Lady Lavinia Pembroke
CHAPTER 30
My most cherished Lady Lavinia,
Words cannot contain the rapture that seized my breast upon reading your reply. From the first moment I beheld your form across the assembly floor, I knew Providence had destined us for one another. To be joined to such a woman is not merely an honor, but a benediction upon my life, and upon my house.
I will call at Pembroke Manor on Thursday, and have made arrangements for the ceremony to be performed at St. Anne’s within the week. My solicitors await your pleasure regarding settlements; rest assured, you need have no further worry about the Fairwick debts, or about your sister’s dowry.
Yours, in feverish anticipation,
Lucien, Lord Dawnford
Lavinia refolded the paper and laid it on the dressing table beside her hairpins. She pressed her fingers to her cheeks, as if it were possible to summon color by force of will alone.
But that did nothing to distract from the hollow space inside her. Nor did it prepare her for the heavy tread coming down the hallway; a sound like the approach of a particularly vengeful bailiff. The door crashed inward and scraped the rug with a squeal, then Lady Montfort filled the room in one sweep with her fan half-unfurled as if she might use it to duel the air itself.
“You cannot possibly be serious,” she announced, not waiting for the room to acknowledge her. “You have gone mad. It is the only explanation.”
“I assure you, Aunt Petunia,” Lavinia said, pinning the last of her hair, “I am in full possession of my faculties.”
“Then explain yourself.” The words snapped as sharply as the fan she brandished. “You accept Lord Dawnford, after weeks of spurning him, and only hours after he proposes to your sister? You must be deranged, or else possessed of the worst sort of pride.”
Lavinia turned from the mirror, smoothed the sleeve of her robe, and said, “Frances is not of age. She will not be for another year. As I told you, repeatedly, the match was never meant for her.”
Lady Montfort scoffed, her face contorting into a rictus of incredulity. “If you believe that, you are more of a fool than I suspected. Dawnford is now besotted with Frances.”
Lavinia refrained from responding to that and instead picked up the letter and extended it toward her aunt. “If you require confirmation, here is the correspondence. You are welcome to peruse the raptures at your leisure.”
Lady Montfort seized the letter as though it might struggle, and scanned its contents, the movement of her lips betraying her as she read. The seconds stretched. Then, as she neared the end, her eyes widened so far that the whites seemed ready to overtake the iris entirely.
“He intends to marry you by Thursday,” she said.
“That is the plan, yes.”
Lady Montfort set the letter down, and in that instant, Frances appeared in the doorway, drawn, perhaps, by the prospect of disaster. She hovered with her hands braced against the frame and eyes still faintly red from the day before.
“I am sorry,” Frances whispered, “I did not mean to interrupt?—”
“Nonsense,” Lady Montfort said, recovering her stride with a snap of her fan. “You are the star of this particular melodrama, my dear. Your sister hasgraciouslyoffered herself to Lord Dawnford.”
Frances’s gaze darted from Lavinia to her aunt, then back again. “You truly mean to marry him?”
Lavinia allowed herself a small, brittle smile. “I truly do.”
“But why?”
“Because,” Lavinia said, “it is the only option remaining.”
Lady Montfort’s mouth twitched. “Well, that is very noble of you,” she said, in a tone that implied the very opposite. “But I do hope you will not expect gratitude. Dawnford is a notorious libertine, and you are—” she broke off, as if the conclusion were so self-evident it required no articulation.
Lavinia supplied it anyway, “A well-worn spinster of declining value. Yes, I am familiar with the argument.”
Frances’s breath caught audibly. “You are not?—”
“Oh, hush, darling,” Lavinia said, crossing to her sister and smoothing the flyaway curls from her brow. “This is how the world works. Better you learn it from me than from any man.”
Lady Montfort clapped her hands, as if concluding a business deal. “Well, it is done, then. We must call for the modiste at once. It would not do to be married in mourning colors, however much they flatter your complexion. Perhaps the blue.”
