Lucien did not attempt to stop them, only watched with a slow, pleased smile as they left.
Montfort hurried after. “Lavinia! He’s a very good prospect. Wealthy, titled?—”
“He is a predator,” Lavinia said quietly, so only her aunt could hear. “And not for me.”
Montfort’s mouth thinned. “You are too proud. One day you’ll have no options left at all.”
“That is my business,” Lavinia replied.
When Lavinia looked back, Lucien was still standing at the table, that same patient smile on his lips, as if he had all the time in the world to wear her down.
She had survived creditors, pity, and the withering stares of London society. But Lavinia knew, with the certainty of a soldier watching the enemy amass on the ridge, that the true battle had only just begun.
CHAPTER 15
Tristan watched the exchange with his arms folded so tightly across his chest that the linen strained at the seams. Lady Lavinia appeared perfectly composed as she spoke with Dawnford. He smiled in a charming manner that Tristan knew all too well. The same one that masked his debauched soul.
His jaw clenched as he noted the predatory tilt to the man’s head, and the way he angled himself to block her view of the rest of the garden. The exchange was brief, for Lady Lavinia appeared to say something so dryly witty that Dawnford’s artful charm faltered for a half-second. He recovered, but as Lavinia turned away, her lips pressed into a line that was more resignation than amusement.
She hates him. Good. He does not deserve a single moment of her time.
Tristan’s jaw tensed. He traced the line of her movement, watched as she rejoined Frances at the refreshment table, theyounger girl’s eyes alight with some new rumor or sweet. Lavinia leaned in and said something that made Frances dissolve into stifled laughter, but her own posture never quite relaxed. Even in rare moments of levity, she held herself like a sentry at the ramparts, braced for an attack from some unseen quarter.
“You’ll burn holes through Lady Lavinia’s dress if you stare any harder, Tristan.”
He did not turn, but he would know Moira’s voice anywhere. She moved into his periphery, a swirl of navy blue and ivory, her bodice cut to flatter but not to compete with the younger debutantes. Moira had never bothered with the delicate games of the ton—she preferred to play chess while the rest of society fussed over whist.
“Careful,” she said, sidling up beside him and mimicking his stance, arms folded. “You keep glowering like that, and the gossip columns will accuse you of contemplating murder.”
“I am contemplating something,” Tristan replied, not bothering to conceal his annoyance.
Moira arched a brow, her eyes following the line of his sight to Lavinia. “If you’re so concerned for Lady Lavinia’s welfare, perhaps you ought to do more than pace at the edge of the lawn like a housecat left out in the rain.”
He did not dignify that with a reply. Instead, he watched as Dawnford slithered back into the crowd, already working hisnext target—a widow in fuchsia, who looked about as enchanted as a spaniel cornered by a rat.
Moira nudged him, subtle as a battering ram. “Half the ton knows the Fairwick estate is mortgaged to the eyebrows. Can’t blame the girl for considering a wealthy match.”
Tristan’s fingers curled reflexively against his arms. “If she marries that leech, she’ll regret it within a month.”
“She could do worse,” Moira said, and then, with a pointed glance, “but she could do much, much better.”
He finally looked at her, meeting her gaze head-on. Moira’s expression was impassive, but there was a slyness at the corners of her mouth that made him feel, for a moment, like the only child caught stealing sweets before dinner. She had known him since he was in short pants, and she had never once let him win an argument through sheer intimidation.
“I see what you’re doing,” he said.
Moira did not blink. “It’s about time someone did. You have been alone too long, Tristan. That house is more mausoleum than manor, and your daughter needs a woman’s hand—one with a bit of spirit left in it, not another pale specter of duty.”
He gritted his teeth. “Lady Lavinia is not a suitable candidate.”
Moira snorted. “You mean she’s too poor, or you mean she’s too proud?”
“She is my employee,” he said, “and my daughter’s tutor. That is all.”
Moira shook her head. “For a man so clever, you’re a complete simpleton. The entire county expects you to marry again, and if you don’t make a move soon, someone else will. Lady Montfort is already plotting to throw every eligible maiden at you until you break and take one to wife.”
He grimaced. “Let her try.”
“Or you could take the matter into your own hands,” Moira continued, unflappable. “It’s not as if you lack options. You are, after all, a Duke.”
