Lavinia groaned. “I have been undone by my own pride.”
Sophia was beside herself with glee. “Lady Lavinia is very good at poems. She once wrote a whole play about a hedgehog.”
“I will look forward to it,” Tristan said, a challenge behind the words.
They cleaned up the game, Sophia and Whisper chasing each other across the grass while Lavinia gathered the last of the plates. She glanced at Tristan, who watched his daughter with a look so open, so gentle, it startled her.
He caught her looking.
“What is it?” he said.
She shook her head, smiling. “I never thought to see you laugh, Your Grace.”
“I do not laugh,” he replied, but the denial rang hollow. “You are a very bad influence.”
“I pride myself on it,” she shot back.
He came to stand beside her, so near she could see the faint shadow along his jaw, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes. “You are different when you are not at war with the world,” he said.
She swallowed. “So are you.”
They stood like that, the world narrowed to a single point of tension, until Sophia’s voice interrupted: “Whisper is tired. May I put her in your lap, Lady Lavinia?”
Lavinia dropped her eyes. “Of course.”
They sat together, Sophia between them, Whisper curled up in a warm, contented heap. Lavinia stroked the cat, but her gaze kept drifting to Tristan, who had resumed his watchful silence.
She wondered, not for the first time, what it would be like if they could be like this always. If she could be part of this world, not just its temporary caretaker.
Sophia, nearly asleep, leaned her head against Lavinia’s shoulder. “You are the nicest lady I ever met,” she mumbled, eyes fluttering shut.
Lavinia blinked hard. “Thank you, darling.”
Sophia’s voice, muffled by drowsiness, said, “I wish you were my mama.”
There was a silence. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Sophia’s hand flew to her mouth, and her eyes grew huge with horror. “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean?—”
Tristan’s entire body seemed to go rigid, his jaw clenched, his eyes shuttered.
“Sophia,” he said, and his voice was so cold it could have frozen the sun, “Lady Lavinia is not and will never be your mother. Do you understand?”
Nodding, Sophia shrank into herself, clutching Whisper as if the cat might shield her from the storm.
Lavinia sat perfectly still, the folded blanket in her lap pressed tight against her chest. She could not look at either of them. She could only stare at the grass, willing herself not to feel.
Tristan stood abruptly, casting a long shadow across the blanket.
“Thank you for the meal,” he said. “We should go inside. The air is turning cold.”
Sophia scrambled up, clutching Whisper, her eyes on the ground. Lavinia rose, but her legs felt hollow.
They walked back in silence, the warmth and laughter of the picnic erased as if it had never been.
At the door, Tristan paused. He did not look at her, but his voice was softer. “I apologize. That was unkind.”
Lavinia nodded, but the words did not come.
