“I was thinking perhaps the first shot in the season in August.”
“At my manor of course,” Father says.
“Indubitably.”
Gwen winces as she and the other winning children back toward the refreshment table to watch. Beth leaves Jacobson to come to her side, slipping her arm anxiously through Gwen’s.
“You sure this is a good idea?” she whispers.
“You’re on,” Father says. “Come, Lady Demeroven, let’s give these people a show, shall we?”
“Oh dear,” Gwen mumbles.
Father’s got his competitive face on, and that’s not a face that comes with manners, charm, or goodwill. Worse, it doesn’t look like Lady Demeroven knows the first thing about croquet.
Gwen and Beth watch anxiously as Lady Kingsman and Lord Lawson take their first shots. Excellent, each of them. If Beth’s mother has any skill at all, this might be a sporting game.
“Why didn’t you tell me this was your plan? Mother has no coordination whatsoever,” Beth whispers and Gwen sucks on her cheek, fighting the urge to chew on her nails.
Mr. Mason and Lady Harrington go next, and they’re also wonderful, encouraging each other politely and grinning over at Albie and Meredith. Each pair must get both balls through the same wicket in order to progress, and her father and Lady Demeroven haven’t exchanged a single word yet.
“Your turn, my liege,” Mr. Mason says loftily.
“I’ll make you eat your words,” Father says gamely. “Come, Lady Demeroven, ladies first.”
Beth tightens her grip on Gwen’s arm as Lady Demeroven squares off her shot, bending awkwardly. Gwen can tell five seconds before she swings that she won’t even hit the ball.
Lady Demeroven teeters before finding her balance to a smattering of polite laughter. She hesitates for a moment, her cheeks pink, and then rallies, turning to Beth and Gwen to give an exaggerated shrug. Beth laughs and Gwen gives her a supportive smile, but Father isn’t having it.
“Come now, Lady Demeroven, you’ve more skill than that,” he admonishes, stepping too close to force her to move aside.
She does, with as much grace as she can muster, but still trips and stumbles, further embarrassed. Father doesn’t notice, too busy whacking his ball with too much force. His swing sends the ball on an angle, making it through the first but missing the second wicket.
“Blast,” he exclaims.
Lady Demeroven scowls. Father shakes his head and grabs her arm, moving her none-too-gently aside as Lady Kingsman and Lord Lawson return for their next round.
“Ridiculous. You’re able to play pianoforte and paint but can’t hit a simple ball?” Gwen hears him mutter.
She grimaces. Beth turns to bury her forehead in Gwen’s shoulder at her mother’s snipped “Not like you did much better. I thought marksmen were meant to have good aim.”
“What have we done?” Beth whispers as their parents continue to bicker, getting louder and louder while the other two couples play through, barely pretending to ignore them.
Gwen thought propriety would keep her father’s competitive obnoxiousness to a minimum—that there was enough latent affection for Lady Demeroven that he’d be, God forbid, the charming man she’s seen him be with other women. Instead, it seems she’s unleashed an ugly monster.
By the time Father and Lady Demeroven step up for their second round, Father’s glowering like he’s just lost stock and Lady Demeroven is an unfortunate shade of puce.
“Go ahead, then,” Father says gruffly, gesturing mockingly for Lady Demeroven to take her shot.
She glares at him and squares up. Father stays too close, egging her on from behind. When she swings her mallet back, it meets with more than empty air.
Father staggers backward, clutching himself between the legs and groaning. Lady Demeroven spins around, mouth agape, and accidentally whacks him in the knee, sending him sprawling.
Gasps and shouts fill the air as Father curls up there on the grass, staring up at Lady Demeroven through squinted eyes.
“My apologies, Lord Havenfort,” Lady Demeroven says, dropping her mallet and falling to her knees, hands fluttering, skirt and hoop covering half of Father’s body as he continues to wince. She does look genuinely sorry.
“No, no, stand back. Can’t... trust your... coordination at all... no,” Father manages, batting away her skirts and struggling to stand.
