"This is your shot," Gregory said. "Can you make it?"
Anthea studied the distance, calculated the angle. It was possible, but only just. If she misjudged even slightly, they would lose their advantage.
"I can make it," she said with more confidence than she felt.
"Then prove it."
She lined up carefully, remembering everything he had taught her. Adjusted her grip. Shifted her weight. Drew back the mallet and?—
The ball sailed through the final wicket with room to spare.
For a heartbeat, there was silence. Then the crowd erupted in applause and suddenly Gregory's hands were on her waist—large, warm, impossibly strong—and he was lifting her clean off her feet as though she weighed nothing at all.
"We won!" Anthea gasped, her hands flying to his shoulders for balance. Solid muscle bunched beneath her palms, and she was abruptly, devastatingly aware of exactly how powerful he was. How effortlessly he held her aloft, his grip firm and sure around her waist.
"You won," Gregory said, and there was something in his voice she had never heard before—genuine pleasure, perhaps even pride. His face was tilted up toward hers, and the afternoon sun caught the green of his eyes, making them almost luminous. "That was an excellent shot."
Time seemed to slow. She could feel every point of contact between them—his hands spanning her waist, her own fingers pressed against the breadth of his shoulders, the scant inches separating them.
Goodness.
The proper thing would be to demand he set her down immediately.
Instead, Anthea found herself staring at his mouth, at the way the corner of it had lifted into something approaching an actual smile. Found herself noticing the sharp line of his jaw, the faintshadow of stubble, the small scar near his left eyebrow that she had never been close enough to see before.
He was devastatingly handsome when he smiled. It was entirely unfair.
"Your Grace," she said, and her voice came out softer than she planned.
What looked like awareness flickered in his expression.
His grip on her waist tightened fractionally, and for one mad, impossible moment, Anthea thought he might draw her closer. Thought she might let him.
Then Veronica's voice cut through the spell like a knife.
"Anthea!"
Reality crashed back with the force of a cavalry charge. They were standing in the middle of Lady Pemberton's lawn. Half of Society was watching. And Gregory was still holding her suspended in the air like—like?—
"You may set me down now," Anthea said sharply, face red.
“Oh!” Gregory blinked, as though waking from a dream, and immediately lowered her. But his hands lingered on her waistfor just a moment—one breath, two—before he stepped back, putting proper distance between them.
Anthea's legs felt unsteady. Her heart was racing in a way that had nothing to do with the game and everything to do with the man now standing at a respectable distance, looking as composed as though he had not just made her forget where they were entirely.
She smoothed her skirts with hands that were not quite steady, refusing to acknowledge the heat climbing her cheeks. Physical attraction. Nothing more. Certainly nothing that signified anything beyond the purely corporeal.
Even if her waist still tingled where his hands had been.
"Anthea!"
Veronica called again and Anthea quickly put several respectable feet between them.
"Yes?" Anthea called, hoping her voice did not sound as unsteady as she felt.
Veronica hurried over, practically dragging a tall, severe-looking gentleman in her wake. "This is Mr. Thornbury. He has asked if we might visit the Royal Menagerie next week, and I said I would need to ask you first, and—oh, did you win? How wonderful!"
Mr. Thornbury bowed stiffly. "Miss Croft. Your Grace. I was just telling Miss Veronica that the lions have recently been fed and are quite active. I thought she might enjoy observing them."
