Frances’s eyes grew round. "Do you really not mind?"
"Not at all," Lavinia said, waving her forward.
As soon as Frances was out of earshot, Lavinia let herself lean against the cool stone of the trellis, breathing deeply. She allowed herself a moment of honesty.
You want what Frances wants, you hypocrite. You want a man who sees you, who chooses you, who does not care whether your dress is three years old or whether your hair refuses to stay curled.
Movement at the far end of the path caught her attention. She looked up, and there was the most unexpected visitor.
The Duke of Evermere.
CHAPTER 14
Tristan scanned the garden party until he saw her.
Lady Lavinia stood at the edge of the rose walk with her sister at her elbow. The sight of her with her chin up and mouth set with the barest pretense of a smile sent a pang through him that he was not prepared to acknowledge, even in the privacy of his own mind.
Don’t be an idiot.You are only in attendance because Moira asked you to come.
He set off and was halfway there when, out of nowhere, Lady Montfort materialized directly in his path. She wore a turban and a look of such high determination that it was impossible to evade her without resorting to violence.
“Your Grace!” she called, seizing his attention. “How very fortunate! I was just extolling the virtues of my nieces to LadyFeatherstone, who is, of course, a distant cousin of your own family.”
He gave a shallow incline of his head. “Lady Montfort. How... thoughtful of you.”
She ignored the faint mockery in his tone. “Lady Frances is at the right age for a match. Seventeen, but with the maturity of someone much older. And she is, of course, from the Fairwick line, which—if I may say so—has always complemented the Evermere blood rather handsomely. Do you not agree?”
She turned to draw him bodily toward Frances, who, upon seeing him, went pale and curtsied with such haste she nearly lost her footing. Next to her, Lavinia looked as though she would rather be at the bottom of a well.
Tristan allowed himself to be herded, but only so far. “Lady Frances,” he said, bowing formally. “A pleasure.”
She managed a demure, “Your Grace,” before retreating into the shadow of her sister.
Lady Montfort pressed on. “And Lady Lavinia, as you know, is a credit to our family—her poise, her intelligence, her unwavering devotion to duty. It is only a pity she will not consider another season, but I am sure you will agree, Your Grace, that when one’s responsibility is to the family?—”
Tristan cut her off, not rudely, but with the kind of finality that admitted no contradiction. “Actually, Lady Montfort, it was Lady Lavinia I wished to address.”
The effect was instantaneous. Montfort’s mouth snapped shut. Frances’s eyes grew so wide they threatened to eclipse her face. Lavinia herself looked stricken, but not displeased—merely unready to be singled out in such a fashion.
“May I claim you for a dance, Lady Lavinia?” he asked, extending his hand.
It was a calculated risk. The dance floor was visible to all, and the gossip would begin before they had even taken their places. But he preferred an honest battle to a siege.
Lavinia’s eyes narrowed, as if she suspected a trap, but then she placed her hand on his arm, her touch so light it might have been accidental.
“I would be honored, Your Grace,” she replied, voice even but colored by something he could not name.
Lady Montfort managed a strained smile. “How lovely. Frances, shall we go and admire the tulip beds?”
Frances looked like she would rather be set upon by wolves, but Montfort was not to be denied. They drifted away, Montfort’s turban bobbing with every step.
Tristan led Lavinia onto the terrace, where the musicians struck up a waltz of improbable sentimentality. Around them, the dancers arrayed themselves in patterns as old as the hills: the debutantes spinning with nervous energy, the married couples moving with either romance or mutual resentment, and the bold ones staking out the corners for private conversation.
He placed his hand at her waist, and they began to move.
She surprised him by matching his tempo perfectly, her posture flawless and her balance light as air. For a moment, he wondered if she had spent the last six months secretly training for this one dance.
“You hate parties,” she said, not as a question but as a fact.
