"Very good," Gregory said with an equally big grin.
"How generous of you to say so," Anthea replied, but most of the heat had left her voice.
Winning felt good.
They advanced down the lawn in silence, and Anthea noticed with some surprise that they had pulled even with Lord and Lady Hartford. The other couple were laughing together, clearly enjoying both the game and each other's company.
What must that be like? she wondered. To be easy with one's partner, to anticipate their movements, to?—
"Miss Croft."
Anthea startled. "Yes?"
"It is your turn. Unless you have decided to forfeit?"
"Certainly not." She lined up her shot with more care this time, remembering his instruction about using her shoulders. The ball struck true, rolling neatly through the next wicket.
"Well done," Gregory said, and this time there was definite approval in his voice.
"Was that a second compliment in the span of minutes, Your Grace?"
"An observation."
"How very gracious of you."
His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close enough that Anthea felt an absurd burst of pleasure at having provoked even that small reaction.
They continued playing, and somewhere between the third and fourth wicket, something shifted. Gregory stopped offering criticism and began providing actual guidance. Anthea stopped bristling at every comment and started listening. When she made a particularly clever shot that knocked Lord Hartford's ball clear off the course, Gregory actually laughed—a short, surprised bark of sound that made several heads turn.
"Ruthless female," he said.
"Competitive," Anthea corrected. "There is a difference."
"Not in my experience, no."
"Yes, well, I imagine military campaigns and garden parties operate under somewhat different rules."
"You might be surprised." He lined up his own shot, sending their ball through two wickets in rapid succession. "Both require strategy, an understanding of one's opponent, and the willingness to seize opportunity when it presents itself."
"How very… martial of you."
"How very effective as well." He glanced at her. "We are winning, in case you had not noticed."
Anthea looked around and realized with a start that he was right. They had overtaken every other team and were now only two wickets from victory. Perhaps there was something to be said for his military precision after all, even if his manner of instruction left much to be desired.
"So we are," she said slowly. Then, because she could not seem to help herself: "I suppose even insufferable partners have their uses."
"As do sarcastic ones." His eyes met hers, and Anthea found herself unable to look away. There was something in his gaze—an intensity that made her acutely aware of how close they were standing, of the way his attention focused on her as though nothing else existed in that moment. Her palm turned clammy.
"Your turn," she said, and was annoyed to hear her voice emerge slightly breathless.
Gregory took his shot without breaking eye contact, and somehow—impossibly—the ball rolled exactly where it needed to go.
"Show off," Anthea muttered.
"Competent," he replied, throwing her own words back at her.
One wicket remained. Lord and Lady Hartford were closing the gap, their balls now only inches behind. The other guests had gathered to watch, placing wagers and offering encouragement to their favored teams.
