Swallowing, she rose and started toward the door, aware of his eyes still on her.
“Good night,” he said, and her heart raced. What had happened tonight had changed a piece, if not all, of her, and Lavinia did not know what came next.
CHAPTER 21
"Where were you last night?"
Frances burst into the entrance hall with a velocity that nearly sent her tripping over the mat. The concern on her face was so pure and so unvarnished that it might have been comical if Lavinia's own heart were not still pounding from its nocturnal ordeal.
Lavinia handed her damp shawl to Mrs. Down, then took an extra moment to compose herself before facing the inquisition. "You must not alarm Mrs. Down so early, Frances. She has not yet had her tea."
Mrs. Down sniffed but did not disagree. She whisked the shawl away with a glance that promised a lecture later, then vanished toward the kitchen.
Frances seized Lavinia’s arm with her eyes wide. “Truly, though, where? I thought you’d be home before the rain even started,but then it became a proper hurricane, and you never arrived. I imagined a thousand things—none of them good.”
“I sent word.”
“Aword is not the same as your presence.”
Lavinia allowed herself a rueful smile. “My lessons with Lady Sophia took longer than expected and the storm trapped me. I was obliged to remain at Evermere for the night.”
"Obliged," Frances repeated, savoring the syllables. "I see. And was it very dreadful? Or merely mortifying?"
Lavinia pretended to scan her gloves for mud. "I survived. As you plainly see."
Lavinia tried for indifference, but the memory of last night, the rain, the heat of Tristan’s hands on her shoulders clung stubbornly to her cheeks.
Frances’ eyes narrowed. "You are rather different this morning." She lowered her voice, as if imparting some great secret. "You are not as you were."
“Nonsense,” Lavinia replied. “I am as I always am. Just damper.”
But Frances only shook her head, curls trembling. “You are not.”
She began to circle Lavinia, her hands clasped behind her back in a manner that suggested she had been rehearsing this for hours. “You are pale, but your cheeks are pink. Your hair is coming loose, though you hate it when it does. And you are—” Frances paused to search for the right word. “You are floating. Or perhaps you are sinking, but not in the way you usually do, when bills arrive, or Aunt Petunia writes.”
Lavinia felt her composure begin to crumble, brick by brick. She pulled a strand of hair behind her ear and tried to recall the etiquette for deflecting familial interrogation.
“Perhaps I am simply grateful to be alive,” she said.
Frances drew closer and frowned. “Did something happen at Evermere?”
“No more than usual.”
Frances dropped her voice another octave. "Or did something happen with the Duke?"
There it was. The question Lavinia had hoped to dodge, like a rogue pheasant on the hunt. She summoned all her composure, gave her sister a look, and said, “The Duke is as insufferable as ever. Perhaps more so, as he is now convinced that I will perish at the first drop of rain. He insisted I stay the night for my own safety, and that was that.”
Frances did not move. “You are lying.”
“Am not.”
Frances grinned, triumphant. “You are. Because your left hand always tugs at your sleeve when you are hiding something.” She reached out and captured Lavinia’s restless hand. “Did he kiss you?”
Lavinia nearly dropped dead on the spot.
Frances’s mouth opened in shock. “He did! He did, didn’t he?”
Lavinia jerked her hand away, mortified. “Absolutely not! You are far too dreamy for your own good!”
