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 at discipline.
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 each strike 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?”
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.