“Let me know if he surfaces,” Tristan said, arranging his cards. “I have unfinished business.”
Tristan had received word that Dawnford had sent Lavinia more flowers, and he wished to warn the man off. They played insilence for a time, but Henry, being Henry, could not let the silence endure.
“You look as if you are being shadowed by a ghost,” he said, folding his hand. “Or perhaps you have kissed one?”
Tristan did not reply.
Henry snorted. “So, it is a woman. I would not have guessed.”
“Then you are losing your touch,” Tristan said.
For three hands they played in silence, and Tristan’s mind supplied all manner of distraction: the scent of Lavinia’s hair, the stubborn angle of her mouth, the insufferable knowledge that she was—at this very moment—alone and unprotected in a world teeming with men like Lucien Ashwick.
It was Henry who broke first. “Why do you play like a man possessed?” he asked, flipping a queen onto the table. “Has the estate come to ruin, or is it only your conscience?”
“Neither,” Tristan replied, keeping his eyes on his cards.
Henry did not allow him the comfort of retreat. “You know, some men would be flattered by the devotion of such a woman.”
Tristan glared. “She is not devoted to me.”
“I do not mean Lady Lavinia. I mean Lady Montfort, who has made it her personal crusade to see you married to a woman of her choosing.”
Tristan grunted. “She will be disappointed.”
Henry fanned his cards. “You say that as if disappointment is not her favorite breakfast. But that is not the point. The point is, your constant mood swings are beginning to alarm theton.”
“Then thetonshould keep its opinions to itself.”
Henry watched him for a moment, the silence stretching. “You are not yourself.”
“I am very much myself,” Tristan replied.
Henry set his cards down, hands steepled. “You cannot bear to be bored, and yet you flee from anything that might amuse you. You hire Lady Lavinia to instruct your daughter, and then you cannot go a day without seeking her out. You claim to despise society, and yet here you are, surrounded by its worst offenders.”
Tristan shifted in his seat. “I enjoy cards.”
Henry laughed. “Not as much as you enjoy losing them, apparently.” He scooped up the pot and began shuffling for the next hand. “Is it Dawnford?”
Tristan did not answer.
“I hear he is making a nuisance of himself at every party,” Henry said, voice casual. “Last week he was seen at Lady Featherstone’s, drinking her cellars dry and making wagers on how many unmarried women he could ruin before the season ends.”
“He will not succeed,” Tristan said in a flat voice. He needed to know why Dawnford was after Lavinia.
“There is the man I remember.” Henry’s smile was genuine.
Tristan lost the next hand, then lost again. Henry sipped his Madeira and grinned. “You know, you could simply admit it. To me, at least.”
Tristan’s jaw clenched. “Admit what?”
“That you care,” Henry said, the words not quite a challenge.
“I care about my daughter.”
“And about Lady Lavinia?”
“She is an excellent teacher.”
