Henry smiled. “Then prove it.”
CHAPTER 27
“You need not fuss with the napkins, My Lady. His Grace does not notice such things,” Mrs. Woods chuckled as she fussed with the napkins herself.
She hovered at the edge of the blanket with a covered basket in one hand and a suspiciously maternal expression on her face. “But the jam tartlets are a point of pride, so do make certain they are on display.”
Lavinia, who was on her knees arranging a pair of willow plates, spared the housekeeper a wry glance. “If he does not notice, then it hardly matters whether they are present at all, does it?”
Mrs. Woods wagged a finger in the sort of gesture usually reserved for recalcitrant footmen. “A proper picnic is a matter of pride in this household. Besides, Lady Sophia has been a cloud of nerves since breakfast. If you can distract her for even an hour, you will have done a world of good. More than her father ever manages, I dare say.”
Lavinia hid her smile by straightening the edge of the blanket, ensuring not a single blade of grass peeked over the tartan. “You must let me know if I am to add picnic impresario to my duties. I should like to update my references accordingly.”
Mrs. Woods laughed, then ducked her head and hurried away, leaving Lavinia alone beneath the vast oak and its summer-gold canopy.
The breeze was gentle, the morning warm and golden.If it were always like this,she thought,life would be bearable.She brushed a speck from her dress and reached for the basket, arranging the contents with the sort of care that would have made her own mother proud.
Stop it. It’s only a picnic. You are not arranging the terms of the Treaty of Paris.
She had just finished pouring lemonade into the glasses when footsteps announced the approach of Sophia and, a few yards behind, His Grace. Lavinia’s cheeks prickled with warmth. She rose, curtsied, and hoped the flush did not betray her.
“Lady Lavinia,” Tristan said. Today, he wore his usual black, but his cravat was not so fiercely knotted. The sight of him so unadorned sent a quick, inexplicable pang through her. His eyes scanned the blanket, the food, the basket, and finally landed on her, registering the effort with a barely perceptible nod. “You appear to have outdone yourself.”
“It is only a meal,” Lavinia replied, refusing to betray the nervous flutter in her stomach. “But Mrs. Woods assures me the tartlets are epochal.”
Tristan allowed the smallest of smiles, the sort that would have gone unnoticed by anyone else. “I suppose we must all aspire to greatness.”
Sophia, meanwhile, had abandoned protocol entirely and dashed to the blanket. “Is that lemonade?” She kneeled, her hands braced on the fabric, and peered into every dish as if a treasure might be hidden inside.
“Do you see anything else you recognize?” Lavinia prompted, letting her tone conspire with the girl’s excitement.
Sophia’s eyes grew huge. “You brought Whisper!” The kitten, having been hidden in a pocket of the basket, poked his head out and promptly attempted to scale the rim. Sophia scooped him up and cradled him with the intensity of one rescuing an orphan from certain peril.
Tristan’s mouth twitched. “I was under the impression animals were not allowed at table.”
“Picnics are exempt from such rules,” Lavinia replied. “Provided the animal in question promises not to upend the lemonade.”
“Whisper would never,” Sophia declared, rubbing her cheek against the kitten’s downy head.
They all settled, Lavinia at one end of the blanket, Sophia in the middle with Whisper, and Tristan at the other. The seating was not so much arranged as negotiated, with each of them pretending it was the natural order of things.
As they began to eat, Lavinia’s mind was a jumble of misbehaving thoughts. This picnic was creating a moment so intimate that she did not anticipate it. The effect was both thrilling and unnerving.
Sophia, face flushed, immediately set about feeding Whisper small morsels of cheese, cooing nonsense the whole while. Tristan took a scone, examining it as if it might reveal the secrets of the universe, and bit in. Lavinia watched him out of the corner of her eye, determined not to be caught staring.
He glanced over. “You are not eating.”
She started, then reached for a tartlet. “I was merely ensuring Sophia did not overfeed the cat.”
“Whisper has a constitution stronger than most of the House of Lords,” Sophia declared, already reaching for a second cube of cheese. “Lady Lavinia says cats are built for adversity.”
“Lady Lavinia is frequently correct,” Tristan said, his attention focusing on her.
Lavinia colored and busied herself with the plate.
For a few minutes, the world shrank to the gentle business of eating, with Sophia providing a running commentary on every flavor and texture, and Tristan consuming his food in disciplined silence. It was not until Sophia had worn herself out with the kitten and begun making daisy chains in the grass that the real conversation began.
“You are very quiet today,” Tristan observed, low enough that Sophia could not overhear. “It is unusual.”
