Lavinia did not look at him, but instead concentrated on slicing an apple. “It is said that ladies ought to speak only when spoken to. I am merely practicing.”
He raised a brow. “I thought you had no patience for empty convention.”
“Then you are not paying attention,” she said, biting the tip of her tongue before the rest could escape.
He did not press, but the silence between them felt charged, as if an argument might break out at any moment—or something else, equally impossible.
Sophia returned, arms filled with wildflowers. “Look! I made a crown for Whisper.” She plopped the daisy chain onto the kitten’s head, to the cat’s obvious displeasure.
“Fit for a prince,” Lavinia said.
Sophia wriggled closer, her shoulder pressed warm against Lavinia’s. “I wish you would make one, too. Then we could both be queens and Whisper would be our prince.”
“I would have made you a queen long ago if I had thought you wished it,” Lavinia replied, picking up a handful of daisies and beginning to braid.
Tristan watched, and for a second, Lavinia caught the expression on his face: something wistful, something lonely, something so raw it nearly broke her heart.
The moment passed as quickly as it arrived.
After the remains of the meal were tidied, Lavinia produced a small set of painted wooden rings from her basket. “Perhaps, now that we are all sated, a game?” She set the rings and the little peg in the grass.
Sophia squealed. “Ring toss! I have not played since I was very little.”
“Neither have I,” Lavinia replied. “But I have read the instructions, so we are all on even ground.”
Tristan eyed the rings with skepticism. “I am not convinced this is dignified.”
“Dignity is not required at a picnic,” Lavinia replied, meeting his gaze. “Only competitive spirit. Are you willing to risk your reputation for the chance at glory?”
He considered. “I am a duke. My reputation is immune.”
Sophia giggled, and even Lavinia allowed herself a small laugh.
“Shall we begin?” she said, dividing the rings with the gravitas of a magistrate.
They took turns, Sophia going first. Her ring landed wide of the mark, but she laughed and tried again. Lavinia demonstrated, missing spectacularly, which sent Sophia into spasms of mirth.
When it was Tristan’s turn, he examined the ring, then tossed it without much enthusiasm. The ring landed, with a soft thump, squarely over the peg.
Sophia clapped. “Father! You did it!”
He allowed himself the smallest of smiles.
Lavinia pursed her lips. “Beginner’s luck.”
Tristan cocked a brow. “Would you care to make a wager?”
“Wagering is a sin,” Lavinia replied, “but if I lose, I will compose a poem in your honor and recite it at supper.”
Sophia grinned. “What if Lady Lavinia wins?”
Tristan’s eyes met hers, daring and unblinking. “Then I will permit Whisper to join us at dinner. On the table.”
Sophia’s mouth fell open in delight. “Agreed!”
They played three rounds, the tension mounting as each ring landed—or didn’t—with increasingly wild results. Lavinia’s second throw landed on the peg, but her third skidded past by a foot. Tristan matched her, then surpassed her, earning the win on the final toss.
“A poem,” he reminded her, “at supper.”
