He bowed again, more restrained this time. “Perhaps we’ll negotiate its return at supper,” he murmured, “if you can tolerate my company that long.”
She slammed the door closed, but not before catching the genuine warmth in his eyes—something that looked, alarmingly, like respect.
Louisa soon found herself re-reading the novel, savoring the tension even in its incomplete form. It was, after all, more interesting this way, contemplating alternate endings.
CHAPTER 2
Lydia had slept soundly only to wake to thoughts of Foxmere. Soon after, she had been lured to the garden by a mix of motherly coercion and the promise of fresh air, though the latter was already tinged with an excess of lavender and the high, chattering tones of ennui-ridden house guests.
Croquet. As if the previous evening’s battle of wills hadn’t been enough, she was now expected to smile and hit wooden balls as if this were the height of entertainment. Louisa selected the mallet least likely to splinter and steeled herself to channel her irritation into perfect play.
At first, she didn’t see Foxmere. The garden was expansive enough for a woman to lose herself among the topiaries. But a ripple of excitement at the edge of the green disrupted her moment, followed by the unmistakable stride of a man who had never met a rule he couldn’t bend or a crowd he couldn’t command.
Dressed in black, as if mourning the loss of propriety, he wore a cravat knotted so carelessly it might as well have been an afterthought. He carried himself like a rake, his boots slightly muddied, cuffs uneven, and hair that defied all attempts atdiscipline. Approaching with a mallet slung over one shoulder, he stopped opposite her, grinning.
“Primrose!” he called, his voice loud for the hour. “I am wounded. Not a smile for your partner in crime?”
Louisa refused the bait. “I did not realize we were partners, Lord Foxmere. When last we spoke it seemed you were more interested in larceny than teamwork.”
His eyes sparkled with delight. “A necessary measure, I assure you. I could not stand silent and allow such a brilliant mind to languish in incomplete fiction.” He leaned in, stage-whispering, “But if you surrender, I might be persuaded to restore what I borrowed.”
“I never surrender,” Louisa replied, swinging her mallet in a neat arc. “Especially not to extortionists with a flair for melodrama.”
“Then I challenge you,” Foxmere declared, drawing the attention of the entire assembly, “to a duel of wits. Winner takes all.”
Lady Featherstone, stationed at the center of things, seized on the phrase. “How diverting! Foxmere against Louisa. My dears, you must play to the death.” She paused, considering. “Or at least to first blood.”
Louisa bit back a retort, refusing to let on how much the previous night’s theft still irritated her. Instead, she adopted a look of cool amusement, as if this were all part of her grand plan.
The players gathered: Lady Sophia, Alexandra’s notorious friend, with her knowing eyes and penchant for wagers; Lord Bertram, a harmless fop already tipsy on punch; and Lady Honoria Worthington, whose love for scandal made her an ideal observer and a dangerous adversary.
The lawn was laid out with geometric precision. Wickets painted an unforgivable shade of pink arched at measured intervals, rose garlands wound through the hoops, making eachstrike risk an explosion of petals, and the balls were arranged by color with precision.
“I believe blue is your shade, Lady Louisa,” Sophia said, gesturing with exaggerated flourish.
She accepted the ball, maintaining her most indifferent smile. “It matches my mood, certainly.”
As the game commenced, it became clear Foxmere had arranged to play just after her in the batting order, no doubt so he could comment on her every move.
Louisa took her first shot, sending the ball cleanly through the nearest hoop. “Excellent,” Foxmere observed. “Have you considered a future in professional play? Or perhaps in revolution. Your technique is exquisite.”
“Unlike your manners,” she replied. “But then, one cannot expect taste from a man who treats a Chippendale like a footstool.”
A peal of laughter from Lady Sophia confirmed the point, and Foxmere bowed with mock humility. “I stand corrected. But if you are to win this duel, Primrose, you must do better than that.”
She did. Every turn became an exercise in tactical brilliance. A feint here, a gentle nudge there. At one point, she managed to adjust the ball’s line with a discreet flick of her hem, unnoticed by all except Foxmere, whose eyebrows shot up in delighted outrage.
“Cheating!” he exclaimed. “The lady cheats!”
Louisa did not flinch. “If you cannot keep up, my lord, perhaps you should stick to more honest pursuits. Gambling, perhaps. Or dueling in the street.”
“Would you face me on the field of honor?” he murmured, so low only she could hear.
She gave him a look that could have cut steel. “Anytime.”
Their rivalry ignited the crowd. The other players, recognizing the true contest, began to lay odds in whispers. Lady Honoria positioned herself as referee, ostensibly to ensure fair play but likely to report every outrage to the drawing room with embellishment.
On his next turn, Foxmere lined up his shot with comical deliberation, only to pause dramatically and ask, “Tell me, Primrose, what is your opinion of poetic justice?”
