Chapter 3
“Here we are,” Tristan Lilacourt muttered as the carriage stopped in front of Madame Beaumont’s modiste shop.
He alighted first and clenched his jaw before helping his daughter, Sophia, from the carriage and escorting her inside.
The bell above the door announced their arrival with a cheerful tinkle that opposed his mood. Shopping for dresses ranked somewhere between attending poetry readings and enduring the House of Lords' most tedious debates on his list of preferred activities.
But Sophia needed her portrait dress, and since his daughter's last governess had departed in tears after only three weeks of employment, the duty fell to him.
He surveyed the fashionable establishment with its tall windows and displays of silks and satins, mentally calculating how quickly they might complete this necessary errand.
"Your Grace," a young woman in a neat gray dress curtseyed deeply before them, her voice pitched to the precise tone of deference required when addressing a duke. "We're honored by your patronage. Lady Sophia's appointment is noted in our ledger."
Sophia stood silently beside him, her small hand resting lightly on his arm. At twelve, she already possessed the quiet dignity that reminded him painfully of her mother—along with the same inability to truly connect with him. The thought tightened something in his chest.
"The private fitting salon, if you please," Tristan said, his words clipped and efficient.
The assistant's smile faltered. "I do apologize, Your Grace, but Lady Harrington and her daughters currently occupy our private salon. They arrived earlier than expected and—"
"Then we shall return another day." Tristan turned to leave, more soothed than otherwise at the reprieve.
"Father," Sophia's soft voice stopped him. "The portrait sitting is tomorrow."
The assistant rushed to salvage the situation. "Our public salon is nearly empty, Your Grace—just one other party present. It's quite spacious, with separate fitting areas. Lady Sophia would have all the attention she requires."
Tristan paused, weighing his desire to escape against his daughter's needs. Sophia looked up at him with those solemn blue eyes and his resistance crumbled.
"Very well," he conceded with a curt nod.
The assistant's relieved smile returned as she gestured toward an archway draped with blue velvet. "This way, please."
As they entered the salon, Tristan's gaze immediately landed on two figures in the far corner.
Lady Lavinia Pembroke stood with her back partially turned, her posture impeccable as always, while a younger girl—presumably her sister, Lady Frances—examined a bolt of pale-yellow muslin.
Even from across the room, he recognized the elegant slope of Lady Lavinia's neck, the dark brown hair neatly arranged beneath a modest bonnet.
His fingers tightened imperceptibly around the handle of his walking stick. Of all the modistes in London, they had to select this one.
Lady Lavinia turned slightly, perhaps sensing his regard, and he watched the exact moment she registered his presence. Her spine, already straight, seemed to stiffen further, and she deliberately angled her body to shield her sister from view. The message was clear: Stay away.
"Lady Sophia, if you would step onto the platform," the assistant directed, guiding his daughter to a raised area surrounded by mirrors. "Madame Beaumont selected several silks based on your coloring. We'll begin with the draping to determine which best suits you for your portrait."
Tristan positioned himself at a respectful distance, his attention divided between his daughter and the Pembroke sisters. Sophia stood patiently as another assistant appeared with an armful of sumptuous fabrics in varying shades of blue and cream.
His eyes, however, continued to drift toward Lady Lavinia.
She moved with quiet authority as she guided her sister through the selection process, her voice carrying just enough to reach his ears.
"No, Frances, not like that. Hold it this way," she demonstrated, taking the fabric and rubbing it between her thumb and forefinger. "See how it feels? Too stiff for a summer dress. You want something with more movement."
Lady Frances nodded earnestly, mimicking her sister's movements. "Like this?"
"Precisely." Lady Lavinia's approval softened her features momentarily. "Now look at the weave—hold it up to the light. Do you see any irregularities?"
Tristan watched, increasingly intrigued, as she conducted an impromptu lesson in fabric selection.
Lady Lavinia guided her sister with the same confidence and clarity he'd witnessed during their interview, but with a warmth he hadn't seen before.
She was thorough, patient, and remarkably knowledgeable.
"A lady must appear confident in her selections, even when examining secondhand goods," Lady Lavinia instructed, her voice lowered but still audible to his sharp ears. "The shop assistants will take their cue from your demeanor. Never let them see uncertainty."
Her words carried the weight of hard-won experience, and Tristan found himself comparing her practical instruction to the fluttering, theoretical approaches of Sophia's previous governesses. None had lasted more than a few months, finding his daughter too self-contained and himself too demanding.
"Your Grace?" The assistant's voice pulled his attention back to his daughter. "Which do you prefer with Lady Sophia's complexion—the celestial blue or the pearl?"
He glanced between the two silks draped across Sophia's shoulders. "The blue," he decided, though fabric selection was as foreign to him as millinery or watercolors.
His daughter's eyes briefly met his in the mirror, a question in them he couldn't quite decipher. The shop assistant beamed. "An excellent choice, Your Grace. The celestial blue brings out Lady Sophia's eyes wonderfully."
While they began discussing sleeve styles, Tristan's attention drifted back to the Pembroke sisters. They had moved to a table displaying less expensive fabrics, clearly searching for something specific within a limited budget.
A strange impulse seized him. Before he could question it, he found himself crossing the salon toward them.
"Lady Lavinia," he addressed her formally, noting how she froze before turning to face him. "I couldn't help but notice how well-behaved your sister is."
She curtseyed, the depth appropriate for a duke but not an inch deeper. "Your Grace. What an unexpected pleasure." Her blue eyes were cool, but her chin lifted with that subtle defiance he had noted during their interview. Up close, he could see she looked a touch too pale, a shade too thin.
"Lady Frances," he acknowledged the younger sister with a nod, watching her nervous curtsey. "You appear to be receiving an excellent education in fabric selection."
"Thank you, Your Grace," Lady Frances replied.
Lady Lavinia moved subtly, placing herself more firmly between him and her sister. "We are merely conducting ordinary business, Your Grace. I'm certain your daughter's fitting is far more consequential."
"On the contrary, I found your lesson most illuminating." He met her gaze directly. "You have a natural talent for instruction—clear, practical, and thorough. The qualities I seek for my daughter's education."
Her eyes narrowed slightly. "How fortunate that my pristine reputation, save for being a spinster, might finally prove useful."
Lady Frances made a small, mortified sound beside her.
Tristan's mouth twitched. "How fortunate that your spinsterhood has afforded you time to perfect skills beyond merely existing with a title." he parroted back, mimicking her tone from their interview.
A flush of color touched her cheeks. "I see you possess an excellent memory, Your Grace. How surprising that it extends beyond the proper protocol for dismissing potential employees."
"I didn't dismiss you," he pointed out. "I merely required time to consider your candidacy."
"And have you reached a conclusion?" She folded her hands before her, the picture of composure despite the spark of challenge in her eyes.
"Indeed. I have decided to offer you the position." He watched her carefully, noting the flash of surprise she quickly masked. "The salary is two hundred pounds per annum, with an additional allowance for appropriate attire."
Lady Lavinia blinked, clearly taken aback by the generous terms. "I—"
"Lavinia," Lady Frances whispered, nudging her sister gently. "That's more than—"
"I'm aware," Lady Lavinia murmured, then addressed him directly. "Your offer is unexpectedly generous, Your Grace. However, I must consider my sister's situation carefully before accepting."
"Your sister may accompany you if you wish."
Lady Frances's eyes widened. "Oh, that would be lovely, wouldn't it, Lavinia?"
Lady Lavinia glanced between her sister's hopeful expression and Tristan's impassive one. "Your Grace, may I ask what prompted this change of heart? You seemed quite convinced of my unsuitability during our interview."
"I observed you just now," he replied honestly. "Your approach to instruction is what Sophia needs—practical knowledge delivered with clarity and patience. Not the simpering platitudes of a traditional governess."
She studied him, clearly searching for some hidden motive. "And you will permit me to shape Lady Sophia's education as I see fit?"
"Within reason," he qualified. "I will keep a close eye on her progress."
"In other words, you will be watching my every move, waiting for me to fail."
"I prefer to think of it as maintaining an appropriate interest in my daughter's development."
Lady Lavinia glanced at her sister, who gave an encouraging nod. She drew a deep breath. "Very well," she finally agreed, her voice clipped. "I shall arrive tomorrow morning."
"Excellent." He inclined his head slightly. "Nine o'clock would be suitable."
"Nine it shall be." Her posture remained rigid, as though she'd just agreed to a duel rather than employment.
"Father?" Sophia's voice came from across the salon. "They need your approval for the final design."
"If you'll excuse me," he said, offering a slight bow to the sisters.
As he turned to rejoin his daughter, something caught his eye—a bolt of violet silk lying on a nearby table. The color was rich and deep, shimmering in the afternoon light that streamed through the shop's tall windows.
He paused, his expression shifting subtly as he reached out to touch the edge of the material.
The color reminded him instantly of the amethyst pendant he found months ago at the masquerade ball, and unbidden, the mysterious woman's voice echoed in his mind: "You see me now, but you won't tomorrow. "
He remembered how soft and plump her lips had been and how he wanted to kiss them as they danced. Swallowing and clenching his jaw, Tristan withdrew his hand and turned away, reminding himself that his focus must remain solely on his daughter.
Not a woman he would never see again.