Chapter 2
Alexandra had not planned to attend the lawn bowls match. The very idea made her teeth itch with disinterest, conjuring visions of stilted laughter, uninspired flirtation, and the droning hum of social obligation masquerading as entertainment.
In fact, she had declared, quite emphatically, that she would rather read the back of a seed packet than endure an afternoon of polite society pretending to enjoy a sport that required more posture than skill.
But Miss Genny Moreland, who had a talent for persuading people into nonsense, had arrived at Alexandra's townhouse with a bonnet in one hand and a wicked grin in the other. Her voice carried a mischievous lilt that made resistance feel futile.
"You need air," Genny had said, dragging Alexandra to the carriage.
"I have windows for that," Alexandra had replied, though a small part of her secretly appreciated Genny’s determination to drag her from her solitude.
"And you need fun."
"I have you for that."
"Oh, but imagine the scandal we could witness. Possibly even cause."
Alexandra had narrowed her eyes. "Who’s attending?" She wasn’t sure what answer she was hoping for—certainly not him—but the quickening of her pulse betrayed a hint of curiosity she’d rather not examine.
"Everyone." Alexandra felt an uneasy flutter of curiosity mixed with dread—because in Genny’s world, "everyone" usually meant chaos, scandal, and precisely the sort of trouble she should avoid.
It had been said with the sort of glee usually reserved for announcements about royal weddings or the arrival of a new French modiste.
And so, against her better judgment and every ounce of her independence, Alexandra found herself on the manicured lawns of Lady Huxley's estate, surrounded by sun hats, delicate parasols, and far too many simpering young ladies pretending to understand the rules of lawn bowls.
It was a glorious day. The sky, that perfect robin's egg blue, stretched above them in an unbroken expanse, and the scent of lilacs wafted on a gentle breeze.
She might have enjoyed it. Truly. Had it not been for him—and the embarrassing memory of tumbling into his arms among crushed tulips that still warmed her cheeks whenever she thought about it.
"You again," she said, eyeing Lord Langley with suspicion, vividly recalling the smug amusement in his eyes when she'd toppled onto him among the tulips.
He turned from the group of gentlemen he had been entertaining and offered her a bow that was just a hair too exaggerated to be entirely respectable.
"Lady Alexandra. How unexpected."
"Oh, it wasn’t my idea,” she said, tossing a glance at Genny.
"Naturally."
He looked entirely too pleased with himself, wearing a dark blue jacket that echoed the glint of mischief in his eyes. Alexandra hated how well it suited him—how the color brought out the devilry in his gaze and made her stomach flutter despite herself.
"I thought you were above such tame entertainment," she said.
"And yet, here I am. Perhaps I hoped for another thrilling collision in the shrubbery."
Alexandra felt her cheeks flush slightly, betraying the annoyance she tried to conceal. "I assure you, there are no flowerbeds nearby to cushion your fall."
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "That almost sounds like a challenge."
A pulse beat annoyingly fast at the base of Alexandra's throat, but she refused to step back. Instead, she arched a brow and gave him a look that could curdle milk.
Alexandra tilted her head, a frustrating mix of intrigue and irritation swirling through her. "Were you always so determined to be insufferable? Or is it a gift cultivated through years of practice?"
"A little of both."
Before she could reply, Genny appeared at her elbow, eyes sparkling.
“Lord Langley," she said sweetly. "I do hope you will be playing."
"Of course. It would be a crime to deprive society of such a spectacle."
"Excellent! Alexandra will join you."
Alexandra blinked, a flash of mild panic flickering through her chest before she tamped it down firmly. "I will not."
"You shall," Genny said with an alarming degree of certainty. "You owe me."
"For what?” Alexandra asked.
"For dragging you out of your lair,” she said.
Alexandra sighed, casting a glance toward the heavens, a mixture of exasperation and reluctant affection bubbling inside her chest. "You are the devil." Secretly, though she'd never admit it aloud, she appreciated Genny's relentless meddling—life would be unbearably dull without it.
"With impeccable taste in sport.”
Alexandra grudgingly admitted to herself that Genny was right—though she'd rather bite her tongue than give her friend the satisfaction.
Lady Hattie Sutton, Alexandra's no-nonsense friend with a perpetually arched brow and a fondness for tart lemon cakes, had just arrived with a lemonade in hand. She overheard and inserted herself into the exchange with a dry smile.
"Langley playing lawn bowls? I must place a bet."
"Against me?" he asked, mock wounded.
“Naturally." She took a sip of her lemonade.
Lord Arthur Cavendish, who had the soul of a poet and the timing of a buffoon, chose that moment to sigh and proclaim, "This is precisely how love stories begin. On grassy lawns. Amidst ridiculous games."
Alexandra rolled her eyes. "If you break into verse, I shall steal your walking stick and use it as a javelin." She struggled to keep the amusement from her voice—despite her outward annoyance, there was something endearing about Arthur’s unwavering romanticism.
Arthur gasped and clutched his chest as if mortally wounded. "Then let it be a noble death—struck down by poetry and passion!"
The match began with far too many people gathered to spectate what was, essentially, a game of rolling balls toward a smaller ball and pretending it was riveting. Alexandra mused that the only thing more absurd than the game itself was the level of competitive fervor it inspired among the ton.
But with Alexandra and the Earl of Langley involved, the game quickly became more than mere recreation.
It became war.
"You did that on purpose," Alexandra accused after Langley's third toss rolled precisely to the jack.
He spread his arms innocently. "I can’t help being naturally gifted."
"Naturally arrogant, more like."
Her turn. She stepped forward, skirts swishing, narrowed her eyes, and tossed.
The ball veered left.
"Drat."
Magnus clucked his tongue. "Tragic."
"Remind me why we’re doing this?” She asked.
"Because you agreed."
"I was tricked."
"And yet here you are, fiercely determined to best me."
"I detest losing." Alexandra had always been competitive, but something about Langley’s smug certainty made the prospect of defeat particularly galling.
"Then you should avoid games with me."
She glanced sideways, annoyance flickering sharply beneath her composure. It wasn't just his smugness that irritated her—it was how easily he slipped past her defenses, leaving her feeling dangerously exposed. “You are enjoying this entirely too much."
“Indeed, I am.” He gave a smug grin.
When her next turn resulted in a marginally better placement, he gave a slow, exaggerated clap.
"You’re asking for a bruise, Langley." Alexandra’s pulse quickened irritatingly, and she felt her cheeks warm despite the edge in her voice.
"A love tap from you? Be still, my heart."
The crowd laughed. Wagers were exchanged. Genny was practically bouncing with glee, her delighted laughter ringing out clearly over the murmurs of the crowd. Hattie muttered something about betting double. Arthur, of course, sighed tragically.
As the match continued, it became increasingly clear that he had the edge.
"One last round," he said. "Let’s make it interesting."
Alexandra lifted a brow. "Define 'interesting.'"
"If I win, you owe me a dance. At the Grafton Spring Soirée."
"Absolutely not."
He grinned. "Afraid you'll lose?"
"No. I'm afraid you'll make some dreadful pun about sweeping me off my feet."
"Too late."
"Ugh. Fine. But if I win—you have to leave me alone for the rest of the Season."
"All of it?"
"Every event. No flowerbeds. No flirtations. No wagers.” She held his gaze.
Lord Langly folded his arms, studying her with a glint in his eye. A thrill of uncertainty flickered beneath his confident facade, making his pulse quicken. "Done."
She threw first.
The ball sailed, rolled, curved—and stopped an impressive distance from the jack.
"Better," she said. "Respectable."
He said nothing.
Then he stepped forward, casually, as if the outcome were already written in the stars. His throw was smooth, almost lazy.
The ball rolled.
Right past hers.
Closer. Closer.
It stopped less than an inch from the jack.
There was a collective gasp. Arthur murmured something about destiny. Alexandra felt her cheeks heat, unsure if it was irritation or embarrassment at the audience’s romantic sighs. Hattie cursed under her breath, clearly less enchanted by the spectacle.
Lord Langley turned to Alexandra, bowing deeply, a flicker of triumph mingling with a surprising warmth in his chest. For a moment, he was genuinely uncertain which feeling he enjoyed more—the thrill of victory or the exhilaration of seeing her cheeks redden in defeat. "Shall I call for a waltz or a reel?"
She gave him a thin smile. "You are insufferable.
" Yet even as she said it, Alexandra wondered how someone so infuriating could also be so irresistibly appealing—a thought she quickly dismissed, though not nearly fast enough.
Alexandra bit back the inconvenient thought that she was starting to enjoy his teasing more than she should—a realization that irritated her almost as much as Langley himself.
"And you are a delight."
"You rigged the match," Alexandra said, grudging admiration warring with a spark of competitive annoyance.
"I simply excel at games of precision and charm."
"Then let us hope you excel at surviving dangerous objects, for if you try to hold me close on that dance floor, I may step on your foot. Repeatedly."