“Mortified.”
I sighed, closing my eyes for a moment to block out the bright sun. “I pitied Lord Kirkham for having to retrieve the bullet. I felt it was the polite decision to make.”
They exchanged a glance. “He does have money and a title. We will not judge you if you pursue him for those reasons alone.”
“I amnotpursuing him,” I said, my voice too defensive.
Miss Morton shrugged. “Very well.” She took a sip of lemonade, her eyes sliding to her cousin. Neither one of them believed me. There was nothing I could say that would make my decision logical to their minds. Meanwhile, Alexander had already managed to charm them without even trying.
“Whether you pursue him or not, it is obvious that Lady Tottenham intends Lord Kirkham for you. We figured it out.” Miss Rowley held up her fingers. “There are seven intended matches at this party. From the partnerships at the game last night—you and Lord Kirkham, myself and Mr. St. Vincent,” she gestured at Miss Morton, “Kate and Mr. Amesbury, and Mr. Barnwall is intended for Lydia.” She gestured at her cousin and chaperone, Mrs. Fitzgibbon. “Mr. Holland, of course, was not actually invited to the games last night, so his intended match could not have been among us.”
I nodded, glancing at the rest of the guests out on the lawn. “Do you have theories for the others?”
Miss Rowley nodded. “We suspect Octavia and Mr. Holland, Victoria and Mr. Hatcher, and Mrs. Pike and Mr. Lymington.”
That did make sense. Mr. Lymington was close to Mrs. Pike’s age, and both seemed to be equally appalled by the impropriety exhibited by the younger guests.
“I wish my match wasn’t Mr. Amesbury,” Miss Morton said with a groan. “He is handsome, I suppose, but not like Mr. Holland.”
“At least you haven’t been chosen for Mr. St. Vincent.” Miss Rowley’s nose wrinkled. “He is far too old. I would much rather compete for Mr. Holland.”
Both girls gazed out at the lawn. Miss Rowely picked up her fan, fluttering it vigorously at her face. “He looks so handsome with his shirtsleeves rolled up.” She burst into laughter.
Miss Morton threw her head back with a giggle. Her blonde curls stuck to her forehead with perspiration. She leaned forward with a devious grin. “How are we going to steal him from Octavia?”
At this point, I was simply an observer of their conversation. I sat back, nibbling at a cake as they plotted and planned. I would keep the fact that I had seen Alexander shirtless to myself. I couldn’t have them swooning face-first into the pitcher of lemonade.
Out on the lawn, Alexander knocked over all nine pins. Octavia leaped toward him, squeezing his arm in celebration. A slow smile climbed my face when I noted his discomfort with the situation. He tugged his arm away gently, but his eyebrows were pinched with concern. It would seem he had an unwanted admirer as well. He was no longer at liberty to tease me about Lord Kirkham without retaliation.
My attention focused back on the conversation between Miss Morton and Miss Rowley. Mrs. Fitzgibbon had dared to return to the table, keeping her fan poised to swat away any bees.
“What could Lady Tottenham have meant when she said the entire party is a game?” Miss Morton asked with a quizzical look. “I wonder what the prize could be.”
Miss Rowley raised her eyebrows. “Clearly the prize is Mr. Holland.”
They both laughed.
In truth, I had been wondering the same thing. Knowing Lady Tottenham, the prize would be something no one would expect, and likely something no one actually wanted. She had a collection of strange curiosities from her travels that could be easily handed out to a winner. There could be some cryptic, intangible prize like ‘true love’ or the promise to host the wedding of the match that became engaged by the end of the party. The possibilities were endless.
The prattle at the table fell silent. Lady Tottenham approached from the right, a glass of lemonade in hand. Her maid strained her arm to hold the parasol above Lady Tottenham’s hair arrangement, beads of perspiration running down from her cap.
“Good afternoon, ladies.” Lady Tottenham took a sip of lemonade, her rouge leaving behind a mark on the rim of the glass. She sat down in the chair beside me. A second maid appeared from behind the rose bush with a fan, waving it continuously at the side of Lady Tottenham’s face.
She rotated toward me in her chair, one eyebrow raised. “Is nine pins yet another game that you despise?”
I nearly choked on my lemonade. I set down my cup. It clattered against the saucer. “No, my lady. I decided I would rather stay in the shade.”
“I see.” She released a dramatic sigh. “However, I don’t understand why you wish to remain here at the table instead of in the company of all the gentlemen.”
I glanced at the other three ladies at the table. The attack seemed to only be directed at me and my decision not to play the game.
“I have been enjoying my conversation with these women,” I said. “I find men to be far too competitive at lawn games.”
“I would argue that ladies are more competitive.” Lady Tottenham’s eyes shifted toward Miss Rowley and Miss Morton, then to Octavia, where she still flirted relentlessly with Alexander. Had Lady Tottenham overheard our conversation? My stomach twisted with dread. If she hadn’t, her maid certainly had. It made sense that Lady Tottenham would have spies positioned all over the house and grounds.
“Ishould like to go play,” Miss Rowley said, pushing away from the table.
“As would I.” Miss Morton joined her, giving a curtsy before rushing off toward the lawn. Mrs. Fitzgibbon took a tea cake with her as she joined them, leaving me alone at the table with Lady Tottenham. I couldn’t allow her to scare me away. She was a headstrong woman. Perhaps she would appreciate my willingness to hold my ground.
