“We always do Matilda’s interpretation of charades,” Cordelia added, grinning. “Which is to say, the rules shift halfway through, and suddenly, someone is a squirrel reciting Shakespeare.”
“Well, I don’t force you to be the squirrel,” Matilda said with mock wounded pride. “That was your own interpretation ofMacbeth, I’ll have you remember.”
There was more laughter, and Cordelia glanced at Isabelle, who dabbed at the corners of her eyes.
“What about a storytelling game?” Isabelle offered. “We each take turns telling a bit of a story, but no one’s allowed to plan, just instinct.”
“Ooh,” Cordelia said, already charmed. “That could be?—”
“No, wait,” Isabelle cut in suddenly, a flicker of inspiration lighting her eyes. “I have one better.”
Hazel and Matilda leaned in, mock conspiratorial.
Isabelle continued. “It’s a game my brother and I invented once when we were so dreadfully bored with our cousins on a rainy summer in Dorset. One person begins a dramatic tale, but each other person must interrupt at random with a word or action the storyteller must then include without breaking the tone. It gets very absurd, very quickly.”
“That sounds delightful,” Cordelia clapped her hands.
Isabelle quickly counted them. “There’s four of us. We always played as a group of five, but four should be more than enough.”
“Good,” Matilda exclaimed excitedly. “I’m ready to launch into a masterpiece about a time-traveling governess.”
“Why, that sounds absolutely marvelous,” a voice rang out from somewhere behind them, rich, smooth and unmistakably amused.
Cordelia’s entire spine straightened while heat bloomed in her cheeks before she even turned fully. The Duke stood just beyond the lilacs, all dusk-toned elegance in a charcoal waistcoat and gloves he hadn’t yet removed. But his amber eyes were the focus of Cordelia’s attention as they were gleaming with restrained mischief.
“Your Grace,” Cordelia said quickly, rising before she could think better of it. Her hands fidgeted with her skirts as she cleared her throat, willing her blush to retreat. “You are welcome to join us.”
He strode forward with the easy confidence that never failed to make her feel unsteady. “I couldn’t help overhearing there was a shortage of chaos.”
“You’re always welcome to supply it,” Hazel said dryly, offering him a cool nod.
Mason inclined his head in greeting. “Lady Hazel. Lady Matilda. And this must be…”
“Miss Caroline Langley,” Cordelia supplied the necessary information.
Isabelle remained serious as she stood up and bowed before her brother. Mason gave a slight, elegant bow to each of them. “Ladies, it is a pleasure to have you here.”
Isabelle curtsied with a small smile. “The pleasure is mine, Your Grace.”
Cordelia watched the exchange carefully. It was done just right: perfectly casual and perfectly unremarkable. Mason caught her eyes then, only for a heartbeat, and she had to look away first.
Damn him for being able to read me so well.
“Well,” he said, clapping his gloved hands together once. “A game, then?”
Matilda grinned. “I hope you’re ready to be interrupted mid-monologue, Your Grace.”
“I do nothing but prepare for interruptions,” he said smoothly. “I was raised in a house full of women.”
Laughter erupted again, and Mason simply smiled, a clever smile this time, the kind that made her forget what she was doing.
“I believe, as the one who suggested the game,” Cordelia said, folding her hands with a mock-regal air, “it is only fitting that Isabelle begins.”
“Oh, no, no,” Isabelle shook her head. “I prefer to allow other people to start, and then I ruin it for them.”
There was another bout of laughter before Hazel pointed out. “If she does start first, we’ll be in Ancient Babylon wiuth talking pigeons by the third sentence.”
“I make no promises,” Cordelia replied sweetly. “Now, do interrupt me at will the moment inspiration strikes. That’s the point, right?”
