Foxmere, ever the performer, executed a bow so grand it bordered on the satirical. He strode to Louisa, took her hand, and pressed a lingering kiss to her knuckles. “My compliments, Primrose. Next time, I shall be less merciful.”
She withdrew her hand, pulse still racing. “You should try being gracious in defeat, my lord. It is a rare and becoming quality.”
He grinned. “I find rarity most appealing.”
The crowd drifted back to their amusements, but Louisa felt the eyes that lingered, Lady Honoria’s in particular, cold and calculating behind her parasol.
As she walked off the field, croquet mallet over her shoulder like a rifle, she caught Honoria’s sweet, knowing, and dangerous smile.
Louisa’s triumph suddenly tasted of ash. It was not the win that mattered, but the story the world would tell about it. And she, it seemed, was now the starring role in Lady Honoria’s next scandal.
Foxmere had warned her, but the warning was a game, too.
She wondered, not for the first time, if he would ever be on her side.
Night transformed the Pembroke estate. Windows glowed with candlelight, footmen glided through the crowd with trays of champagne, and an orchestra beneath a cascade of orchids tuned for a waltz that promised to draw guests into a synchronized delight.
Louisa stood at the edge of the ballroom, nearly lost in a sea of jewel tones and tulle. Her blank dance card dangled from her wrist like a challenge. Any man who approached for a slot received a smile so frigid it threatened frostbite.
She craved distance. The afternoon’s match had left her not exhilarated but oddly vulnerable. A sensation that deepened with every whispered glance and sideways smirk from Lady Honoria’s clique. She had triumphed, yes, but visibility came at a price. She was no longer an observer but the center of the season’s intrigue.
The orchestra struck the first notes of a Strauss waltz. Couples formed and swirled into the center, silk and tails merging into a spectacle of courtship.
Louisa considered slipping away to the library when mother appeared at her side, her expression pure mischief.
“Louisa dear, your presence is requested for the next dance,” she declared. “By special arrangement.”
Louisa raised an eyebrow. “By whom?”
Mother blushed, glanced over Louisa’s shoulder, then vanished. In his place stood the Earl of Foxmere, radiating smug confidence in immaculate black, his cravat artfully askew.
She regarded him with suspicion. “You flirted with mother, didn’t you?”
He extended his hand, his gaze locked onto hers. “Would you prefer I kidnapped you, Primrose? That seems the next logical step.”
“Both options lack subtlety,” she replied, yet allowed him to guide her onto the dance floor. His hand settled at herwaist, confident and electric, while the other clasped her gloved fingers, warm and dry.
“I thought you’d refuse,” he murmured, close enough for his words to brush her ear.
“I considered it,” she retorted. “But I dislike surrender even more than your company.”
He spun her into the waltz with a grace that belied his chaotic reputation. For all his irreverence, Foxmere danced with precision, every step exact, every turn calculated to keep her exactly where he wanted her. Louisa struggled to maintain her composure, focusing instead on the sensory overload. The glide of his palm against her silk gown, the warmth of his breath at her temple, and the sharp citrus scent of his cologne.
“You’re enjoying this,” he said, low enough for only her to hear.
She bristled. “Not at all.”
His eyes met hers, gold-flecked and knowing. “Liar.”
The music swelled, drawing them into a whirlwind of light and sound. Louisa’s feet followed the steps mechanically, but her mind raced, circling memories of their banter, the crowd’s attention, and the unsettling desire for the man who had stolen her favorite story and, in its place, crafted something infinitely more dangerous.
Foxmere smiled, the devil in him softening for a fleeting moment. “You are remarkable, Louisa. I should warn you. I have no intention of giving up this game.”
She opened her mouth, but the words stuck in her throat. She realized she was outmatched, and the knowledge stung less than it should have.
The waltz ended with a flourish. Foxmere bowed, raised her hand to his lips, and held her gaze as he pressed a kiss to the inside of her wrist, a touch so gentle and lingering it felt like a secret message.
“Until our next duel, Primrose,” he said, his voice edged with promise.
