A soft noise interrupted them: a plaintive mew, followed by the rapid patter of paws against the parquet. Whisper streaked into the room, skidding across the polished floor and colliding with the Duke’s boot. The kitten yowled in protest, then circled back to Lavinia, who scooped it up at once.
“I see the cat is thriving,” Tristan said.
“He is a menace,” Lavinia replied, setting Whisper on her shoulder. “But a necessary one.”
She looked up and found him very near, close enough that she could see the deep, dark blue of his eyes, the line of his jaw and the stubble forming there. For a moment, neither moved. The air was thick with the words they did not say. But as his head began to descend toward hers, Lavinia nearly jumped.
She could not allow him to kiss her again. The cost of that would be far too much to bear.
Stepping away, she took a shaky breath. “I should go.”
Tristan took a step toward her, and Lavinia could almost believe that he longed for her as much as she did him.
“I—I should go. I must prepare for my next lesson with Sophia.” Without waiting for a reaction, she darted from the room, feeling her chest constrict as though it was breaking.
Two men had made her want them. One, a masked stranger from another time, and the other a duke. Both were beyond her reach and dreams.
CHAPTER 26
Why Lavinia? Why?
Tristan tugged at his cravat and let out a curse as he snapped closed the ledger and shoved it aside.
Then, pushing back his chair, he moved to the window and back, then again, each circuit growing shorter, more agitated, as if the room itself were shrinking to fit the cage of his thoughts.
Lavinia. Lady Lavinia, he corrected himself, and then cursed at the formality of it. He tried to think of other things, but what surfaced instead was the memory of her mouth, the angle of her chin, the way she had looked at him before fleeing the room as if he were some beast escaped from the menagerie.
He loosened his cravat further and checked the clock. It was just past ten. The sensible thing would be to retire, or at least to feign it. But he was not sensible tonight. He was a man possessed.
He donned his greatcoat, ignoring the valet’s attempts to assist, and stalked down the main hall. He found Mr. Farrel dozing in the front hall. “Ready the black gelding,” he said. “I am going out.”
The butler jerked upright, eyes wild, and stammered, “At once, Your Grace. The—ah—the black gelding, you said?”
“Yes, and…” Tristan clenched his teeth. “Never mind. I will go to the stables myself.” He did not wait for the butler and strode to the front door, opening the massive oak himself.
In the stables, he mounted the horse and pointed it toward London with no particular destination in mind.
Tristan wanted distance, speed, the feeling of his own will against the world.
You are running from nothing.You are a grown man, a Duke, and you have allowed yourself to be unmade by a woman.
He did not slow until he reached White’s. He dismounted, tossed the reins to the boy who materialized from the gloomy night, and strode up the steps. Inside, he did not pause to survey the main rooms, but made for the private card salon. With luck, there would be someone worth talking to. Or fighting.
Or, failing that, he could simply watch the world and pretend he was not a part of it. He entered the salon. Henry Kingswell wasalready there, ensconced at the far table, his cards fanned in a neat arc and a glass of Madeira at his elbow.
“Evermere,” Henry called as soon as he saw him. “You look like the devil chased you.”
Tristan poured himself a measure from the decanter and joined him. “I see your mood is as cheerful as ever.”
Henry regarded him over the rim of his glass. “I have just lost seventy pounds to a man who cannot count to ten without a crayon. What is your excuse?”
Tristan dealt himself in, savoring the mechanical shuffle. “Work.”
Henry’s eyebrows rose. “I did not know work came in petticoats and witty remarks, but then, I am out of fashion.”
Tristan ignored the bait. “Have you seen Dawnford tonight?”
“Not yet. I expect he is out seducing the new opera singer, or plotting to steal your horse. Possibly both.”
