He turned slowly, suspicion evident in every line of his face.
Lavinia met his stare with what she hoped was steadiness. "Lady Sophia has shown more initiative and enthusiasm this morning than I have seen since arriving. She responded to the exercise with genuine interest, and I have reason to believe?—"
"My daughter's education is not subject to your whims, Lady Lavinia," he interrupted. "You are here to instruct her in the proper forms, not encourage rebellion."
"Is learning to sketch the proper forms rebellion, Your Grace?" She kept her voice cool, her chin lifted. "Or is it simply a different approach?"
His jaw flexed, but he said nothing.
Sophia's voice, when it came, was barely more than a whisper. "Father?"
Tristan turned to her, his features shifting at the sound of her voice.
"May I stay a little longer? Lady Lavinia said we could finish only if you permitted it. We were only discussing the botanical names," she added, in a last-ditch effort to anchor the request in something sensible.
The duke's surprise was visible—he had not expected his daughter to speak up, much less make a request in front of an audience. For a long moment, he stood silent, indecision written plainly on his face.
At last, he said, "You may remain until the hour, Sophia. But henceforth, Lady Lavinia, you will seek my express permission before taking my daughter outside. And someone must accompany you at all times."
"Yes, Father." Sophia ducked her head in a nod.
Lavinia inclined her head in acquiescence, though she could not suppress a small, secret smile of victory.
The Duke looked at Lavinia then, and the air between them seemed to vibrate with a challenge. His eyes bore into hers, heated and unsettling.
"See that you remember," he said, and turned to leave.
Lavinia watched his retreating figure until he vanished behind the clipped hedges. She waited another moment before sitting again, her pulse still thrumming.
Sophia let out a breath she had plainly been holding. "You are not afraid of him," she said with the corner of her lips curving in wonder.
"Everyone is afraid of someone," Lavinia replied, glancing sideways. "But it is usually more interesting to pretend otherwise."
Sophia smiled a little.
Lavinia resumed her sketch, careful to keep her voice light when next she spoke. "Shall we finish our roses before he changes his mind?"
The girl bent to her page, and together they drew in silence, though thoughts of the Duke lingered in her mind. He was prosperous, and clearly intelligent enough that his prosperity was no mere inheritance. And he cared for his daughter; she had observed it in the way he stood like a sentry whenever Sophia was close to him.
What manner of tragedy could have turned him into such a strict, unfeeling man?
CHAPTER 9
"Promise me you won't glare at every eligible man who glances in my direction," Frances pleaded as she linked arms with Lavinia, tugging her down the sunlit gravel path of Green Park.
"I have never glared," Lavinia said, keeping her gaze straight ahead. "A lady does not glare. She conveys her sentiments through subtlety."
"Your subtleties could peel paint," Frances replied, cheerful as always. "You're doing it now."
It was true. Lavinia had caught sight of a familiar pair of boots pacing just behind them on the path, and every muscle in her shoulders tensed in anticipation of an encounter with one of the so-called 'gentlemen' who populated London.
The boots drew even with them at the next curve. Frances slowed as if by accident, forcing the gentleman to pass or fall in step. Of course, he fell in step.
He wore an impeccable cravat and a coat of bottle-green superfine that, while expertly tailored, was at least two years behind the fashion. His hair was combed into careful waves, and he managed the trick of bowing in motion. "Ladies," he said, drawing the word out like taffy. "A fine day, is it not?"
Frances offered a demure smile, but it was Lavinia who spoke. "Quite so sir.”
“Thomas Pettigrew,” he offered with a bow and a grin. “At your service.”
