“Well,” I interject, standing up from the garden bench, “I must be off.”
“And where might you be off to?” he teases, following suit in his rise.
“I am to attend to my own personal affairs, Nikkolas,” I assert, gesturing to myself. “You might consider doing the same.” Although I wasn’t to be conversing with said lord anytime soon, I could at least contemplate my options within the silence of my room.
“Hmmph, as you wish then, Avalor,” he replies, particularly nonchalantly. Though I find his response irregularly acquiescent, I’m not too keen on dwelling on his behavior any further. There are simply other matters that outweigh this discrepancy. Turning back to the bench, I spot my hat still seated. As I reach out to procure it though, I take notice of a hand motioning to do the same. My fingertips only just graze the boater when it is swiped before me. Peering up at the would-be criminal, I’m annoyed to see a familiar smirk cross his face.
“Nikkolas,” I say delicately, meaning to address his thievery, “What are you doing with my hat?”
“It’s as you said, Avalor,” he replies, bringing the headwear close to seemingly examine it, “I’m to attend to my own personal affairs.” His mockery of my words makes me doubtful of his initial concurrence.
“Forgive me,” I ask flatly, raising a brow at him, “but am I to presume you have plans that involve my hat?”
“No, it is rather that I have plans with the owner of this hat,” he affirms, tilting his head at me.
“Yes, well, it would appear you might have to postpone,” I assert, reaching out to grab my boater, “As I have other matters to attend to.”
“Matters that don’t involve me?” he smirks, pulling his hand away from my advance, “Yet you said you must attend to your personal affairs.” As His Grace begins treading backwards, I follow him in pursuit. “Tell me, Avalor, am I not personal to you?” he prods. Ignoring him, I take another try at seizing my headwear from his clutches. He steps back in my approach, dangling in front of me what is rightfully mine.
“You most certainly are, Nikkolas,” I quip, attempting to snatch my hat, “but you misinterpret the conditions of my affairs.”
“Have I now?” he teases, leading us to venture outside the garden gate, with my boater in tow, “Perhaps, you won’t mind enlightening me?”
“And enlighten you how?” I prod, taking a step forward for every step he takes back. “For I will say it is with great certainty,” I contend, finding contempt with every failure to procure my hat, “that it is rather your commitment to misunderstanding me that perpetuates your misguidedness.”
“But, Avalor,” he smirks, holding it up above his head, “How is it that you persist in thinking we don’t have plans, when it is so dreadfully apparent that we do?” I furrow my brows at him as I take in our surroundings. Having guided me towards a lone tree, he stands back to reveal a white blanket draped across the grassy field. On top lies a woven basket, along with a bottle of wine leaning up against its side. Motioning to sit down, he balances his weight with his hand over the cloth, before lying back in his seat. He smiles up at me expectantly, lightly tossing my hat down as bait. “Come and join me,” he says encouragingly. In my scan of his premeditation, I struggle to relax my narrowed gaze.
“Might these be the plans you were so intent on having,” I tease, not certain how else I might distract my heart’s hastened pace.
“Has it just now occurred to you?” he prods playfully, before raising a brow at me. “Pretell, are you so intent on merely watching rather than engaging with me on our picnic?” My decision to stay standing remains firm, though it does mellow into a lean against the tree.
“Perhaps I am,” I suggest slyly, eyeing the basket, “What might you have brought out here, then?”
“Hmmph,” he retorts. “That sounds like information that would only pertain to a guest of the festivity, yet there you are,” he says, tilting his head up at me, “seemingly undecided in partaking.”
“Well,” I start, bending into a crouch to procure my hat, “I was merely lured here on the basis of returning with the boater I left with.”
“But perhaps you might stay for at least a meal?” he continues, reaching out to set his hand over mine. My eyes dart towards the unwelcome gesture, finding discomfort in the warmth of his touch.
“For at least a meal…” I consider, before a smirk dares to creep over my lips. “Maybe,” I suggest, following the sentiment with a mirror of his shrug.
“Then…” he suggests, softening his gaze at the potential of my acquiescence, “You’ll join me?”
“I wouldn’t be so sure, Nikkolas,” I interject haughtily whilst adjusting my headwear. “Now,” I pause, tilting my head upon his hint of a frown, “more often than not, a lady might oblige if she can be convinced.” I motion to sit down, balancing myself with my palms against the blanket. “So tell me Nikkolas, is that what this is?” I ask shrewdly, gesturing to the picnic he so delightfully laid out before me, “Are you attempting to persuade me?”
“That such a lady might be deserving of the fruits of courtship?” he suggests, leaning closer to me, “I would think so.”
“Hmmph,” I retort, with a crude smile, “But wouldn’t you assume such labor falls into the category of fickle pretenses?” He perks up on my recycling of his own words, seemingly disheartened by the implication.
“Not at all, Avalor,” he insists, with the shake of his head. “You misunderstand, I prepared this not under the expectation that I should,” he professes, “but rather based on the intrinsic desire to.”
“So then,” I prod, grazing my fingertips over the white cloth, before peering up at him, “This has nothing to do at all with our institution’s standard of impressing upon your beloved to be?”
“Of course not,” he replies in his assertion, seemingly oblivious to the irony.
“Alright,” I say, acknowledging the young duke might have just forgotten his place within the peerage I had previously voiced my loath for, “then I shall stay.”
“Perfect.”
“Yes, perfect,” I repeat tauntingly, tilting my head in emphasis. I draw my gaze towards the bottle leaning against the basket, curious of the liquor’s light color. “Nikkolas,” I interject, raising the supposed wine to examine it better in the sunlight. “This appears to be champagne,” I remark, raising a brow at him, “Is this not reserved especially for celebrations?”
“Well, yes,” he replies plainly, “But I thought you might prefer it.”
“You thought I might prefer it?” I ask, considering how out of place the sparkling wine is, “Perhaps it’s merely my imagination, but I wouldn’t presume I’d be the one to inform you that it’s not quite customary for a picnic, Nikkolas.”
“And while that may ring true for most outings, Avalor,” he alludes, “I have found that ours just doesn’t suit the habits of most.”
“How’s that?”
“Well,” he continues, lifting the lid of the picnic basket, “it would appear that your taste regards a liking for champagne.” Holding it open, he withdraws two glasses. “So, as opposed to something more traditional like a red wine, I thought it would make more sense to procure something that you might actually enjoy.”
“Ah,” I answer, realizing he must have taken note of my apparent craving for the bubbly liquor at last night’s ball. “So you remembered, then?”
“Well,” he replies, releasing the bottle from my grasp, “I can’t fathom it’d serve either of us for me to have brought wine, instead.” “So,” he pauses, tempting to unseal the cork, “Would you care for any?”
“Only some,” I nod, reaching for a glass, “There’s a reason it’s a celebratory liquor.”
“Alright,” he says, holding the bottle away from him while he attempts to open the bottle, “I’ll have the same.” After a brief moment of trying, he pops the champagne. He is, however, surprised to see a cascade of foam wash over his hand, muttering under his breath about it. He rolls over quickly to avoid spilling any onto the blanket, jerking his hand over to the grass.
“Experiencing some trouble, over there?” I tease, peering over to watch as his mistake unfolds.
“Obviously,” he smirks, finding humor in my jest. Lying across the blanket, he props himself up with his elbow whilst holding the alcohol upright. “Here,” he says, looking over his shoulder, with an outstretched hand, “Hand me your glass – I’d rather not soak the covering.”
“Certainly.” Motioning to part with it, I lean over towards him. Reaching out with my fingertips still around the glass’s neck, however, in our exchange, my hand awkwardly makes contact with his. I pull away as soon as I’m sure of his grasp, reluctant to prolong the moment.
“Thanks,” he obliges, with a smile. I watch as he turns away to pour me a glass, my eyes following the liquor as it clashes into the side of the cup.
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