Chapter 12 #2
"Very good. Now, raise it to just below your eyes—yes, like that. If you wish to signal interest, keep the fan partially open and flutter it slowly. If you wish to signal disinterest, snap it closed." Lavinia snapped hers with a soft, ladylike click.
Sophia imitated her, first fluttering, then closing the fan. The closing motion was clumsy and resulted in the fan falling into her lap.
"An excellent attempt," Lavinia said. She picked up the fan and returned it. "You will improve with practice, I promise."
Tristan watched, face unreadable, but Lavinia noticed the way his eyes followed Sophia’s movements, the slight narrowing when she dropped the fan, and the infinitesimal relaxation when she laughed at her own mistake.
"Next," Lavinia said, "if you wish to signal a friend across a crowded room, you cover half your face with the fan and incline your head. Like so." She performed the move, eyes peeking over the top of the lace, then looked to Sophia for her attempt.
Sophia did it perfectly on the first try.
"Well done," Lavinia praised. "You would have been the envy of Almack’s in my debut season."
Sophia glanced at her father, who offered no praise, but also no censure. This alone seemed to embolden her.
"Would you like to try a conversation?" Lavinia suggested. "We could pretend to be at a ball."
"Yes," Sophia replied, the most enthusiasm she had shown in days.
"Very well. I am Lady Sophia, and you are Lady Lavinia."
Sophia’s eyes sparkled. "Lady Lavinia, I hear you danced the cotillion with Lord Montague last evening."
Lavinia batted her fan. "I did, but he trod on my toe four times. I should have preferred Lord Sedgewick—he is light as a feather."
"Lady Lavinia!" Sophia gasped, then laughed.
Lavinia shrugged, performing a perfect fan flutter. "One must be honest in these matters."
A shadow fell across the bench as Tristan leaned in closer.
"Ladies," he said, "is this the proper use of a fan?"
"Perfectly proper," Lavinia replied. "We are practicing conversation. Would you care to join us, Your Grace?"
He inclined his head. "I am not skilled in the use of fans."
"You may substitute a handkerchief," Lavinia offered. "Or simply your hand, if you are so inclined."
Sophia looked between them, then to her father. She closed her fan. "Father, would you like to play a game with us?"
Lavinia glanced at the Duke, unsure if he would acquiesce or dismiss the idea as childish nonsense.
He said, "What game?"
"Blind Man's Bluff," Lavinia answered quickly, seizing the moment. "It is excellent for teaching balance and composure under unexpected circumstances. All that is required is a scarf."
Sophia’s face lit with delight. "May we, Father?"
He looked directly at Lavinia, a single eyebrow arching. "Is this part of your instruction?"
"Indirectly," Lavinia said. "But I find indirect methods are often the most effective."
There was a pause so long that Lavinia feared she had overstepped, but finally, the Duke nodded. "Very well. Proceed."
Lavinia withdrew a silk scarf from her reticule—a pale green, shot through with silver threads, once her mother's favorite—and turned to Sophia. "Would you like to be the first?"
Sophia nodded.
"Very well, close your eyes." Lavinia tied the scarf around Sophia’s head, careful not to catch her hair. "Can you see anything?"
Sophia giggled. "No."
"You must catch one of us, and only by sound." Lavinia stepped back, and the Duke did the same, though his arms remained folded.
"Begin," Lavinia called.
Sophia took two cautious steps forward, arms extended, her footfalls muffled by the grass. She veered left, then right, her hands waving like a divining rod. The Duke, for his part, remained perfectly still, so Sophia drifted toward Lavinia, who retreated with exaggerated care.
Sophia’s hands brushed the edge of Lavinia’s skirt.
"Got you!" Sophia cried, triumphant.
"Very good," Lavinia said, clapping. "You may remove the scarf."
Sophia did, her face red but glowing. "Now Father’s turn!"
Tristan appeared startled by the prospect, but Sophia’s hopeful expression was impossible to refuse.
"Very well," he said, extending his hand for the scarf.
Lavinia approached him, and for a moment, as she tied the scarf over his eyes, she was acutely aware of how close they stood, the warmth radiating from him, the scent of sandalwood and shaving soap. His jaw flexed as she secured the knot.
"Can you see anything, Your Grace?"
He shook his head. "Not a thing."
Lavinia fought the urge to smile, then addressed Sophia. "You must be very quiet, Lady Sophia. He is a predator, and you are the prey."
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.