Lord Langley turned to Alexandra, bowing deeply, a flicker of triumph mingling with a surprising warmth in his chest. For a moment, he was genuinely uncertain which feeling he enjoyed more—the thrill of victory or the exhilaration of seeing her cheeks redden in defeat. "Shall I call for a waltz or a reel?"
She gave him a thin smile. "You are insufferable." Yet even as she said it, Alexandra wondered how someone so infuriating could also be so irresistibly appealing—a thought she quickly dismissed, though not nearly fast enough. Alexandra bit back the inconvenient thought that she was starting to enjoy his teasing more than she should—a realization that irritated her almost as much as Langley himself.
"And you are a delight."
"You rigged the match," Alexandra said, grudging admiration warring with a spark of competitive annoyance.
"I simply excel at games of precision and charm."
"Then let us hope you excel at surviving dangerous objects, for if you try to hold me close on that dance floor, I may step on your foot. Repeatedly."
He laughed. "I look forward to it."
* * *
Later, as Alexandra and Genny sat beneath a silk parasol nibbling cucumber sandwiches, a warm flutter stirred low in Alexandra’s chest—a treacherous softness she tried, and failed, to dismiss, Genny leaned over with a smirk. Alexandra stiffened slightly, the flutter in her chest refusing to settle as Genny's words echoed in her ears. She wasn't sure if it was indignation or something far more unsettling—anticipation.
"You realize, of course, you’ve just given him everything he wanted,” Genny said.
"A dance? Please. He wants sport. Challenge. Someone to sharpen his dull wit against."
"And you, my dear, are the whetstone."
Alexandra felt a sudden flush of warmth creep up her neck at the image—sharp edges meeting, sparks flying—and she swallowed hard, irritated by her own reaction.
Alexandra snorted. "How poetic."
"Arthur would approve.” Genny took a bit of her sandwich.
"Arthur is currently under the impression that our flirtation is worthy of an epic poem." Alexandra tried to keep her tone dismissive, but a tiny part of her felt an embarrassing flicker of amusement at the thought of being the heroine in one of Arthur’s melodramatic sagas.
"Well," Genny said, sipping her lemonade. "It is shaping up to be rather epic."
Alexandra felt a mix of anxiety and reluctant anticipation tighten in her chest, knowing that whatever came next would be anything but ordinary.
She closed her eyes against the sun, feeling its warmth seep into her skin. The breeze stirred her hair as if echoing the memory of his voice—low, teasing, impossible to ignore. She hated to admit it, but part of her had enjoyed the game. The teasing. The way Langley looked at her as if she were not just a pretty face, but an opponent worth besting.
That part of her was dangerous. Reckless. Like standing at the edge of a cliff with the wind in her hair—thrilling, intoxicating, and just foolish enough to make her lean closer.
Tempted.
* * *
Magnus sat beneath the shade of a linden tree with Viscount Redford, the sun-dappled grass still warm beneath him and his muscles pleasantly loose from the match, nursing a brandy and the smug satisfaction of a man who had just bested the most beguiling woman in London.
"You’re an idiot," James said.
"I won.” Magnus glanced across the lawn.
"Yes. A dance. Congratulations. You’ve just ensured the ton will watch you both like hawks."
"Let them." Magnus felt oddly liberated by the idea. For years, his interactions had been carefully controlled, dull repetitions of polite conversations and predictable flirtations. Alexandra's unpredictability, her wit, and the genuine challenge she posed felt like fresh air after too long in a stuffy room. Society's whispers meant nothing compared to the exhilaration of Alexandra’s challenge—the spark of her defiance, the way her eyes flashed with intelligence and humor. He was more than willing to risk a scandal if it meant continuing their thrilling, dangerous dance.
"You do realize that this is how gentlemen get trapped?"
"With lawn bowls?"
"With banter. With stolen dances. With reputations and rumors."
