"That he's as cold as a January frost and twice as biting." Lavinia straightened her bonnet, wishing for the hundredth time thatshe hadn't been forced to sell her looking glass last month. "That he's buried himself at Evermere Hall since his wife's passing, emerging only to terrify the local gentry with his scowls."
Moira's laugh filled the carriage, warm and rich. "Oh, Tristan has always had that effect on people, even as a lad. His father was much the same—all stern countenance and penetrating stares. But underneath..." She paused, her gaze softening with memory. "Well, you shall form your own impressions soon enough."
The carriage rounded a bend in the drive, and Lavinia felt her breath catch in her throat. Evermere Hall rose before them, its grand Grecian columns and symmetrical wings imposing against the bright blue sky of early summer. Sunlight glinted off tall windows, making them shine like diamonds set in the pale stone facade. Perfectly manicured gardens stretched in all directions, with stone urns overflowing with summer blooms flanking the wide entrance steps.
"Magnificent, isn't it?" Moira said softly, following Lavinia's gaze. "Though when I first visited, it was much less grand. Tristan's father spent a fortune renovating after he married. Nearly bankrupted the estate, but Tristan's mother insisted the result was worth every penny."
"You knew his mother well?" Lavinia asked, grateful for any distraction from her mounting anxiety.
"Oh, yes. Catherine MacLeod was my dearest friend from the moment we met at school in Edinburgh. We were inseparableuntil she caught the eye of the future Duke of Evermere." Moira's eyes crinkled at the corners. "She was Scottish to her bones, our Catherine. Never let England smooth her rough edges, no matter how the ton tittered behind their fans. The current duke has more of his mother in him than he'd care to admit."
The carriage came to a halt before the wide stone steps, and a footman appeared instantly to lower the step and offer his hand. Lavinia accepted his assistance with a grace that not even reduced circumstances could erase from her bearing. Her stomach fluttered with nerves as she gazed up at the formidable entrance.
Deep breath, Lavinia. It's only a house, and he's only a man. You've survived worse than an interview with an arrogant duke.
Moira took Lavinia's arm as they climbed the steps, continuing her reminiscence. "I used to bounce young Tristan on my knee, you know. Such a solemn little fellow, even then. Watched everything with those deep blue eyes of his—just like his mother's. I remember telling Catherine he'd break hearts one day, and she just laughed and said she pitied the woman who finally captured his."
"And did someone capture it before his marriage?" Lavinia asked, curiosity momentarily overcoming her anxiety.
"That's not my story to tell," Moira replied with a small smile. "Though I will say his marriage to Lady Mary was not what one might call a love match."
They reached the top of the steps where a butler awaited them, his posture as rigid as the columns framing the entrance.
"Your Grace, Lady Lavinia." He bowed. "His Grace is expecting you. If you would follow me."
The entrance hall soared two stories high, with a grand staircase sweeping upward at the far end. The butler led them through a series of hallways, each more elegant than the last, finally pausing before a set of double doors of dark, polished wood.
"The Duchess of Neads and Lady Lavinia, Your Grace," he announced, pushing the doors open and stepping aside.
Lavinia stepped into the study, her posture perfect despite the hammering of her heart. It was a masculine room, lined with bookcases of leather-bound volumes and furnished with heavy pieces that spoke of tradition rather than fashion. A massive desk dominated one end, behind which stood the Duke of Evermere.
Her first thought was that he was taller than she had imagined. His broad shoulders and commanding presence seemed to fill the spacious room, making it suddenly feel close and intimate. His dark hair was cut fashionably short, though without the excessive styling favored by many gentlemen of the ton.
But it was his eyes that caught and held her—a deep, penetrating blue that stirred something in her memory, a half-formed thought that slipped away before she could grasp it.
Have we met before?The question rose unbidden in her mind, but she dismissed it immediately.Of course not. I would remember meeting a duke, especially one so...
She couldn't find the word she wanted, and that unsettled her almost as much as his intense gaze.
"Your Grace." Moira stepped forward, extending her hand with the easy confidence of long acquaintance. "How good to see you again. You're looking well."
"Duchess." The Duke of Evermere took her hand briefly, his expression softening almost imperceptibly. "You are welcome as always at Evermere. Though I confess myself surprised by your interest in my domestic arrangements."
"Not surprised enough to refuse my suggestion of a suitable companion for young Sophia, I note," Moira replied with a smile that spoke of years of friendly sparring. She turned, drawing Lavinia forward. "May I present Lady Lavinia Pembroke, daughter of the late Earl of Fairwick. Lavinia, His Grace, Tristan Lilacourt, the Duke of Evermere."
"Lady Lavinia." The duke inclined his head slightly, his gaze sharpening as it settled on her face.
Something crossed his features—a flash of recognition, quickly masked by cool detachment. For a breathless moment, Lavinia wondered if he somehow knew of her reduced circumstances, if he'd heard about the Pembroke sisters selling family heirlooms piece by piece to keep food on their table.
"Your Grace." She curtseyed with the perfect depth owed to a duke—no more, no less. "I appreciate your consideration of my application."
"Please, sit." He gestured to a chair positioned before his desk, making no move to sit himself.
Moira took a seat in a nearby armchair, positioning herself as both observer and participant. The duke returned to his position behind the desk, hands clasped behind his back as he regarded Lavinia with unsettling intensity.
"The Duchess speaks highly of your capabilities, Lady Lavinia," he began, sounding quite polite. "However, I find myself curious about your qualifications for this particular position. My daughter requires more than simple lessons in deportment and French conjugations."
"I understand completely, Your Grace," Lavinia replied, meeting his gaze squarely despite the intimidating effect of his height and position. "Lady Sophia will soon enter society, and she needs guidance from someone who understands not just the rules of the ton, but its undercurrents and complexities."
