Tristan did not flinch. “Interested in you. Though preventing a scandal is a noble cause.”
She studied his profile, the lines of his face rendered more vulnerable in the uncertain light. “You do not owe me anything, Your Grace. I am only your daughter’s tutor.”
He stopped walking and turned to face her. “You are more than that. You are—” He seemed to catch himself, then finished, “—a remarkable woman.”
Her heart skidded. “That is very kind,” she managed.
“It is not kind,” he said. “It is accurate.”
Lavinia, accustomed to parrying words, found herself suddenly without defense. They paused at the edge of the dance floor. “I came to this ball to rescue you from Dawnford, but I am pleased to see you armed yourself well against him.”
“You came for me.”
His mouth curved into a grin that was almost devilish. “Do not feel flattered, Lady Lavinia.”
“Oh, you are no gallant prince, Your Grace,” she threw back. “There is no flattery to be felt from your attention.”
He laughed, then stopped. “I shall see you soon.” Tristan’s touch lingered on her arm before he released her.
She watched him depart and pressed her hand to her bodice, feeling her heart hammer against the silk and whalebone. The room seemed to tilt around her, and for the first time, she wondered if Frances had been right.
She was not as she once was.
Lavinia was in love.
CHAPTER 24
“What is the matter with me?”
Lavinia heard her own voice as if it belonged to someone else, a small, strangled thing that sounded nothing like the formidable Lady Lavinia Pembroke she meant to present to the world. She lay motionless in bed, the linen twisted around her legs, sunlight clawing at her eyelids through the curtain.
She had not slept. Not really. Her mind had spent the hours—minute by mortifying minute—replaying the kiss that had been so unexpected, so unguarded, that she had answered it before reason or propriety could draw breath.
She pressed a palm to her forehead, as if the memory could be forced back in. It would not move. Worse, she was haunted by the idea that the real trouble was not the kiss itself but the fact that she could not regret it.
What is the matter with me?
It was easier, she supposed, to indulge in fantasy when the waking world was so unrelenting in its demands. She had not the luxury of romance; she had Frances to consider, and the house, and the ever-looming specter of the estate’s ledgers. She could not afford distraction, least of all the sort that made her pulse jump in her wrist.
Lavinia sat up, shoving away the last scraps of sleep. She rose and began the morning ritual: hair, pinned and brushed; face, scrubbed and set into lines of composure; dress, plain and serviceable, sleeves rolled back to the elbow for the business of breakfast.
By the time she entered the dining room, the air smelled of weak tea and defeat. Frances was already there, attacking a roll with more enthusiasm than was strictly legal in genteel society.
“Good morning,” Frances said, her mouth full and eyes wide. “You look like a ghost. Did you not sleep?”
“I slept as much as any woman with a sister who pilfers the counterpane,” Lavinia replied, taking her seat. “And I am not a ghost. I am merely pale. It is fashionable now.”
Frances made a face. “Only in France.”
“Then we are pioneers,” Lavinia said.
Mrs. Down entered at that moment, bearing a small silver tray with a single envelope perched on it like a poisonous insect.
“Post, my lady.”
Lavinia reached for it, but paused when she saw the name. Of course, it was Mr. Crawley.
She took the letter and tucked it under the edge of her plate, pretending not to notice the way Mrs. Down’s eyes lingered on her, as if searching for a crack in the armor. There would be none. Not in front of Frances.
