Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
This was either going to be the worst idea of her life or the best one. But somehow, as Anthea stood in the beautiful garden, it was looking much more likely to be the former.
Anthea had decided that a garden party would suit her purposes better than another stifling ball.
Less formal, more opportunities for genuine conversation, and most importantly, fewer watching eyes to judge every interaction.
Lady Pemberton's gardens were lovely in late spring, and the guest list included several unmarried gentlemen who might prove suitable for her sisters.
Or so she had hoped.
Poppy had immediately cornered three young lords near the refreshment table and was currently holding forth on some topic with enough enthusiasm that all three looked slightly overwhelmed.
Veronica, meanwhile, had been claimed by Mr. Thornbury—the scholarly gentleman from the menagerie—who appeared to be lecturing her about the proper cultivation of roses.
Which left Anthea standing near the Pall Mall course when Lady Pemberton announced she was organizing teams.
"Miss Croft, you shall partner with the Duke of Everleigh," their hostess declared with the sort of determined cheerfulness that brooked no argument. "And Lord Hartford, you and your wife shall compete against them!"
Anthea's stomach sank. Of course. Of course she would be paired with Greg—with the Duke of Everleigh.
She turned to find him already approaching, his expression unreadable as always.
"Miss Croft," he said with a slight bow. "It appears we are to be partners."
"So it appears, Your Grace."
Lady Pemberton thrust a mallet into Anthea's hands. "First team to complete the course wins! Begin whenever you are ready!"
Anthea positioned herself before her ball, drew back the mallet, and swung.
The wooden ball connected with a crack that sent it careening directly into Lady Pemberton's prize rosebush.
"Blast," Anthea muttered, then clapped a hand over her mouth when she realized she had cursed aloud.
"Quite a shot, Miss Croft." ?The Duke of Everleigh stood three paces away, arms crossed over his broad chest, one dark brow raised in what might have been amusement.
Or judgment. With him, it proved impossible to tell.
"Though I believe the objective is to send the ball through the wicket, not into the shrubbery. "
"I am aware of the objective, Your Grace," Anthea said through gritted teeth. "Perhaps if my partner demonstrated how it ought to be done rather than standing about offering commentary—"
"Your partner has been attempting to instruct you for the past quarter hour," he interrupted. "You have ignored every suggestion."
"Because your suggestions were condescending, commanding and—"
"Accurate."
Anthea's fingers tightened around her mallet wondering how far down the drain her reputation would go if she were to strike him lightly across the head.
When Lady Pemberton had announced the teams for Pall Mall, Anthea had experienced a moment of pure horror upon hearing her name paired with the Duke's. She hadn’t even known the Duke would attend, after his letter just the day before, she never thought she would see the man again before their scheduled time and day.
She had briefly considered feigning a headache. Then she had caught sight of Beatrice's smug expression across the lawn and decided she would sooner partner with Napoleon himself than give her stepmother the satisfaction of watching her flee.
"Might I suggest," Gregory said, his tone suggesting he found the entire affair tedious beyond measure, "that you adjust your grip? You are holding the mallet as though it were a parasol."
"I know how to hold a mallet."
"Evidence suggests otherwise."
"Perhaps," Anthea said sweetly, "the issue is not my technique but rather my motivation. I find it difficult to care about winning when my partner is insufferable."
His brows shot up. "Insufferable?"
"Arrogant. Superior. Condescending." She ticked off each word on her fingers. "Shall I continue, dear Duke?"
"Please do not." He moved closer, reaching for her mallet. "May I?"
Anthea nearly refused on principle, but the other teams were already advancing while she and Gregory bickered like children. With poor grace, she surrendered the implement.
"Your stance is wrong," he said, positioning himself behind her. From the strained evenness of his voice, she suspected he went through great measures to soften his tone. "And you are using your arms rather than your shoulders."
His hand closed over hers on the mallet's handle, and Anthea's breath caught.
He was standing far too close—she could feel the heat radiating from him, the solid wall of his chest nearly against her back.
Her pulse kicked up in a way that had nothing to do with the game and everything to do with the wholly inappropriate awareness of his body so near to hers.
"I understand," she managed, her voice not quite as steady as she would have liked.
"Do you?" His voice was low, close enough that she felt it as much as heard it. "Then demonstrate."
He stepped back, and Anthea drew in a breath she had not realized she was holding.
Irritating man. Irritating, insufferably attractive man who had no business affecting her this way.
She adjusted her grip as he had shown her, shifted her weight, and swung.
The ball sailed cleanly through the wicket.
She turned to him with a grin as if to say, “See?”
"Very good," Gregory said with an equally big grin.
"How generous of you to say so," Anthea replied, but most of the heat had left her voice.
Winning felt good.
They advanced down the lawn in silence, and Anthea noticed with some surprise that they had pulled even with Lord and Lady Hartford. The other couple were laughing together, clearly enjoying both the game and each other's company.
What must that be like? she wondered. To be easy with one's partner, to anticipate their movements, to—
"Miss Croft."
Anthea startled. "Yes?"
"It is your turn. Unless you have decided to forfeit?"
"Certainly not." She lined up her shot with more care this time, remembering his instruction about using her shoulders. The ball struck true, rolling neatly through the next wicket.
"Well done," Gregory said, and this time there was definite approval in his voice.
"Was that a second compliment in the span of minutes, Your Grace?"
"An observation."
"How very gracious of you."
His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close enough that Anthea felt an absurd burst of pleasure at having provoked even that small reaction.
They continued playing, and somewhere between the third and fourth wicket, something shifted.
Gregory stopped offering criticism and began providing actual guidance.
Anthea stopped bristling at every comment and started listening.
When she made a particularly clever shot that knocked Lord Hartford's ball clear off the course, Gregory actually laughed—a short, surprised bark of sound that made several heads turn.
"Ruthless female," he said.
"Competitive," Anthea corrected. "There is a difference."
"Not in my experience, no."
"Yes, well, I imagine military campaigns and garden parties operate under somewhat different rules."
"You might be surprised." He lined up his own shot, sending their ball through two wickets in rapid succession. "Both require strategy, an understanding of one's opponent, and the willingness to seize opportunity when it presents itself."
"How very… martial of you."
"How very effective as well." He glanced at her. "We are winning, in case you had not noticed."
Anthea looked around and realized with a start that he was right. They had overtaken every other team and were now only two wickets from victory. Perhaps there was something to be said for his military precision after all, even if his manner of instruction left much to be desired.
"So we are," she said slowly. Then, because she could not seem to help herself: "I suppose even insufferable partners have their uses."
"As do sarcastic ones." His eyes met hers, and Anthea found herself unable to look away.
There was something in his gaze—an intensity that made her acutely aware of how close they were standing, of the way his attention focused on her as though nothing else existed in that moment. Her palm turned clammy.
"Your turn," she said, and was annoyed to hear her voice emerge slightly breathless.
Gregory took his shot without breaking eye contact, and somehow—impossibly—the ball rolled exactly where it needed to go.
"Show off," Anthea muttered.
"Competent," he replied, throwing her own words back at her.
One wicket remained. Lord and Lady Hartford were closing the gap, their balls now only inches behind. The other guests had gathered to watch, placing wagers and offering encouragement to their favored teams.
"This is your shot," Gregory said. "Can you make it?"
Anthea studied the distance, calculated the angle. It was possible, but only just. If she misjudged even slightly, they would lose their advantage.
"I can make it," she said with more confidence than she felt.
"Then prove it."
She lined up carefully, remembering everything he had taught her. Adjusted her grip. Shifted her weight. Drew back the mallet and—
The ball sailed through the final wicket with room to spare.
For a heartbeat, there was silence. Then the crowd erupted in applause and suddenly Gregory's hands were on her waist—large, warm, impossibly strong—and he was lifting her clean off her feet as though she weighed nothing at all.
"We won!" Anthea gasped, her hands flying to his shoulders for balance. Solid muscle bunched beneath her palms, and she was abruptly, devastatingly aware of exactly how powerful he was. How effortlessly he held her aloft, his grip firm and sure around her waist.