Anthea's stomach sank. Of course. Of course she would be paired with Greg—with the Duke of Everleigh.
She turned to find him already approaching, his expression unreadable as always.
"Miss Croft," he said with a slight bow. "It appears we are to be partners."
"So it appears, Your Grace."
Lady Pemberton thrust a mallet into Anthea's hands. "First team to complete the course wins! Begin whenever you are ready!"
Anthea positioned herself before her ball, drew back the mallet, and swung.
The wooden ball connected with a crack that sent it careening directly into Lady Pemberton's prize rosebush.
"Blast," Anthea muttered, then clapped a hand over her mouth when she realized she had cursed aloud.
"Quite a shot, Miss Croft." ?The Duke of Everleigh stood three paces away, arms crossed over his broad chest, one dark brow raised in what might have been amusement. Or judgment. With him, it proved impossible to tell. "Though I believe the objective is to send the ball through the wicket, not into the shrubbery."
"I am aware of the objective, Your Grace," Anthea said through gritted teeth. "Perhaps if my partner demonstrated how it ought to be done rather than standing about offering commentary?—"
"Your partner has been attempting to instruct you for the past quarter hour," he interrupted. "You have ignored every suggestion."
"Because your suggestions were condescending, commanding and?—"
"Accurate."
Anthea's fingers tightened around her mallet wondering how far down the drain her reputation would go if she were to strike him lightly across the head.
When Lady Pemberton had announced the teams for Pall Mall, Anthea had experienced a moment of pure horror upon hearing her name paired with the Duke's. She hadn’t even known the Duke would attend, after his letter just the day before, she never thought she would see the man again before their scheduled time and day.
She had briefly considered feigning a headache. Then she had caught sight of Beatrice's smug expression across the lawn and decided she would sooner partner with Napoleon himself than give her stepmother the satisfaction of watching her flee.
"Might I suggest," Gregory said, his tone suggesting he found the entire affair tedious beyond measure, "that you adjust your grip? You are holding the mallet as though it were a parasol."
"I know how to hold a mallet."
"Evidence suggests otherwise."
"Perhaps," Anthea said sweetly, "the issue is not my technique but rather my motivation. I find it difficult to care about winning when my partner is insufferable."
His brows shot up. "Insufferable?"
"Arrogant. Superior. Condescending." She ticked off each word on her fingers. "Shall I continue, dear Duke?"
"Please do not." He moved closer, reaching for her mallet. "May I?"
Anthea nearly refused on principle, but the other teams were already advancing while she and Gregory bickered like children. With poor grace, she surrendered the implement.
"Your stance is wrong," he said, positioning himself behind her. From the strained evenness of his voice, she suspected he went through great measures to soften his tone. "And you are using your arms rather than your shoulders."
His hand closed over hers on the mallet's handle, and Anthea's breath caught. He was standing far too close—she could feel the heat radiating from him, the solid wall of his chest nearly against her back. Her pulse kicked up in a way that had nothing to do with the game and everything to do with the wholly inappropriate awareness of his body so near to hers.
"I understand," she managed, her voice not quite as steady as she would have liked.
"Do you?" His voice was low, close enough that she felt it as much as heard it. "Then demonstrate."
He stepped back, and Anthea drew in a breath she had not realized she was holding. Irritating man. Irritating, insufferably attractive man who had no business affecting her this way. She adjusted her grip as he had shown her, shifted her weight, and swung. The ball sailed cleanly through the wicket.
She turned to him with a grin as if to say,“See?”
