Tristan stood motionless for a full three seconds, then lunged forward, nearly catching Lavinia, who dodged with the agility of a cat. Sophia, stifling giggles, crept in a wide arc behind her father.
He pivoted; face unerringly pointed toward the sound of her laughter. "I know where you are," he intoned, advancing.
Lavinia called, "Remember, Lady Sophia, quiet as a church mouse!"
Sophia covered her mouth, but could not stifle a peal of laughter.
Tristan moved with sudden swiftness, his outstretched hand sweeping through the air until it landed gently on Sophia’s shoulder.
"Got you," he declared.
Sophia pulled off the scarf, her hair tousled. "You are very good at this, Father."
He shrugged, but his mouth curved in a genuine smile—brief, but unmistakable.
Lavinia could not look away. It was the first time she had seen him look anything but severe. The effect was startling. For an instant, she saw not the intimidating Duke, but a man, handsome and real and more vulnerable than she would ever have imagined.
"My turn," Lavinia said, forcing herself to break the moment.
She handed the scarf to Sophia, who approached with exaggerated ceremony. "Close your eyes," Sophia said, voice hushed with delight.
Lavinia obliged. The world went dark, and the faint scent of her own perfume mixed with the roughness of the silk. She heard Sophia's steps, then a long silence. "Are you still there?" she asked.
"Yes," Sophia replied, but her voice was much farther away.
Lavinia moved forward, arms extended. The soft grass underfoot gave way to the firmer stones of the garden path. She paused, listening, certain she heard a stifled laugh to the left.
She turned, but collided instead with something solid and warm.
Tristan’s hands closed around her upper arms, steadying her before she could topple. For a heartbeat, they stood pressed together—her body aligned with his, her heart pounding so loudly she was certain he could hear it.
He did not let go. His fingers tightened, and for a brief, unguarded moment, she felt the full strength of him—every muscle, every intent.
Then, as if the contact had burned him, he released her and stepped back.
Lavinia tore off the scarf, the world snapping back into focus. The Duke’s eyes were upon her, their blue depth unreadable.
Sophia was laughing, clapping, delighted by the conclusion.
Lavinia forced a laugh, aware that her cheeks were flushed.
"Well done, Lady Lavinia," Tristan said. "Your instincts are impressive."
She inclined her head. "Thank you, Your Grace."
A long silence followed. Sophia, still joyous, pirouetted in the grass, her fan abandoned on the stone bench.
"I believe we have taken enough air for one morning," the Duke said, voice controlled. "Shall we return to the house?"
Sophia nodded, already running ahead. Lavinia gathered her reticule and fans, refusing to glance at the Duke for fear of what she might see on his face.
They walked back in silence, the charged air between them thicker than ever.
If Lavinia had hoped the game might soften the Duke, she was wrong. It had only stripped away the pretense, leaving something raw and dangerous in its place.
Never again would she underestimate him.
Or herself.
