Tristan weighed the pendant, as if its story might tip the scale one way or the other. “She wore a mask as everyone did, but she danced with me once, and the conversation was… memorable. I did not know her name. She left this behind. I… kept it.” The confession sounded pitiful even as he said it.
Henry studied him, and the silence that followed was thick as cream. Then he said, “You have always been better with numbers than with chances, old friend.”
It was meant as a jest, but it landed like a blow.
Henry stretched, then straightened. “Are you certain she was not an apparition? The city is full of ghosts, these days.”
Tristan shook his head. “She was real.”
Henry’s gaze sharpened, and all trace of amusement was gone. “And what will you do if you see her again?”
Tristan said nothing.
Henry tapped a finger on the desk, then stood. “You look like a man who has just been offered a fortune, but suspects it is counterfeit. You are between two lives, Tristan. One of the past and one leading to your future.”
“You are a poet after all.” Tristan snorted.
“Hardly,” Henry replied, moving to the bookshelf. “But I know the difference between desire and despair, even if you do not.”
Tristan looked again at the pendant, its amethyst heart flashing in the light.
He thought of Lavinia’s hands, long and deft, the way she played the pianoforte. He thought of her mouth—sharp, but so quick to soften when she looked at Sophia.
He wondered what it would feel like to give her a gift like this pendant, in significance. To admit, even for a moment, that he wanted something outside the boundaries of duty.
You cannot. You made a vow. You promised yourself there would be no second time.
Tristan sighed and closed his eyes, unable to fathom why this pendant made him think of and long for Lavinia’s company. With another drawn-out sigh, he returned the amethyst to its pouch and locked it away.
It was impossible to calculate the cost of wanting Lavinia, but he suspected it would bankrupt him entirely.
Yet still he wanted her. More than anything.
CHAPTER 29
“Frances. What happened? Are you ill?”
Lavinia rushed to her sister, who was slumped upon the chaise, her cheeks stained and hair half undone, and a handkerchief clutched in one hand. The remains of a tea service sat beside her: a single scone untouched, the pot long gone cold, three cups set out for company that had apparently not improved anything.
Frances, who rarely cried, sniffled, tried to speak, and only managed, “Oh, Lavinia, I wish you had not gone.”
Lavinia slid onto the edge of the chaise and wrapped her arms around her sister, brushing the damp hair off her brow. Frances curled into her like she was a child again, as if Lavinia could shield her from whatever new disaster had befallen them.
“I was only away for the morning,” Lavinia said, abandoning her own sadness over how her picnic with Tristan and Sophia had ended. “Whatever occurred, I shall fix it.”
Frances burrowed into Lavinia’s shoulder. “You cannot,” she said, voice muffled.
“That is what you always say before I resolve it.” Lavinia summoned her sternest tone. “Who came? Who upset you?”
After a moment, Frances sat up, scrubbing her face with her handkerchief. “Lady Montfort. She came while you were gone. She… she was sent by Lord Dawnford.”
Lavinia’s stomach dropped. “And what does that man want now?”
“Lord Dawnford is determined to marry into a noble house. She says… he wishes to make me the Countess of Dawnford.”
For a second, all Lavinia could do was stare at the note. The words on the page swam in and out of focus. “You? But—he’s been hounding me for weeks. I thought?—”
“I thought so, too!” Frances’s voice cracked, and a new wave of tears threatened. “But Lady Montfort said he’s had a change of heart, and that you are too old, and too… too—” She gulped, unable to finish.
