That did it. Dawnford lunged, catching her by both wrists and dragging her flush against him. “I will show you that you are not to be trifled with. And I will show that bloody Duke, too. No one can have you but me, do you understand?”
She tried to twist free, but his grip was unyielding, his breath sour on her cheek. “Let me go,” she said, “or I shall scream.”
He laughed again, but it was high and frantic. “Go ahead. Who will come for you, Lavinia? Your precious sister? The servants? You will be too ruined for any man!”
Tristan was shown into the drawing room, but instead of finding Lavinia there, he saw Lady Montfort and Lady Frances. Both looked up at once, and Lady Montfort leapt to her feet with the force of a pistol.
“Your Grace!” she trilled, arms wide as if expecting him to embrace her on the spot. “What a fortuitous delight! Frances and I were just remarking upon the singular charms of the morning. Weren’t we, Frances?”
Frances, who had gone even paler than usual, managed a nod. “Yes, Aunt.”
Tristan advanced to the hearth and planted his boots on the rug as if anchoring himself to the planet. “Lady Montfort. Lady Frances.”
“Tea!” Lady Montfort nearly shrieked at the footman, who bolted. “You have come to see Frances, I assume. Such gallantry. She is a delicate soul, is she not? A girl of rare sensibility.”
Tristan, who had not come to see Frances at all, ignored the comment. “Where is Lady Lavinia?”
Lady Montfort blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“I wish to speak with Lady Lavinia. Alone.” He drew a breath, steadying the words as if they were horses apt to bolt.
“Oh!” The woman’s eyes darted between the sisters, then back to Tristan. “I… why, that is quite out of the ordinary. Lavinia is not accustomed to such attentions, Your Grace. She is likely in the garden, as she prefers fresh air to society.”
He turned to Frances, who sat on the edge of her chair as if ready to leap into the nearest coal scuttle. “Is she in the garden?”
Frances nodded. “Yes. Near the rose arbor.”
He strode for the door. Lady Montfort scrambled after him, feathers bobbing. “Lord Dawnford is with her!” she called, voice going up an octave.
Tristan did not reply, but picked up his pace. Frances’s warning chased him down the hall: “Be careful, Your Grace!”
He reached the garden doors and flung one open, nearly taking it off its hinges. The wind stung his cheeks, the smell of cold earth and dormant roses strong enough to bring back childhood memories of punishment and resolve.
He saw them at once, Dawnford and Lavinia, near the farthest trellis, their bodies locked in what, at first, he dearly hoped was not an embrace. Then Lavinia wrenched her arm back, and Dawnford’s hand snapped forward to seize her wrist.
Tristan’s pulse went arctic.
He crossed the distance in twelve strides, grabbed Dawnford by the shoulder, and twisted him away from Lavinia with a force that surprised even himself.
The Earl staggered, spun, then recovered with a balled fist aimed straight for Tristan’s jaw. It was a good punch, well-aimed and full of intention. Unfortunately, it was met by the much better punch Tristan returned, which connected with Dawnford’s left eye and sent him sprawling onto the ground.
Lady Montfort appeared at the edge of the terrace, wailing “Oh! Oh!” and clutching her turban as if her skull might explode. Frances was right behind her.
Dawnford wiped his mouth, and the hand came away bloody. He looked at the spatter with a kind of morbid interest, then at Tristan. “You brute!” he began, but Tristan was already hauling him upright by the lapel.
“If I see you touch her again,” Tristan said, “I will leave you with less than your dignity.”
Dawnford spit into the grass, blood and bile in equal measure. “She is mine. She said yes.”
Tristan’s voice was low and lethal. “She has changed her mind.”
Dawnford looked to Lavinia, but she did not spare him a glance. She was clutching her own arm, face white as the marble statues that watched from the hedge.
Lady Montfort rushed forward, flapping her fan at them. “What are you doing? You are gentlemen! This is a family garden, not a prize ring!”
Dawnford yanked himself free, straightened his coat, and glared at Lavinia. “You are ruined,” he hissed. “No one will have you now.”
“That is not your concern,” Lavinia said.
