She didn’t blink. “I prefer plain justice. Or perhaps a touch of irony.”
He grinned, swung, and missed the hoop entirely. “There you have it,” he said, raising his hands in surrender. “The gods themselves are on your side.”
Louisa curtsied. “The gods favor the prepared.”
And so it went. Every exchange escalated, a contest of nerve as much as skill. By the time the match reached its final stage, half the party had gathered at the sidelines, abandoning their own games for this far more entertaining spectacle. The rose garlands lay trampled, the air humming with anticipation.
On the last shot, Louisa bent low over the ball, aware of Foxmere’s gaze like a brand between her shoulder blades. She aimed, paused, then turned and fixed him with a dazzling yet entirely insincere smile.
“This is for the missing chapter,” she said, sending the ball arcing through the final hoop, scattering petals in her wake.
The crowd tittered. Lady Featherstone declared her the winner and demanded a speech.
Foxmere, for once, stood silent.
Louisa accepted the victory with a nod, already plotting her next move. Foxmere’s eyes met hers across the wreckage of roses and pride, and in that glance was a promise. The game was far from over.
“Rematch,” he said.
Louisa gave a firm nod. “If you insist on being bested twice.”
Lady Honoria was not the kind of woman who missed anything, especially the promise of scandal. Beneath a parasol at the edge of the croquet lawn, she narrowed her blue eyes in calculation. Her gown of lemon silk and daring décolletage announced her presence. One did not so much invite Lady Honoria as submit to her inevitability.
She observed Louisa and Foxmere with the focus of a botanist studying rare plants with a mix of respect and hunger for what might unfold if the two were left alone. Every flicker of eye contact and every sharp remark was noted for later use.
Beside her, Lady Felicity—who possessed the social instincts of a hunting hound—leaned in with a question. Honoria silenced her with a finger to her lips and nodded toward the central drama.
“You see it, don’t you?” Honoria murmured, loud enough for the four closest guests to hear. “A vixen and a devil, bringing scandal close to the roses.”
Within seconds, the phrase spread, carried by eager whispers along the terrace. Bets were placed—five to one on the Earl, two to one on the lady, and even odds on whether they’d come to blows before the second wicket.
Louisa, catching the whispers, felt a prickle along the back of her neck. She straightened, eyes fixed on the wicket, and pretended not to hear her own name paired with Foxmere’s in increasingly salacious combinations.
He noticed, of course. He always noticed. On his next turn, Foxmere glided past her with a show of nonchalance, leaned in just as she lined up her shot, and said, “Careful, Primrose. They’re watching our every move. Wouldn’t want to give the gossips too much to chew on.”
She nearly missed the ball, and the humiliation sent a hot spike of color to her cheeks. “I suppose you’d prefer to hand them a scandal on a silver platter?” she snapped.
“I’d prefer to play for higher stakes,” he replied, his voice teasing. “Unless you’re frightened?”
She let the implication hang before responding with a practiced smile for the audience. “I find you predictable, my lord, and therefore entirely unthreatening.”
The game accelerated. Foxmere played brilliantly—banking impossible shots and risking it all on mad angles and sheer bravado. Louisa, usually unflappable, felt herself drawn into his momentum. She countered his every trick, but with each exchange, the murmurs from the crowd thickened, weaving a net she couldn’t escape.
Honoria provided running commentary: “Ah! She anticipates him. Did you see that? No, now he’s set a trap for her. Delightful.”
The match tightened, and as Lady Sophia giggled into her gloves and Lord Bertram stumbled over the croquet boundaries in pursuit of a dropped handkerchief, Louisa’s concentration faltered. She realized an unflattering comparison between herself and the heroine of a certain notorious novel, and for a split second, her grip on the mallet loosened.
Foxmere seized the opening. His shot was flawless, sending his ball just ahead of hers, ready to overtake in the next round. As he passed, he dipped his head and murmured, “You’re slipping, primrose. Shall I call for a restorative?”
She hissed, “Keep your remedies. You’ll need them soon enough.”
For a moment, her annoyance eclipsed her nerves. She studied the pitch, recalculated her options, and spotted the one path to victory. It was audacious, possibly improper, and guaranteed to attract notice.
She took it.
With a swift swing, she drove her ball not directly at the hoop but at Foxmere’s, deflecting his in a trajectory that would have impressed any billiards enthusiast. The crowd gasped. Even Foxmere paused, surprised. Louisa, her heartbeat racing, completed the circuit with a final tap, sending her blue ball through the last wicket.
The garden erupted in applause. Lady Honoria clapped, the picture of gracious defeat, though her eyes promised retribution. Lord Bertram hooted, Sophia fanned herself furiously, and half the guests began exchanging coins.
