After a while, Lavinia spoke again. “Lady Sophia spoke of her mother today.”
He went still, but said nothing.
“She misses something she never even knew,” Lavinia said. “She believes herself insufficient—her word, not mine.”
He stared into the fire, his jaw tight.
“She thinks you do not love her,” Lavinia said softly. “Not because you are unkind. But because you never say it.”
Tristan’s hands balled into fists. When he spoke, his voice was nearly a whisper. “I have never been skilled at such things.”
She said nothing, letting the confession rest.
At last, he turned to her, his eyes nearly black in the firelight. “I suppose I owe you the truth,” he said, and the effort in his tone made her heart twist.
He stood, pacing the length of the hearth, then stopped, facing away. “My late wife. Mary. We were not… It was a contract and nothing more. The arrangement was between two families too proud to see sense. She did not want it and neither did I.”
Lavinia felt her own breath catch. She had heard rumors, but nothing so blunt.
“We agreed, after the first year, that we would go our separate ways once she gave birth. She wanted to live in London, to see the world. I wanted an heir, and nothing else.” His mouth twisted and the words emerged jagged. “But then Sophia was born. Mary never got to leave. There was a carriage accident, and it claimed her. It was the cost of—” He broke off.
“Freedom,” Lavinia said, filling the silence.
“She died, and I was left with a child I never expected to raise myself. I have done what I can, but I am not a good father. I am not a good man, Lavinia.” He turned, finally meeting her gaze. “But I do not want to ruin another life. I do not want Sophia to think of marriage as a sentence.”
Lavinia pressed her lips together, fighting the urge to go to him and touch him. “You are not a bad father. She loves you.”
“She fears me.” He punctuated that with a short, bitter laugh.
“No,” Lavinia said. “She does not know you.”
He took a step closer, and the distance between them closed in an instant.
“Will you teach her?” he asked, and the question was as raw as a wound. “Will you teach her what I cannot?”
Lavinia looked at the kitten, sleeping on the cushion, its belly round and safe. She thought of Sophia, of Frances, waiting for her to come home. Of her own, stubborn heart.
“I will,” she said, “on one condition.”
He waited, his posture tense.
“You must allow her to keep the cat,” Lavinia said.
He blinked as if thrown off balance by the demand.
“It is important,” Lavinia continued. “She needs something to care for. Something that is hers. And perhaps, in time, you will see that not all love is a burden.”
He stared at her, then at the kitten, then back. After a long moment, he nodded once.
“Very well,” he said. “The cat stays.”
She felt the relief sweep through her, as absurd and overwhelming as it was.
Reaching for the remainder of her brandy, she gulped it down. When she looked up, she found Tristan’s eyes intently upon her.
“I… I should go to bed,” she murmured.
“Yes, you should.”
