Frances laughed. “You are a terrible liar, Lavinia. Your ears are red.”
“They are not. And you need to stop reading those novels about brooding heroes in castles and helpless heroines.”
“Oh, but they are a joy to read!” Frances insisted, and then, perhaps sensing her sister had reached the limit of bearable scrutiny, relented. “If you do not wish to tell me, I shall not make you. But you are different today, and I like it. Even if you hate it.”
Lavinia tried to retort, but the urge vanished. Instead, she managed, “You are incorrigible.”
“And you are in love,” Frances replied, softer now.
Lavinia refused to dignify the claim. “Are there any letters?”
Frances, seeing her escape, fished a folded note from the pocket of her apron. “This came an hour ago. It’s from Aunt Petunia.” She dropped her voice in imitation: “I waited for you to open it first.”
Lavinia took the letter and turned it over. The seal was, as always, too thick for the thickness of the paper, the blue wax crushed almost to the breaking point. She popped it open and read, silently.
“Well?” Frances demanded, bouncing on her toes. “Is it a summons? An invitation? Or merely a complaint?”
“A summons,” Lavinia replied. She handed over the letter, sparing herself the agony of repeating it aloud.
Frances read in a rush. “‘Private evening at Montfort House. Music, dancing, select company in honor of Lady Frances’s prospective debut. Wardrobe to be provided, if required. Attendance is compulsory.’” Frances looked up. “It is for me?”
Lavinia forced a smile. “It appears so.”
Frances squealed, the sound so pure it momentarily swept the last of Lavinia’s gloom away. “Oh, Lavinia, what if I trip and land in the punch bowl? What if no one asks me to dance?”
“Then you shall have an excellent story for your memoirs,” Lavinia said, ruffling her sister’s curls. “But I do not think that will happen. You are too stubborn to fail.”
Frances giggled. “Will you dance, too? Or shall you hide in the corner with the dowagers and the wallflowers?”
“I will do as my duty demands,” Lavinia said, trying to sound noble, but the truth was she had no intention of dancing unless forcibly hauled onto the floor. “But only if you promise not to elope with the first man who tells you your hair is pretty.”
Frances made a face. “I promise. Though if he looks like Lord Byron, I will make no guarantees.”
Lavinia snorted. “Byron is a disaster. You would be bored by Thursday.”
“I should like to be bored by Thursday, at least once,” Frances said, the humor slipping from her voice. “Are you certain you are well, Lavinia?”
She was not. She had never been less certain in her life. But she managed, “I am as I always am.”
Frances seemed content with that, or at least willing to leave it unchallenged. She seized Lavinia’s arm again. “Come, let us go to the kitchen. Mrs. Down made almond biscuits, and she swore at them, which means they are delicious.”
Lavinia allowed herself to be pulled along, but as they reached the hallway, she paused and looked back at the door.
For one irrational second, she half-expected to see Tristan standing in the rain with anger in his eyes. Or perhaps not anger. Perhaps something else.
She shook her head and followed Frances to the kitchen, promising herself it was only the fatigue, or the damp, or the lack of tea.
After a warm cup, Lavinia moved upstairs to her chambers, where she closed the door and pressed her forehead to the wood. Then she made her way to the small vanity and looked at her reflection.
Her hair, loosened by the journey back and by Frances’s relentless fussing, fell in curls over her collar. Her skin was pale except for a flush that lingered along her cheekbones, and her lips?—
Lavinia reached up, unable to help herself, and traced the outline of her mouth.Did he kiss me? Or did I only imagine it?No. It had happened. It was as real as the memory of his arms, as real as the ache that had lodged itself beneath her ribs.
She remembered her masked stranger and how he had danced with her as if she were the only woman in London. The only woman in the world. Lavinia had been certain the memory of him would be enough.
But it was not enough. Not anymore. She unfastened her dress, her fingers clumsy at the laces of her stays, and let it drop to the carpet. She reached for her day dress—something unremarkable, plain blue muslin with a slightly frayed hem—and shrugged into it without looking. Every movement was mechanical, but every thought was crowded with the sensation of Tristan.
Will I collect this memory, too? Will I store it with the others, a thing to be polished and hidden and never spoken of again?The idea unsettled her.
