modern a house. I have always preferred the Old Masters myself, but I suppose the Duke must indulge his taste for novelty.”
Tristan, standing beside Lavinia, offered, “I do not care for portraits of ancestors. I have little in common with men who wore wigs.”
“Nor do I,” Lady Montfort replied, and they exchanged a glance of mutual disdain for the entire previous century.
Lavinia bit back a laugh. It was all so perfectly, almost comically, civilized.
The butler announced that dinner was ready. Sophia and Frances led the way, arms linked and still chattering about the cat’s coronation.
Lady Montfort hung back, and Lavinia caught a hint of real feeling in her face as she watched Frances disappear down the hallway. It was gone in a second, replaced with the usual mask.
As Lavinia moved to follow, Tristan paused her with a touch at her elbow, just a brush of his fingers, but it startled her more than it should.
“Lady Lavinia,” he said, voice pitched for her alone, “thank you for coming.”
She looked up at him, surprised at how much it meant. “It was not a hardship.”
He shook his head, as if refusing to be serious. “You make it easy to forget oneself, sometimes.”
She smiled, and for the first time, he smiled back, openly and unreservedly. The effect was devastating.
They entered the dining room together, Lady Montfort just ahead, already composing a critique of the table settings. As they sat, Lavinia felt the Duke’s gaze on her. It was not a demand, nor a test. It was simply there, waiting for her to acknowledge it.
She did, and in that moment, she realized she was no longer waiting for disaster.
It had already passed. What came next was something else entirely.
Frances surveyed the place setting with a kind of reverence. “I have never seen so many forks,” she said, voice lowered as if she might be overheard by the cutlery itself.
Sophia, seated beside her, whispered back, “Father says it is a test to see who can use the right one.”
“It is a very cruel test,” Frances replied, earning a conspiratorial giggle from Sophia.
Lady Montfort, at Lavinia’s right, took in the spectacle with a critical eye.
She set her napkin in her lap with the deliberation of a surgeon prepping for a complicated procedure.
“The china is Derby,” she observed, “though the stemware is continental. I prefer English glass, but I suppose one must indulge the latest fashion.”
Tristan, at the far end, met her statement with a slight incline of his head. “I shall instruct the housekeeper to burn the French and order more suitable replacements.”
Lady Montfort almost smiled. “Not necessary. It is merely an observation.”
Lavinia tried not to gawk, but it was difficult. Each course arrived with mechanical precision, borne in by an army of footmen who managed to look both invisible and omniscient. The food was perfect, the wine almost too good for conversation.
But it was Frances who made the dinner sparkle.
She listened to Sophia’s every word, responded to her stories about Whisper’s escapades as if they were the stuff of epic poetry, and even got Lady Montfort to reminisce about a childhood pet—a cat who, apparently, had once bested the Earl of Montfort in a staring contest.
Sophia, emboldened by Frances’s kindness, began telling stories that grew more outrageous with each retelling. “Whisper once ate a whole roast quail,” she said. “Cook was so angry, she made Father eat herring pie for a month.”
“That is not true,” Tristan said. “It was only a week, and the herring was for my own health. Or so I was led to believe.”
Frances clapped her hands. “He is a very clever cat. He should be in Parliament.”
“He might improve it,” Lady Montfort remarked, her tone almost indulgent.
Between courses, Lavinia caught herself watching Tristan. He was different tonight. Less armor, more man. He let Sophia dominate the conversation, let Frances charm the entire table, and even allowed Lady Montfort’s barbed critiques to pass unchallenged.
When he spoke, it was usually to amplify Sophia’s jokes or to turn Frances’s wry observations back at her.
“You must forgive Evermere’s lack of subtlety,” he said once, when Frances admired the ceiling’s frescoes.
“My father believed that if a guest was not in awe, they would not respect the host. I suspect you are not so easily impressed.”
Frances tilted her head. “I am impressed, but I do not think fear is necessary. Respect comes from kindness, or at least, that’s what Lavinia says.”
Sophia nodded, eyes huge. “That’s what Lady Lavinia tells me, too.”