"I know so," Lady Lavinia assured her. "You have natural talent. With practice, you'll play beautifully."
Something painful twisted in Tristan's chest as he watched his daughter's face bloom with pleasure at this simple praise. How long had it been since anyone had spoken to her with such unguarded warmth? How long since Sophia had responded with anything but formal politeness?
He pushed the door open and stepped into the room. The effect was immediate. Sophia's smile vanished, her shoulders drawing up as she slid slightly away from Lady Lavinia on the bench. The light in her eyes dimmed, replaced by the watchful caution he had come to expect but now found inexplicably disappointing.
"Father," Sophia said, rising quickly to curtsey.
Lady Lavinia stood as well, executing a perfect curtsey of her own. "Your Grace."
"I trust your instruction is proceeding according to standard methods, Lady Lavinia?" Tristan asked, his voice clipped and formal despite the unfamiliar urge to speak more gently. He clasped his hands behind his back, standing with the rigid posture that had been drilled into him since boyhood.
"Indeed, Your Grace," she replied, meeting his gaze directly. "Lady Sophia has made remarkable progress today."
He noted the subtle disappointment that crossed her features as she glanced at Sophia, now sitting with downcast eyes and folded hands. It pricked at his conscience in a way he found irritating.
"Your daughter has natural talent, Your Grace," Lady Lavinia continued, her voice carrying the quiet conviction he had noticed during their first meeting. "Perhaps you might like to hear her play?"
Tristan's jaw tightened at what felt like presumption. Who was this woman to suggest how he should interact with his own child? "That will not be necessary," he said, giving the pianoforte a dismissive glance. "I merely wished to confirm that the lesson was progressing satisfactorily."
Something sparked in Lady Lavinia's eyes—not insubordination, exactly, but a steadiness that few people maintained in the face of his disapproval.
"Children flourish with praise, Your Grace, not merely correction," she said.
The statement landed like a direct challenge, though her demeanor remained impeccably proper. Tristan felt his posture grow even more rigid, his spine straightening as though he'd been struck. "I beg your pardon?"
"I only meant?—"
"I did not hire you to instruct me on matters of parenting, Lady Lavinia," he cut in, each word enunciated as his eyes narrowed. "Your responsibility is to teach my daughter proper deportment and social graces, not to offer unsolicited opinions on my conduct with her."
From the corner of his eye, he saw Sophia watching their exchange, her small face tight with anxiety. The sight should have reinforced his determination to put Lady Lavinia firmly in her place, but instead, it gave him pause. Was this how Sophiaalways looked when he entered a room—braced for conflict, for disapproval?
Lady Lavinia did not wither under his cold stare as others might have done. She stood her ground, her chin lifted at a proud angle, though her voice remained carefully modulated.
"Forgiveness, Your Grace, but as her tutor, I observe that Lady Sophia performs best when encouraged," she said. "She completed a piece perfectly today—her first successful performance of 'Spring Morning.' It was a significant achievement."
There was a gentleness about her that struck him with unexpected force. For a moment, Tristan found himself unable to respond, caught between admiration for her courage and anger at her presumption.
The silence stretched between them, taut and dangerous. Sophia's anxious gaze darted from one adult to the other, her breathing shallow and quick.
"Continue your practice, Sophia," Tristan finally said, his voice dropping to a dangerous quiet. "I expect a demonstration of your progress by week's end."
Without awaiting a response, he turned on his heel and strode from the room. Every muscle in his body urged him to flee, to put as much distance as possible between himself and the piercing truth in Lady Lavinia's gaze.
Tristan stalked down the hallway, anger radiating from him in palpable waves. How dare she question his methods? He had raised Sophia alone for twelve years, protecting her from the harsh realities of a world that had taken her mother before she could even remember her face. What could Lady Lavinia possibly know about the weight of such a responsibility?
I should dismiss her immediately, he thought, his hand clenching into a fist at his side.Before she undermines my authority completely.
Yet even as the thought formed, another image intruded—Sophia's face transformed by laughter, the sound of it echoing through the normally somber halls of Evermere. His daughter had seemed, for that brief moment he'd observed them unnoticed, like an ordinary, carefree girl. Not the solemn shadow who moved carefully through the house as though afraid to disturb the air.
And Lady Lavinia herself—the quiet dignity with which she'd faced him, neither cowering nor defiant, but simply certain. Her eyes had gazed at him not with the fear or obsequiousness he was accustomed to, but with understanding—as though she could read every doubt he'd ever harbored about his fitness as a father.
That was the most infuriating thing of all. She saw too much. Far too much.
Tristan turned into his study, closing the door with more force than necessary. He wanted nothing more than to push the entireexchange with Lady Lavinia out of his thoughts, to return to the comfortable detachment that had served him well for years.
But he couldn't. Those clear, beautiful, blue eyes of hers cut straight through him.
CHAPTER 8
