Frances began to rattle on about the party. “I heard that when he tired of pursuing you, Lord Dawnford was seen drinking punch in the servants’ hallway with Lady Featherstone’s daughter.”
Lavinia shook her head. “That does not surprise me.”
When Frances went to fetch more jam from the kitchens, Lavinia opened the letter:
Lady Lavinia,
I have been lenient. I am going to be generous with you, but this shall be my last warning. The outstanding debt must be paid within a fortnight.
Should you fail to satisfy the amount, I will have no choice but to pursue the matter through every legal avenue, as discussed. Or, should you wish to avoid such embarrassment, I await your favorable response to my previous proposal.
You know I am a man of my word.
She folded the note and slipped it into her sleeve. The physical act of hiding it did nothing to lighten its presence in her thoughts. It was always the same: pay, marry, or leave. There was no third option.
She heard Frances humming, so trusting and so blithely ignorant of what the world would do to people who did not fit. Lavinia felt the familiar pinch of guilt: that she could be so selfish as to wish, for one impossible second, that the man who had kissed her at Evermere Hall on a stormy night might actually wish to rescue her from this particular fate.
Ridiculous. She was no fairy tale damsel. Tristan was a practical man, a Duke with a legacy, and she was—what was she, exactly?
She buttered a roll, then remembered she had no appetite. Instead, she watched Frances return with the jam. There had never been anyone else. If Frances’s prospects were ruined by her own foolishness, she would never forgive herself.
Mrs. Down bustled in again, this time with the newspaper, but paused when she saw Lavinia’s face. “All well, my lady?”
“All is as it ever is.” Lavinia smiled.
Mrs. Down nodded, but her mouth pursed in a way that suggested she would be brewing a more pointed interrogation later.
As the meal wound on, Frances described the upcoming musical evening at the Rowson’s and Lavinia nodded and made all the proper noises, but she was barely present.
“Did you hear about Lady Hellen’s elopement? The family is in mourning, but I think it’s romantic.”
“It’s exceedingly foolish,” Lavinia said, “but perhaps that is what romance requires.”
Frances considered that. “I think I’d like to be foolish, just once.”
Lavinia reached for her teacup. “If you are to be foolish, Frances, be so in pursuit of happiness, not in escape from it. Though I caution you against eloping.”
“Oh, I will ensure you approve of the man I marry. That way, there is no need to elope.”
“Good. Happiness must never be traded for anything else.” She truly wanted Frances to have what she could never have.
Her sister seemed to ponder this for a moment, then grinned. “You sound just like a book.”
Lavinia allowed herself the smallest of smiles. “That is because I have read too many of them. Now, finish your porridge before it congeals.”
“The Duke of Evermere has certainly taken an interest in you, Lavinia. What say you about that?”
Nancy greeted as she beamed from the center of her drawing room. Lavinia, caught mid-curtsy, nearly tripped over the edge of the rug.
“He most certainly has not,” Lavinia replied, doing her best to radiate indifference. “And how would you know about his interest in me?”
“I have ears everywhere, my dear. My lady’s maid informed me of the happenings at Lady Montfort’s private party. And she heard it from the Montfort maids and footmen.”
“He is concerned for Lady Sophia’s welfare. It is nothing more than that.”
Nancy snorted, a sound that would have sent most society ladies to their fainting couches, and seized Lavinia’s hands. “Then why did he glare at Lord Dawnford as though he wished to dash his brains against the wall? Why, indeed, does he arrive at every gathering at the moment you do, as if he can sniff your presence in the air?”
“His Grace,” Lavinia said, “is a man of routine. And perhaps of allergies.”
