Page 125 of Lord Hartwell’s Refuge

Tamsin curled her fingers around his. “Yes,” she said. “I think I do.”

Roman nodded once. “Then I shall try not to terrify the man when I inquire after his intentions.”

That startled a snort-laugh from her, causing a blush—and she refused to acknowledge the undignified sound. “How generous of you, Lord Hartwell.”

“I make no promises regarding Lyness’s reaction, though.”

“Naturally.” Lyness was, between the two of them, far less intimidating anyway.

The carriage slowed before their home and Roman did not release her hand after he helped her step down from the carriage, guiding her inside.

By the evening of the Christmas assembly, Daphne had changed her mind about her hair three times.

Tamsin learned this when Pearl sent a note earlier in the week, though the fact that Daphne had nearly cried over a torn glove was intelligence shared by Seraphina. She learned from her stepmother that one of the carriage lamps had been troublesome, from Leopold that the rooms would be unbearably crowded, and from her father that a flock of red-headed smew had been reported not twelve miles outside York. He had much rather go see them than attend the assembly ball, but Charles had promised to go with him on Boxing Day instead.

And none of these things required Tamsin to do anything.

She arrived at the assembly on Roman’s arm, and appearing there at all felt strange enough. She had not attended one of these events in ages, having told everyone she preferred to stay home with her younger siblings. It was easier that way, she had claimed. Mostly due to the fact she had long since put herself on the shelf.

For years, rooms such as this had existed on the far side of an invisible boundary. Her sisters belonged beneath the chandeliers, in the press of music and color and conversation; Tamsin belonged somewhere behind them, making certain gloves were mended, hems secure, flowers ordered, nerves soothed, and everyone else sent properly into the world.

Tonight she entered from another direction entirely; not as the responsible sister, but as a baroness. Lady Hartwell.

Roman spoke to someone inside the door and Tamsin waited beside him, listening with half an ear while she searched the room. She found Daphne near their mother—rose-pink gown with lace after all.

Her sister was pale.

Tamsin’s old instincts rose at once. She ought to go to her. Daphne would be frightened. Anne would be overwhelmed. Someone had to do something useful⁠—

Daphne looked across the room and saw Tamsin. Her face brightened and she waved.

Tamsin smiled, and stayed where she was. Everything was perfectly all right.

Roman finished his conversation, and when he turned his attention back to her, his brows drew together. “Is it your sister?”

“Yes. She looks nervous, but happy.”

“Should we go to her?”

We.

Tamsin beamed. “Yes, I would like that.”

They crossed the room together, and Daphne seized both of Tamsin’s hands the moment they reached her. “You came.”

“Of course I came.”

“Mama says I must stop fidgeting.”

“I am afraid so.” Daphne stared at her, and Tamsin lowered her voice. “You will ruin your gloves otherwise.”

That produced the needed laugh.

Anne immediately began explaining that Daphne had hardly eaten, the carriage had been late, Pearl had misplaced a ribbon, and Mr. Mayweather⁠—

“Tamsin!” Matilda appeared at Tamsin’s other side with the precise timing of divine intervention—or perhaps merely the timing of a very close friend. She kissed Tamsin’s cheek and turned at once to Daphne. “Miss Daphne, you look exquisite.”

Daphne blushed. “You truly think so?”