He shook his head, as if refusing to be serious. “You make it easy to forget oneself, sometimes.”
She smiled, and for the first time, he smiled back, openly and unreservedly. The effect was devastating.
They entered the dining room together, Lady Montfort just ahead, already composing a critique of the table settings. As they sat, Lavinia felt the Duke’s gaze on her. It was not a demand, nor a test. It was simply there, waiting for her to acknowledge it.
She did, and in that moment, she realized she was no longer waiting for disaster.
It had already passed. What came next was something else entirely.
Frances surveyed the place setting with a kind of reverence. “I have never seen so many forks,” she said, voice lowered as if she might be overheard by the cutlery itself.
Sophia, seated beside her, whispered back, “Father says it is a test to see who can use the right one.”
“It is a very cruel test,” Frances replied, earning a conspiratorial giggle from Sophia.
Lady Montfort, at Lavinia’s right, took in the spectacle with a critical eye. She set her napkin in her lap with the deliberation of a surgeon prepping for a complicated procedure. “The china is Derby,” she observed, “though the stemware is continental. I prefer English glass, but I suppose one must indulge the latest fashion.”
Tristan, at the far end, met her statement with a slight incline of his head. “I shall instruct the housekeeper to burn the French and order more suitable replacements.”
Lady Montfort almost smiled. “Not necessary. It is merely an observation.”
Lavinia tried not to gawk, but it was difficult. Each course arrived with mechanical precision, borne in by an army of footmen who managed to look both invisible and omniscient. The food was perfect, the wine almost too good for conversation.
But it was Frances who made the dinner sparkle.
She listened to Sophia’s every word, responded to her stories about Whisper’s escapades as if they were the stuff of epic poetry, and even got Lady Montfort to reminisce about a childhood pet—a cat who, apparently, had once bested the Earl of Montfort in a staring contest.
Sophia, emboldened by Frances’s kindness, began telling stories that grew more outrageous with each retelling. “Whisper once ate a whole roast quail,” she said. “Cook was so angry, she made Father eat herring pie for a month.”
“That is not true,” Tristan said. “It was only a week, and the herring was for my own health. Or so I was led to believe.”
Frances clapped her hands. “He is a very clever cat. He should be in Parliament.”
“He might improve it,” Lady Montfort remarked, her tone almost indulgent.
Between courses, Lavinia caught herself watching Tristan. He was different tonight. Less armor, more man. He let Sophia dominate the conversation, let Frances charm the entire table, and even allowed Lady Montfort’s barbed critiques to pass unchallenged.
When he spoke, it was usually to amplify Sophia’s jokes or to turn Frances’s wry observations back at her. “You must forgive Evermere’s lack of subtlety,” he said once, when Frances admired the ceiling’s frescoes. “My father believed that if a guest was not in awe, they would not respect the host. I suspect you are not so easily impressed.”
Frances tilted her head. “I am impressed, but I do not think fear is necessary. Respect comes from kindness, or at least, that’s what Lavinia says.”
Sophia nodded, eyes huge. “That’s what Lady Lavinia tells me, too.”
Lady Montfort sent a look down the table that might have curdled the wine, but said nothing. Tristan only replied, “I shall endeavor to be more frightening, then.”
The meal continued, the air growing easier, lighter. It was as if the tablecloth itself absorbed the weight of old grievances and replaced them with something brighter.
Until Whisper appeared.
He materialized beneath the table, made his way along the guests’ feet, and began an all-out assault on Sophia’s ankles. She stifled a shriek, but it turned into a stream of giggles when the kitten surfaced, climbed onto her lap, and—without warning—leapt onto the table itself.
He landed squarely among the serving spoons, looked around as if daring anyone to challenge him, and promptly began licking the butter from the nearest plate.
Lady Montfort gasped. Frances clapped a hand over her mouth. Sophia’s giggle exploded, uncontainable, and she ducked her head to hide her face.
Lavinia, mortified, reached for the cat, but Tristan simply raised an eyebrow. “It seems our royal guest could not wait for dessert,” he said.
Sophia nearly toppled from her chair laughing, and even Lady Montfort’s face threatened to split in two. The entire table dissolved into helpless, honest laughter, the kind that lingered long after decorum tried to reassert itself.
