CHAPTER 3
“Here we are,” Tristan Lilacourt muttered as the carriage stopped in front of Madame Beaumont’s modiste shop.
He alighted first and clenched his jaw before helping his daughter, Sophia, from the carriage and escorting her inside.
The bell above the door announced their arrival with a cheerful tinkle that opposed his mood. Shopping for dresses ranked somewhere between attending poetry readings and enduring the House of Lords' most tedious debates on his list of preferred activities.
But Sophia needed her portrait dress, and since his daughter's last governess had departed in tears after only three weeks of employment, the duty fell to him.
He surveyed the fashionable establishment with its tall windows and displays of silks and satins, mentally calculating how quickly they might complete this necessary errand.
"Your Grace," a young woman in a neat gray dress curtseyed deeply before them, her voice pitched to the precise tone of deference required when addressing a duke. "We're honored by your patronage. Lady Sophia's appointment is noted in our ledger."
Sophia stood silently beside him, her small hand resting lightly on his arm. At twelve, she already possessed the quiet dignity that reminded him painfully of her mother—along with the same inability to truly connect with him. The thought tightened something in his chest.
"The private fitting salon, if you please," Tristan said, his words clipped and efficient.
The assistant's smile faltered. "I do apologize, Your Grace, but Lady Harrington and her daughters currently occupy our private salon. They arrived earlier than expected and?—"
"Then we shall return another day." Tristan turned to leave, more soothed than otherwise at the reprieve.
"Father," Sophia's soft voice stopped him. "The portrait sitting is tomorrow."
The assistant rushed to salvage the situation. "Our public salon is nearly empty, Your Grace—just one other party present. It's quite spacious, with separate fitting areas. Lady Sophia would have all the attention she requires."
Tristan paused, weighing his desire to escape against his daughter's needs. Sophia looked up at him with those solemn blue eyes and his resistance crumbled.
"Very well," he conceded with a curt nod.
The assistant's relieved smile returned as she gestured toward an archway draped with blue velvet. "This way, please."
As they entered the salon, Tristan's gaze immediately landed on two figures in the far corner. Lady Lavinia Pembroke stood with her back partially turned, her posture impeccable as always, while a younger girl—presumably her sister, Lady Frances—examined a bolt of pale-yellow muslin. Even from across the room, he recognized the elegant slope of Lady Lavinia's neck, the dark brown hair neatly arranged beneath a modest bonnet.
His fingers tightened imperceptibly around the handle of his walking stick. Of all the modistes in London, they had to select this one.
Lady Lavinia turned slightly, perhaps sensing his regard, and he watched the exact moment she registered his presence. Her spine, already straight, seemed to stiffen further, and she deliberately angled her body to shield her sister from view. The message was clear: Stay away.
"Lady Sophia, if you would step onto the platform," the assistant directed, guiding his daughter to a raised area surrounded by mirrors. "Madame Beaumont selected several silks based on your coloring. We'll begin with the draping to determine which best suits you for your portrait."
Tristan positioned himself at a respectful distance, his attention divided between his daughter and the Pembroke sisters. Sophia stood patiently as another assistant appeared with an armful of sumptuous fabrics in varying shades of blue and cream.
His eyes, however, continued to drift toward Lady Lavinia.
She moved with quiet authority as she guided her sister through the selection process, her voice carrying just enough to reach his ears.
"No, Frances, not like that. Hold it this way," she demonstrated, taking the fabric and rubbing it between her thumb and forefinger. "See how it feels? Too stiff for a summer dress. You want something with more movement."
Lady Frances nodded earnestly, mimicking her sister's movements. "Like this?"
"Precisely." Lady Lavinia's approval softened her features momentarily. "Now look at the weave—hold it up to the light. Do you see any irregularities?"
Tristan watched, increasingly intrigued, as she conducted an impromptu lesson in fabric selection. Lady Lavinia guided her sister with the same confidence and clarity he'd witnessed during their interview, but with a warmth he hadn't seen before. She was thorough, patient, and remarkably knowledgeable.
"A lady must appear confident in her selections, even when examining secondhand goods," Lady Lavinia instructed, her voice lowered but still audible to his sharp ears. "The shop assistants will take their cue from your demeanor. Never let them see uncertainty."
Her words carried the weight of hard-won experience, and Tristan found himself comparing her practical instruction to the fluttering, theoretical approaches of Sophia's previous governesses. None had lasted more than a few months, finding his daughter too self-contained and himself too demanding.
"Your Grace?" The assistant's voice pulled his attention back to his daughter. "Which do you prefer with Lady Sophia's complexion—the celestial blue or the pearl?"
