Henry snorted. “I have seen the way you look at her. It is not the look of a headmaster impressed by a well-executed lesson plan.”
Tristan glared, but the effect was ruined by the kick in his chest, and the movement of his throat as he swallowed. Henry did not miss it. “You are a child, Evermere. Or a saint. Possibly both.”
“I am neither.”
“Why not do something about it?”
“It is not so simple.”
“Of course it is. You want her. She wants you. The only people in doubt are the two of you, and possibly the cat.”
“You know my vow?—”
“Which makes no sense!”
Tristan was spared from replying by the arrival of the very man we were seeking. Lord Dawnford looked like sin in a cravat, his hair oiled to a dark gleam, his mouth set in a perpetual smirk. He did not bother with the forms of greeting, but locked eyes with Tristan as if the rest of the world were window dressing.
“Well, if it isn’t His Grace,” Dawnford said, swinging his cane like a polished scoundrel. “I was just telling young Rowley here how much I admired your—what is the word? —discipline.”
Tristan did not respond.
Dawnford plucked a card from the table and examined it. “So rare, these days, to find a man of principles. Particularly among the peerage.”
Henry watched, the corners of his mouth twitching disgust. Dawnford leaned in, placing both hands on the back of Tristan’s chair. “Tell me, Evermere: how do you do it? How do you keep your appetites so thoroughly in check?”
Tristan looked at him. “What contention have you with me?”
“Oh, you know it.” Dawnford’s gaze roved the room, then returned to Tristan. “For instance, I hear your daughter has a new governess. Or is it a companion? I never quite understand the distinctions. The rules are always so… fluid.”
Tristan’s hand closed around his glass tightly.
“I do find Lady Lavinia remarkable,” Dawnford said, voice dropping. “I have half a mind to make her anoffer. Or perhaps not quite half a mind, if you know what I mean.”
The room went silent. Even the clatter of dice from the far table stopped, as if the very air had congealed. Henry did not move. He watched Tristan, as if waiting for a volcano to erupt.
Tristan stood, slowly and controlled. “You will stay away from her.”
Dawnford laughed, a sound as brittle as glass. “Or what?”
“Or you will regret it.”
Dawnford leaned in, his breath sour with liquor. “She is not yours to protect.”
Tristan met his gaze. “If you ever speak her name again, you will not leave this club intact.”
Dawnford’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. He straightened his coat, made a show of smoothing his lapel, and then turned to the crowd.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “I am off to more congenial company. Some of us have better things to do than lose at cards all night.”
He strode from the room, and the moment he was gone, the noise rushed back, louder than before.
Henry broke the silence. “Well. That was bracing.”
Tristan sat, hands trembling, and reached for his glass. Henry dealt another hand, the sound sharp and decisive. “You know,” he said, “if you ever decide to be less of a saint and more of a man, I would bet on your success.”
Tristan ignored the cards. He stared at the table, the lines of wood blurring into a map of all the places he could not go.
“I am not a saint,” he said.
