Lavinia rolled her eyes because her aunt was behaving as if her sister and the Duke were not acquainted with each other. “She is a great admirer of Greek verse and also,” her aunt continued, “I am told, the finest French scholar of her year.”
Frances, caught mid-bite of a candied violet, nearly choked. She curtsied, color rising, and offered, “Your Grace.” Her voice trembled as though she were in mortal peril.
“Lady Frances.” Tristan nodded. He was polite, as always, but Lavinia noted that he did not allow himself to be drawn in more than absolutely necessary. His gaze, after the initial greeting, slid past Frances and locked onto Lavinia. The look was brief, almost a reflex, but Lavinia felt it like the startle of lightning.
“Such refinement, Your Grace,” Lady Montfort went on, fanning herself with a movement that suggested she could, if needed, put out a house fire. “I have always said Frances would make an excellent duchess, though perhaps a few years hence. But she is a quick study. Quick! She writes a letter in French every day, don’t you, Frances?”
Frances nodded, shooting Lavinia a look that saidplease save me, or at least put me out of my misery.
Glancing at Dawnford, she found him in conversation with another gentleman, and Lavinia used that opportunity to escape. She moved closer to her sister and the Duke, while still observing them.
“I am delighted to hear it,” Tristan said, though his inflection indicated he would be equally delighted to hear of a crop failure in Kent. “The study of languages is greatly undervalued. But I am sure you excel at more than epistolary pursuits.”
Frances, lips parted, appeared unsure whether to confess or simply faint. Lady Montfort continued to steer the conversation as though piloting a barge down a narrow canal. “And Lady Sophia? I am told she is progressing wonderfully. Frances, did you not prepare a small watercolor for her?”
Frances turned a vibrant shade of tomato and produced a folded scrap from her reticule. She passed it to Tristan with her hands trembling. “I hope she will not mind. It is only a view of the lake.”
Tristan unfolded the sketch. “She will be delighted,” he said. “Thank you, Lady Frances. I will ensure she receives it.”
Lady Montfort gave a satisfied nod, the matter was handled to her satisfaction. She flicked her fan in Lavinia’s direction. “Lavinia, my dear, why are you lurking in the shadows? You look positively ghoulish.”
Lavinia advanced. “Your Grace,” she said, dipping into a curtsy.
“Lady Lavinia.” He did not move, but the intensity of his attention was such that it required no movement at all.
Lady Montfort clapped her hands together. “Splendid! Now, if you will excuse me, I must consult the musicians. I have heard rumors that they intend to play that dreadful Polonaise again, and I cannot allow it. Frances, you will be safe here with His Grace.”
Lavinia endured a silence that was, to her, a familiar and even comfortable thing. She could weather silences for hours, if needed. But Frances, cornered between a Duke and her sister, had no such fortitude.
“It is a lovely evening,” Frances blurted. “Do you like music, Your Grace?”
“It depends on the music,” Tristan replied.
“And the company, I suspect,” Lavinia said.
He turned his attention to her, the weight of it almost physical. “Exactly so.”
She felt a prick of heat at the base of her neck, but did not allow it to rise to her cheeks.
Frances, encouraged by the lack of overt hostility, tried again. “I think Lavinia plays the piano quite well, when she chooses to.”
“Not tonight,” Lavinia said. “Tonight, I am merely an observer.”
Tristan’s mouth curved into almost a smile. “That is a difficult position for you, I imagine.”
“Oh?” she said. “Why is that?”
“You seem to prefer action to observation,” he replied, “even if you pretend otherwise.”
Frances watched the exchange with increasing bemusement.
Lavinia’s retort was ready when a sudden, unwelcome presence materialized at her left shoulder.
“Lady Lavinia,” Lord Dawnford said. “What a delight to find you again. I was just telling Lady Featherstone that you are the only woman in London who can make an insult sound like a compliment.”
“I am flattered by your attention, my lord,” Lavinia replied, drawing away only slightly. “Though I cannot imagine you wish to be associated with insults.”
“On the contrary, I thrive on them,” he said, placing his hand on her elbow in a gesture that might have passed for gallant if he had not used it to turn her bodily away from the Duke and Frances.
