Page 99 of Duke of Sapphire

“Really?” Tristan shifted on the rug and reached for a slice of cold chicken. “What did I just say?”

Henry regarded him. “You proposed driving to Scotland twice a year instead of once.”

“That was ten minutes ago.” Tristan grinned. “Since then I have outlined a scheme to invest in a new mill, complained about the quality of London air, and remarked that your ward has the energy of three boys. You responded to none of it.”

Henry glanced toward the stream. Ian was racing across the grass, wooden sword in hand, shouting something to Tristan’s three-year-old son James about dragons. James toddled behind him, with the intent of keeping up, his curls bouncing with each step.

“They are entertaining,” Henry said.

“They are exhausting,” Tristan replied. He wiped his fingers on a napkin. “So. Why are you staring at your wife as if she is about to vanish?”

Henry’s eyes shifted, almost against his will. Across the picnic blanket, under the shelter of a broad oak, Charlotte sat with Lavinia and Sophia. Charlotte had removed her bonnet and set it beside the basket. Sun filtered through the leaves above, touching her hair. She was laughing at something Lavinia had said, one hand curved around a cup of lemonade.

Henry looked away. “I am not.”

“You are,” Tristan said. “You have been doing so for half the afternoon. In fact, I am inclined to believe your heart is succumbing to your wife.”

Henry reached for the ledger he had abandoned near the basket. “We are supposed to be enjoying a family outing.”

“I am enjoying it.” Tristan tipped his head back and closed his eyes. “My son is attempting to duel a stream. My daughter is enjoying a picnic. My wife is content. And my best friend is trying hard to pretend he is not losing his mind.”

Henry cut a slice of cheese with calm care. “I am quite composed.”

“Hmm.” Tristan watched Ian and James race past a clump of buttercups. “You know, when I married Lavinia, I did not spend our first months together staring from a distance like an admirer at a musicale. I spoke. I acted. I kissed her on purpose rather than by accident in a broom closet.”

Henry gave him a flat look. “This is not comparable.”

“You are married. She is your Duchess. You share a house, a carriage, and a ward. The situation is more than comparable.” Tristan leaned closer. “Henry. You care for her. Anyone with eyes can see it.”

Henry kept his gaze on the food. The hills rose gently beyond them, green rolling into paler sky, and a narrow stream cut through the meadow in a quiet line. Care for her. Certainly. She has brought the proverbial sunshine to a household that was bleak. She has steadied Ian. She has…

He stopped himself. “We have an arrangement.”

“Everything is an arrangement,” Tristan said. “Marriage merely adds paperwork.”

Henry did not smile. “This marriage is one of convenience. I have told you that.”

“Convenience does not explain why you look murderous when someone upsets her,” Tristan said. “Nor why you spent last week arguing with a solicitor about her jointure until he nearly cried.”

Henry’s hand stiffened on the knife. “The solicitor was incompetent.”

“Ah. Of course.” Tristan nodded, then plucked a strawberry. “You know what I have observed today?”

Henry did not ask. Tristan told him anyway.

“You have spoken to me. You have spoken to Lavinia. You have spoken to Sophia. You have scolded Ian twice and James once. And yet you have spent more time watching Charlotte than participating in any conversation.”

Henry’s jaw tightened.

I am not watching. I am…

He did not find a better word. “You imagine things.”

“I do,” Tristan agreed. “But even my imagination could not improve upon that scene.”

He gestured toward the oak. Charlotte was listening to Lavinia, eyes bright, head bent slightly. Sophia was arranging wildflowers in a small jug, her fingers deft.

Henry followed the motion before he caught himself. He looked away. “Lavinia wished for fresh air. I provided it.”