Tristan disappeared for a moment, then returned carrying a heavy woolen blanket and a frown. “You should shed the drenched cloak first.”
She did while he turned away and held out the blanket. Lavinia wrapped it clumsily around her and Whisper. The edge slipped out of her grip and Tristan caught it. Then, more gently, he pulled the ends around her and tucked them tight, hands lingering at her collar.
His fingers brushed against her bare skin, just above the collarbone. Both of them stilled at the contact.
“Your skin is freezing,” he muttered.
Lavinia could not form a reply. Her teeth had started to chatter with such violence she feared she might bite off her own tongue.
“Sit,” he commanded, pushing her toward the chair by the fire.
As Lavinia sat, she held the kitten close, working the blanket tighter, and felt the wet chill begin to recede from her fingers.
Tristan moved to the hearth, kneeled, and attacked the coals with the single-minded ferocity of a man for whom the world existed only to be subdued. Within a minute the flames revived, sending light and warmth skipping across the dark paneled room.
He did not return to her side. Instead, he stood with one arm braced against the mantel, his head bowed, as if the act of making fire had used up the last of his resources.
They sat in silence, the only sounds the ticking of a longcase clock and the spatter of rain against the leaded glass. Lavinia stroked the kitten, who had begun to dry and now kneaded her thigh with tiny needle-point claws.
She ought to say something, but every possible comment sounded absurd in her mind:Thank you for rescuing me. Thank you for kissing me. Thank you for not shaking me until my teeth rattled, as I probably deserved.
At length, she managed, “You did not have to fetch me. I would have come back on my own.”
Tristan’s shoulders tensed, and he turned to regard her as if she had sprouted another head. “You would not have survived the walk.”
“I am made of sterner stuff than you think,” Lavinia replied. “And if you imagine I will drop dead of pneumonia for the sake of a kitten, you are giving yourself far too much credit.”
He did not answer. Instead, he turned his face toward the fire, the light painting sharp angles along his jaw.
Lavinia gathered her dignity—or what remained of it—and said, “I could not sleep, in any case. It is the first night I have spent away from Frances in… ever, I think. She will worry.”
“You sent word,” he said, his voice carefully even. “My coachman delivered your note.”
“It is not the same as being there.”
For a long moment, she concentrated on the kitten. Its eyes were half-closed in ecstasy, purring with the tireless optimism of creatures too young to know what the world has in store. Lavinia rubbed it dry with the edge of the blanket, then, when she was certain it would not expire from cold, nestled it on a velvet cushion beside her.
She caught Tristan watching, but his eyes were unreadable.
Then after what felt like a long moment, he said, “Lady Lavinia… What occurred?—”
“Don’t,” she interrupted. “If you are about to apologize for what happened in the garden, please do not.”
He stiffened. “The contrary, actually. It should not happen again.”
Lavinia felt something sink within her. “Yes, you are right. It will not happen again.”
It would appear that he regretted the kiss, and that only made her feel mortified. She raised her eyes to look at him, and he seemed caught between relief and fury.
He studied her, and the silence between them was prickling. Then, abruptly, he crossed to the sideboard and poured two glasses of brandy. He handed one to her and said, “It will help.”
Lavinia eyed the glass. “Are you trying to finish me off?”
“It will warm you,” he said. “Drink.”
She took a sip. The heat seared its way down her throat, then blossomed in her chest, thawing places she had not known were frozen. She set the glass aside before she could embarrass herself by gulping the rest.
Tristan took his own seat, not across from her but angled just enough that they were still companions, not adversaries.
