The drive back to Evermere was long, and for the first time in memory, he dreaded the arrival. The house would be as it always was: silent, ordered, a monument to the duties that had shaped his life.
But the memory of that afternoon—the light in her eyes, the tremor in her laugh—clung to him like a wound that refused to heal.
He could not stay away, and he could not go back.
He was, for the first time, utterly at a loss.
CHAPTER 17
"Come quick!"
Frances’s voice carried down the hallway with such piercing intensity that Lavinia considered whether she should bring bandages or a mop. She set aside her breakfast cup and hurried out to the hall, expecting catastrophe, or at least spilled jam.
Instead, Frances waited at the drawing room door, dancing in place with hands pressed to her mouth, eyes bright as new glass.
“You must see it—right now!” Frances grabbed Lavinia’s hand, and the next thing she knew, Lavinia was tugged through the threshold and into a world gone mad.
The entire drawing room had been transformed. Every available surface was weighted with vases, baskets, and jars, each brimming with flowers: lilies and ranunculus in the window, bluebells and gardenias teetering on the pianoforte, and in thecenter of the table—like a crown for the Queen of England—stood a towering arrangement of red roses so garish they appeared to have been bred for intimidation.
Frances let out a little shriek of delight and pressed her cheek against Lavinia’s shoulder. “Look at them! There must be hundreds. And the card—read the card.”
Lavinia did, turning it in her hand with all the enthusiasm she would accord a tax bill.
For Lady Lavinia, whose wit is matched only by her beauty.
The rest of the card was a poem that was heavy on the wit and light on the actual poetry.
Lavinia read it aloud, “Roses are red, the rumors are true; if you would have me, I’ll make a countess of you. Sincerely, Lucien, Lord Dawnford.”
Frances’s eyes grew wider. “It’s a marriage proposal, isn’t it?”
“I believe it is a threat,” Lavinia replied, setting the card back in its metal prongs.
A throat cleared from behind the couch. Mrs. Down materialized, carrying a watering can and wearing the expression of someone who had already spent the morning arranging the entire population of Holland in her mistress’s parlor.
“They arrived at six, my lady. With a note that Lord Dawnford wishes to call this afternoon, if convenient.”
“Six?” Lavinia asked with a cocked eyebrow.
“There was a footman for every basket,” Mrs. Down replied, a note of wonder creeping into her voice. “The roses are from Kent, the lilies from London, and the bluebells from—well, bluebells are common enough, but these look as though they were paid a handsome sum to be here.”
Frances flitted from table to sideboard, plucking sprigs and inhaling deeply. “They are beautiful,” she said. “Do you think he knows how much you dislike roses?”
“I think Lord Dawnford has never met a symbol of romance he did not wish to strangle with overuse,” Lavinia replied.
Frances laughed, but Lavinia did not.
If she married Dawnford, it would end the debts in a single stroke. Frances would have a dowry; Mrs. Down would never be turned out; Pembroke Manor could keep its roof and its name. It was the solution to every practical problem they had. And yet?—
Lavinia stared at the roses. All the beauty in the world, and still, something in her heart shied away.
A commotion in the hall signaled the arrival of Lady Montfort, whose entire presence seemed to sweep the flowers intodisarray. She entered with her turban at a rakish angle and her cane deployed for maximum authority.
“Good morning, girls.” Her eyes lit on the roses immediately. “For Frances, I presume? From young Mr. Perry?”
Frances colored, but Lavinia cut in: “They are for me, Aunt.”
Lady Montfort paused, lips parted, as if she had just discovered a bee in her jam tart.
