“A solicitor. A steward. A meddling relative,” he said, but the last was a joke and she caught it.
“Our solicitor is a shambles, our steward is eighty-seven, and the only relative interested in the estate is Lady Montfort, whose methods you have already experienced. That leaves me.”
He admired her for it. She was unbreakable.
“You are formidable,” he said.
She laughed, the sound as light and quick as the step of a wren. “That is a word often used by people who wish I were less so.”
He leaned forward. “I do not wish it. It suits you.”
The color rose in her cheeks, then faded. She changed the subject. “Is there something specific you wish to discuss?”
Yes, he thought, but the words would not come. Instead, he said, “I wanted to ensure you were not troubled by Dawnford. He has a reputation?—”
“I am aware,” Lavinia said. “And I assure you, I am not in need of a protector.”
He blinked, startled by the rebuke.
She relented after a beat. “I thank you for the concern, truly. But Lord Dawnford holds no interest for me.”
He nodded, suddenly unsure of himself. The air in the room grew thick, as if the house itself was holding its breath.
“I should not have come,” he said, standing abruptly. “Forgive my intrusion.”
She stood too, closing the distance between them. For a moment, neither moved. Then she said, very quietly, “Your Grace—why did you come?”
He opened his mouth, closed it, then said the first truth that entered his mind. “I do not know.”
She looked at him, long and level, then smiled in a way that was more resignation than joy. “Well,” she said, “if you figure it out, I would like to know as well.”
He bowed—an old-fashioned gesture, but somehow necessary—and made for the door. His hand was on the knob when it burst open and Lady Montfort walked in, trailing a cloud of orris root and righteous ambition.
She stopped dead at the sight of him, then dropped into a curtsy so deep it verged on parody. “Your Grace! What a surprise. Lavinia, why did you not summon your sister? Surely, she would wish to pay her respects.”
Tristan recovered his composure. “There is no need, Lady Montfort. My business here was brief.”
“Nonsense!” she declared, straightening with the bounce of a woman half her age. “Frances is in the rose parlor. Lavinia, go and fetch her at once. Tell her the Duke of Evermere is here. And tidy your hair.”
Lavinia stood her ground. “Lady Montfort, I do not think?—”
“Go, go,” Montfort hissed, waving her hand as if to shoo away a fly. “You see how she is, Your Grace? Impossible, utterly impossible. I do hope you have more luck with Sophia.”
Tristan’s jaw clenched. “I find Lady Lavinia’s methods highly effective, Lady Montfort.”
Montfort’s face pinched. “If you say so. But a softer approach might—oh, never mind. Men are so stubborn.”
She moved closer, lowering her voice. “If I may be blunt, Your Grace: Lavinia is not for the likes of Dawnford. She requires a man of principle, of stability. Someone who can tame her pride. I have often thought?—”
He cut her off. “Lady Montfort, I assure you, Lady Lavinia is perfectly capable of choosing for herself.”
Montfort’s eyes gleamed with calculation. “Yes, well. If you should ever wish for an ally, you know where to find me.”
He bowed again, colder this time, and turned for the door.
Montfort called after him, “Please convey my best to Lady Sophia! And do come again soon. We are always delighted to receive you.”
Tristan escaped to the carriage, the echo of Lavinia’s voice trailing him like a perfume:If you figure it out, I would like to know as well.
