He had seen the way Lavinia's spine straightened, her lips parting as if to speak before she pressed them together, locking whatever thought had risen. Her jaw tightened, her fingers twitching slightly where they rested against his shoulder. She was upset.
He had not meant to scold her. He wasn't even sure what had driven him to say it in the first place. It was only the truth, wasn't it? She was his wife.
His duchess.
The final notes of the waltz played, drawing their dance to a close. He let go of her hand, the absence of her touch felt colder than he’d expected. He cleared his throat. "Thank you for the dance, Your Grace."
Lavinia said nothing in response and curtsied. Then, she turned, walking away without so much as a backward glance.
Andrew exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair.
Deep down, he knew he should be relieved that this might finally create the distance they needed, that she might now think twice before stepping too close, before looking at him with those searching eyes, before making him question everything he had told himself about this marriage.
But instead, he was starting to believe that the ache in his chest had been jealousy all along.
Andrew straightened and shook his head, trying to ward off the thoughts swirling in his mind. It was then that he felt it...an unmistakable sensation, the prickling awareness of being watched.
As he turned, something—or someone—caught his attention from the corner of his eye. A figure lingering just beyond the edge of the ballroom, half-hidden in the dim glow of the chandeliers. The presence was fleeting, barely there, yet unmistakably focused on him.
But the moment Andrew shifted his gaze, the figure slipped into the shadows, disappearing into a darkened corner of the hall.
His brows furrowed, but he forced himself to let it go. There were enough things troubling him tonight and he had no patience for ghosts lurking in the dark.
With a measured breath, he made his way back to Victor, willing himself not to think about Lavinia.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
For two days, Lavinia had neither seen nor spoken to her husband. And not for lack of trying.
For two days, she had been trapped in a storm of emotions, a whirlwind of frustration, hurt, and something else she refused to name. She had not seen Andrew. Not at breakfast, not in the afternoons when he sometimes retreated to his study, and certainly not in the evenings when they were supposed to endure each other's company before retiring to their separate chambers.
It was as though he had vanished into thin air. And it infuriated her.
He had not even granted her the courtesy of an argument. Just silence. A deliberate, calculated silence that settled over the house like an unwelcome chill.
She should hate him. For the things he had said, for the way he had spoken to her at the ball, for how effortlessly he had shut her out again. But, infuriatingly, she did not.
Instead, she worried.
Had something happened? Had she driven him away by agreeing to dance with another gentleman at the ball? Was this what their marriage would be? A ghost of a union, bound by duty but divided by an unspoken chasm neither of them could cross?
Lavinia's fingers tightened around the embroidery in her lap she had been working on all day. The needle slipped through the fabric with a force that she had placed, but not calculated, causing the thread to snap.
With a huff, she tossed the ruined piece aside. Enough was enough.
If Andrew thought he could disappear into the shadows of their home and leave her to wallow in uncertainty, he was gravely mistaken.
Tonight, she would find him. And he would face her, whether he wished to or not.
Lavinia scoured the house for what felt like an eternity as the frustration mounting inside her made every passing minute feel stretched beyond reason.
Her irritation sharpened into something resembling indignation when every room yielded nothing. Had he truly taken such lengths to avoid her?
By the time she reached the east wing, her patience had waned. The air was cooler here, the halls quieter, and the first place she thought to look was the study. It wasn't the study he typically used—in fact, Lavinia was certain she had never seen him inside that study before as it had been used by the late duke.
Steeling herself, Lavinia strode forward, and when she finally found him, standing rigid before the painting of his father, she realized that anger was not the only thing fueling her.
She had been searching for him not just out of frustration, but out of something dangerously close to concern.