"Tea is ready in the drawing room," Frances said, linking her arm through Lavinia's. "Mrs. Down made scones, though we're running short on proper tea. She mixed it with some dried mint from the kitchen garden."
The economy pained Lavinia, but she nodded appreciatively. "How resourceful. It sounds delightful."
Frances guided Lavinia to a seat on the settee before taking her place at the tea tray. Her hands moved with grace as she poured the pale amber liquid into their remaining fine china cups—the last complete set after selling two others.
"And the Duke?" Frances asked, her eyes wide with anticipation as she handed Lavinia her cup. "Is he a good employer? They say he's terribly handsome, but cold as ice."
Lavinia's hand faltered as she accepted the teacup, the porcelain rattling slightly against the saucer. A drop spilled over the edge, and she quickly blotted it with her handkerchief. "He is..." She paused, searching for an appropriate description that wouldn't worry Frances. "Exacting."
"Exacting?" Frances repeated, settling into her chair with her own cup. "What does that mean, precisely?"
"It means," Lavinia said, taking a careful sip of the weakened tea, "that His Grace has very specific expectations and makes them abundantly clear."
"In what way?"
Lavinia's composure slipped further. "In every way imaginable. 'Lady Lavinia,'" she said, unconsciously straightening her spine and adopting a deep, aristocratic tone that made the Duke sound comically pompous, "'I expect detailed daily reports on Lady Sophia's progress. Not merely what she has learned, but how she has learned it. I shall require evidence of improvement in herconversational abilities within a fortnight. Nothing less will be satisfactory.'"
Frances stifled a giggle behind her hand. "Oh my! He sounds terribly severe."
"He is impossible," Lavinia continued, her frustration finally spilling over now that she was safely away from Evermere Hall. "He watches my every interaction with him as if I might steal the silver at any moment! He questions my methods while knowing nothing of education. He has the warmth of a marble statue and half the personality." She set her cup down with more force than intended, causing the liquid to slosh dangerously close to the rim. "And he has forbidden me—absolutely forbidden me—from even mentioning his late wife. As though the poor woman never existed at all!"
Frances's expression shifted from amusement to concern. "Lavinia..."
Catching herself, Lavinia drew a deep breath. "Forgive me. I shouldn't speak ill of His Grace. The journey home was taxing, and I fear it has affected my temperament."
"You needn't pretend with me," Frances said quietly. "If the position is unsuitable?—"
"No," Lavinia interrupted. "The position is secure. That is all that matters." She picked up her cup again, forcing her hand to remain steady. "The salary is more than generous, and the Duke is, whatever his faults, scrupulously fair in business matters."
But for how long?a small voice whispered in her mind.How long before he finds fault with your methods or your manners? Before he sends you away, as he has done with three governesses already?
"I worry about you," Frances confessed, leaning forward. "You work so hard, sacrifice so much?—"
"As any sister would do," Lavinia cut in gently. Her hand drifted unconsciously to her throat, fingers searching for the comfort of her mother's pendant before remembering, with a sharp pang, its absence. "The Duke's daughter needs guidance, and I need employment. It is a practical arrangement, nothing more."
Frances studied her for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Well, I think it sounds promising, despite His Grace's severity. Lady Sophia is fortunate to have you as her tutor."
"Let us hope His Grace comes to share that opinion," Lavinia murmured, picking up a scone to change the subject. "Now, tell me of your day. Did Mrs. Worthington's collar meet with her approval?"
They spent the remainder of tea discussing safer topics—Frances's progress with her embroidery, a letter received from their cousin in Bath, Mrs. Down's ongoing battle with the kitchen garden's persistent weeds. Lavinia felt herself unwinding gradually in the comfort of familiar conversation, though her mind continued to drift treacherously back to Evermere Hall and its formidable master.
After they finished, Lavinia excused herself, pleading the need to prepare for tomorrow's lessons. "I shall see you at dinner," she promised, kissing Frances's cheek before retreating upstairs.
In her bedchamber, Lavinia moved to the window, watching as evening shadows crept across the neglected gardens. Her reflection appeared in the glass—pale, composed, but with a tightness around the eyes that betrayed her inner turmoil. She began to pace, the worn carpet muffling her footsteps.
Why does he affect me so? she wondered,irritated by her own preoccupation with the Duke.He is merely an arrogant aristocrat, no different from a hundred others I've encountered at balls and soirées.
Except that wasn't entirely true. There was something about Tristan that set him apart. It was a quality she couldn't quite name, but that resonated within her like a struck bell. Perhaps it was the flash of raw emotion she'd glimpsed when he'd forbidden any mention of his wife, or the way his stern expression had softened almost imperceptibly when he'd spoken of Sophia's laughter.
"This is absurd," she muttered aloud, turning away from the window with a frustrated sigh.
Her gaze fell upon her modest wardrobe. She crossed the room and opened the doors, her fingers trailing over the fabric of her one good dress—a deep blue silk that had been fashionable three seasons ago and now showed signs of careful mending at the hem and sleeves. The rest of her dresses were equally worn,patched in places visible only to her knowing eye, altered to follow changing fashions as best as possible.
Two hundred pounds per annum, she calculated, mentally allocating the promised salary.Generous, yes, but hardly enough to repay our debts at once or provide Frances with the Season she deserves.
A decision made three nights ago resurfaced in her mind. She crossed to the small escritoire and sat, pulling out a fresh sheet of paper.
Lavinia dipped her pen into the inkwell and began to write with determined strokes.
