Tristan glared at him. “You do not understand. Dawnford is a menace. He has left a trail of ruined women from here to Scotland, and for all her intelligence, Lady Lavinia is no match for that kind of duplicity.”
Henry arched an eyebrow, resetting the balls for another round. “And you believe you are?”
Tristan folded his arms. “I know his sort. Iwashis sort, once. He does not care about her. He wants what he cannot have, and the moment she is compromised, he will disappear.”
“Perhaps,” Henry mused, aiming another shot, “you should let her decide for herself. She is not without wit. She might surprise you.”
“She has already surprised me,” Tristan said, softer now, “by not running as far and as fast as possible from this wretched existence. I would have, in her place.”
Henry missed his shot for the first time all evening. The cue ball rolled to a stop at Tristan’s feet.
“You are being absurd,” Tristan said, snatching the cue and rolling it between his palms. “This is not about me. I simply will not see Sophia’s future jeopardized by a string of maternal failures.”
Henry watched him, silent for a moment, then said, “You know, for someone who claims to care only for the future of his daughter, you have a remarkable interest in the private affairs of her tutor.”
Tristan rounded on him. “Are you suggesting?—”
“I am not suggesting anything,” Henry said, raising his glass in mock salute. “But it is curious that you have spent the last ten minutes railing against Dawnford, when it is obvious to anyone with eyes that Lady Lavinia cannot stand the man.”
“She was polite enough at the party.”
“Polite, yes. But not interested. Whereas you, my friend, are very interested. So interested that you are here, at my house, inventing reasons to speak of her rather than minding your own business.”
Tristan gripped the cue stick so hard he nearly splintered it. “You are insufferable, Henry.”
“I am practical,” Henry said. “It is why I am the only man in London whose estate turns a profit.”
Tristan paced the length of the windows, pausing only when he could not bear another step without exploding. “She is not for me.”
“Why not?”
He stopped. “Because I do not intend to marry again. Ever.”
Henry snorted. “You sound like a villain in a gothic novel. I do not believe a word of it.”
Tristan spun on his heel. “I am not some lovesick fool who needs to be rescued by the first petticoat that blows in the door. I am a Duke. I have a legacy. My life is not my own to gamble away on romantic whim.”
Henry’s eyes narrowed. “Then why do you care what happens to her?”
Tristan opened his mouth, then closed it. The silence hung between them, heavy and unyielding.
Henry set down his drink and leaned on his cue. “You could have any woman in England. You could even have Lady Lavinia, if you wished. But instead, you stand here, gnashing your teeth over Dawnford. Why?”
Tristan could not answer. He could not even look at Henry.
“Is it because you want her for yourself?” Henry asked, voice as gentle as a scalpel. “Or because you want her to be free, to make her own choices? You cannot have both.”
The question hovered in the air, unanswerable.
Henry watched him for a long moment, then sighed. “You are my oldest friend. I would offer advice, but you never take it.”
Tristan glared at the cue stick, then set it down. “You are no help, Henry. None at all.”
“That is what friends are for,” Henry replied, his lips curving into a half-smile. “To tell you when you are being a complete idiot.”
Tristan turned and strode toward the door with the suppressed violence of a storm about to break.
“Tristan,” Henry called after him, “try not to do anything too foolish!”
