For all his self-discipline, he could not excise the image of Lavinia in the garden, defiant and half-drowned, the memory of her lips pressed to his, the fire that had burned through his careful plans.
It will pass,he told himself.All things do.
But as he entered the study, he realized, with something close to horror, that he was smiling.
CHAPTER 22
“Try not to look as if you’re going to faint, Frances,” Lavinia teased as she squeezed her sister’s hand. “It hardly encourages the marriage-minded, and it will certainly give Aunt Petunia material for months.”
Frances pressed her lips together, the color rising in her cheeks as the entrance to Lady Montfort’s ballroom loomed closer.
“I do not plan to faint,” Frances whispered. “But what if I forget everything? What if I spill punch on someone’s dress? Or worse, what if no one asks me at all?”
“Then we shall blame Aunt Petunia’s wretched lemonade,” Lavinia replied. “Or, if the situation is dire, we shall claim to be afflicted with a rare and temporary brain fever.”
The doors opened with a fanfare of sound, and the majordomo announced them in a stentorian voice: “Lady Lavinia Pembroke, Lady Frances Pembroke.” The noise from the ballroom falteredonly slightly, but Lavinia saw Lady Montfort’s turbaned head snap around at once, her fan snapping open in what could only be interpreted as a summons.
“Chin up, Frances,” Lavinia whispered. “Whatever happens, you are already the prettiest girl in the room.” It was only a small exaggeration; in the white muslin and with her hair in a demure coiffure, Frances looked painfully young and heartbreakingly hopeful.
Lady Montfort descended upon them before they reached the stair landing, the feathers in her turban bobbing. “Lavinia, Frances, you are late,” she declared, though it was not yet half-past the hour. “I have been waiting an eternity, and the first quadrille is nearly begun.”
“We were delayed by a recalcitrant bootlace,” Lavinia said. “It waged a lengthy and bitter campaign against us.”
Lady Montfort rolled her eyes. “Spare me the metaphors, Lavinia. I am already on the verge of collapse, what with the arrangements and the endless parade of suitors.” She took Frances’s free arm and steered her toward the ballroom, not slowing for the younger girl’s brief, terrified glance back.
Lavinia paused just a moment at the threshold, taking in the full sweep of the scene: the mirrored walls, the shock of flowers on every surface, the crowd of guests already milling in clusters. She drew in a breath, braced herself, and entered the fray.
Lady Montfort wasted no time. “Frances, come with me. I must introduce you to Lady Beaton’s son. He is not the handsomest creature, but he owns half of Kent. And he has the common sense to keep his mouth shut, unlike some people.” She turned to Lavinia. “As for you, my dear, your only duty is to stand there and look harmless. Tonight is not for you. You’ve had your chance.”
The words were delivered with a smile so fine it could have sliced bread, and then she was gone, sweeping Frances in her wake toward a clot of debutantes near the dais.
Lavinia stood rooted with her spine straight as a flagpole.You’ve had your chance.She let the sting settle into the pit of her stomach, then exhaled it away slowly. She would not give Lady Montfort the satisfaction of seeing her perturbed.
She drifted to the margin of the crowd, half in shadow, and let herself observe. The music surged, and couples began to pair off, Frances among them, her cheeks already blooming with nervous excitement.
Lavinia smiled to herself.So far, so good.
She edged toward a potted palm, feigning interest in its fronds, when a voice that sounded too close and too smooth came just behind her.
“My Lady Lavinia, I must confess, I had not expected to see you here tonight.”
She turned to find Lord Dawnford, bowing with the exaggerated gallantry of a man who had rehearsed it before a mirror. His eyes—remarkably pale, and not improved by the affectation of surprise—slid over her with the keenness of a jeweler appraising a flawed gem.
“Lord Dawnford,” she said, curtsying politely. “I assure you, I am as surprised to see myself here as you are.”
He laughed, though she had not meant it as a joke. “What a wit! The rumors do not do you justice.” He leaned closer, and his cologne was an assault on the senses. “You are even more radiant in green than in blue. I recall the blue, you know. At Scarfield’s garden party. But this green—ah, it is a triumph.”
Lavinia shifted her weight, careful not to betray her discomfort. “Thank you, Lord Dawnford. I confess, I have forgotten what I wore to Scarfield’s party. The day was rather a blur.”
“Not for me.” He moved to block her view of the dancers, his arm pressed so close to hers that the fine hairs on her wrist bristled. “I remember everything about you.”
She smiled stiffly. “You must have an extraordinary memory, my lord.”
“Oh, I do. Particularly when it comes to matters of beauty.”
She considered a retort, then discarded it. There was no point fencing with someone who would not recognize a barb even as it drew blood.
“May I fetch you a glass of champagne?” he asked, as if it were his own idea and not the prescribed opening move in the courtship manual.
