Chapter 3
“I heard your news in town today at the milliner,” Rosamund said, standing behind Lavinia and carefully twisting her long golden hair into coils atop her head.
“Apparently, Papa’s more subtle approach to announcing your marriage has spread like wildfire.
Do you know, he just whispered about your engagement to Mrs. Whitcomb at the tea shop and asked her to keep it to herself. The rumor mill did the rest.”
Lavinia bit her lip, watching her sister in the mirror. “What did people say?”
Rosamund smiled and shrugged. “That you had done well for yourself, of course. They spoke highly of the Bamford name, in connection with that of Harrowmere. What else would they say?”
Lavinia gave a little sigh. “Perhaps that it is an unruly choice for one of the duke’s standing to settle for a woman so oft discussed by the ton in a negative light? That he ought to be more careful of the alliances he forms?”
“The duke will be lucky to have you, Lavinia,” Rosamund said, wrapping one of Lavinia’s curls around her finger and pulling it gently down to join the others framing her face.
“You must say that because you are my sister,” Lavinia said, reaching up to gently pat Rosamund’s hand. “But the ton need not agree.”
“Word is, the duke spends much of his time in the country,” Rosamund said, after a long pause. “He only comes to London on official business.”
It took Lavinia a long moment to understand her sister’s motive with this statement. “Ah,” she said at last. “You think he may not know my reputation.”
“Is that such a bad thing?” Rosamund said quickly. “Your reputation is not, after all, you. Now you will have a chance to get to know one another without outside opinion. It is easier, I believe, to build true affection without gossips looking over your shoulder.”
Lavinia forced a smile and fell silent. She did not have the heart, or the desire, to tell her sister the truth—that she did not anticipate getting to know this man at all or building true affection.
When she had at last relented and allowed her father to arrange the marriage without further protest, it had been because of the slim little sister now standing behind her—not because she thought it would in any way secure her own happiness.
Ever since girlhood, she had been in some way responsible for her sister’s care; when her father had leveraged that core of her being—Rosamund—against her, it had not taken long to do what she knew she must.
She could not let her own wild behavior condemn her sister to the sharp tongues of others. If she ruined her own prospects, she would lose no sleep at night. But if she ruined Rosamund’s, she could never forgive herself.
“I confess,” Rosamund said, weaving a thin gold cord in amongst Lavinia’s hair, “that I am still somewhat startled when I think of you marrying. I am pleased, of course, but only a few weeks ago, you were declaring the impossibility of the entire situation, and how you would never settle for losing your freedom—”
“People change with time,” Lavinia interjected, suddenly unable to breathe. She reached back and took the edges of the cord gently from her sister, tying it at the nape of her neck to finish the task before standing quickly and walking to the window. She needed air. Desperately.
She leaned out of the casement and looked down at the road below.
It was a busy London street, with a boardwalk that wound neatly along the park on the other side of the road, and a paved walkway near their house lined with other fine houses and the occasional shop.
She took a shaky breath of the misty air and then pulled her head back inside.
Rosamund was looking at her with a crease of worry on her forehead.
“Are you quite well, sister?”
“Of course,” Lavinia said, giving another small smile.
“I am always well. I am your older sister, after all. You need not worry about me.” She walked over to stand in front of the mirror, feeling somewhat calmer, though no less trapped.
“You have done well this morning—better than the maid would have done.”
Rosamund had pressed her to wear a deep blue gown to match her eyes. It was, as many of Lavinia’s styles were, simply cut but elegant. There was a high boat neck that met long sleeves, an empire waist trimmed with gold thread, and a long train that ended in a wide ribbon of gold embroidery.
The little gold in her hair seemed almost an extension of her own blond curls, but there was enough distinction to glint against the elements of the dress and the golden pendant around her neck.
“I think the duke will like it, do you not?” Rosamund mused, smiling over her sister’s shoulder.
It was enough to cause Lavinia’s smile to falter. For there it was, what they had spoken circles around all morning without directly acknowledging: today was the day Lavinia would meet her betrothed officially. He was to come to Hartwell House for his first formal visit.
He had written her father to say he was in town on business, and that he could make space in his schedule for a meeting with the woman he planned to marry.
She had still heard nothing from him personally, and when she asked her father if she ought to write, he had assured her that was unnecessary and might even be considered an imposition or inappropriate.
She smoothed her skirts, hearing a clattering and commotion in the street outside.
Rosamund ran to the window and looked down.
“He must have just walked inside!” she cried with delight.
“I see his carriage, and the top of a hat just entered the house beneath me. Please remember everything that happens, Lavinia. Tell me everything. I still cannot believe that Papa will not permit me to be in the parlor when you meet.”
Lavinia could believe it. No doubt her father wished to avoid any awkward misunderstanding where the Duke of Harrowmere realized he had the pick of two very different sisters and, like most of London, reconsidered his choice of the elder.
She hugged Rosamund, squeezed her hands one last time, and walked quietly into the hall outside and down the long winding staircase to the main hall.
She could already hear voices in the parlor—her father’s and that of another man, and, her heart shuttering in her chest with nerves, she walked with leaden feet to the door.
The butler caught her moments before she entered and said in a low voice, “The earl asked that I introduce you formally.”
Lavinia blushed. “Is that necessary?”
The butler did not answer, but his look was enough.
It was always necessary to do what the master of the house decreed.
He stepped into the room first, bowed crisply, and announced in a loud voice that made Lavinia want to crawl into the floor and disappear, “Lady Lavinia Hartwell, at your service.”
Lavinia looked toward the door far behind her. If she ran now, she could fling open that door and run into the street beyond, then to the park, and across the park as fast as she could flee until high society faded forever behind her.
It was a tempting prospect. But always there was Rosamund, and nothing more tantalizing than doing what was necessary to secure her future. Lavinia took a deep breath and stepped into the room.
Her father and the Duke of Harrowmere were standing across the room from each other; the duke’s back had been to the door, but as she entered, he turned to face her. He was tall and had dark hair curling nearly to his shoulders.
He was of middle age with a surprisingly handsome face, wide shoulders, and dark, searching eyes.
In fact, if not for one fact, Lavinia would have been pleasantly impressed by his fine looks and regal bearing.
But the one fact was overwhelming, and she saw it reflected in the duke’s own astonished gaze.
“I know you,” he said, without hesitation. He took a small step forward. “We have met.”
Lavinia took a small, shaky breath. And so it was that even after all the effort Rosamund had put into her appearance, making her look like a fine, decorous lady, it was all for naught.
This gentleman recognized in a single moment the half-drowned girl he had dragged out of the lake a few weeks before.
For that was who stood before her now. Her rescuer, who had briefly berated her in front of a crowd of people before taking his abrupt leave.
“You have met?” Lord Bamford said, smiling broadly. He still had not grasped the gravity of the situation. “How fortuitous. And all this time, I was thinking I would need to help you get acquainted.”
“We are not acquainted,” the duke said sharply and quickly. He seemed eager to distance himself from Lavinia even as he stood in the room beside her. “We have only met in passing.”
Lavinia looked at him for a long moment, gathering her courage. She would rather the truth came from her, not this imperious man with his judgmental gaze.
“Papa,” she said quietly, crossing the room to the two men and stopping a few steps away. “His grace is the gentleman who pulled me out of the Long Water lake a few weeks ago.”
Lord Bamford’s wide smile faltered. “Why … you did not tell me.”
“I did not know until this very moment,” Lavinia said, turning her eyes to the imperious duke. “He did not stay to introduce himself properly after the event.”
A wry look flashed in the duke’s dark eyes, but he did not smile. “Is that censure I hear in your voice, Lady Lavinia? If so, please accept my sincerest apologies for any misstep—I am never sure of the social etiquette when I pull young ladies from their imminent demise.”
So imperious. She chose the high ground, forcing a smile. “I tried to thank you at the time, but was not, admittedly, at my best. Allow me to offer again my most sincere gratitude for the part you played in pulling me from the lake. It was a regrettable circumstance.”
“Precipitated by what, exactly?” He arched an eyebrow.
“I … I beg your pardon?”