Chapter 2 #2
He laughed. "I look forward to it."
Later, as Alexandra and Genny sat beneath a silk parasol nibbling cucumber sandwiches, a warm flutter stirred low in Alexandra’s chest—a treacherous softness she tried, and failed, to dismiss, Genny leaned over with a smirk.
Alexandra stiffened slightly, the flutter in her chest refusing to settle as Genny's words echoed in her ears.
She wasn't sure if it was indignation or something far more unsettling—anticipation.
"You realize, of course, you’ve just given him everything he wanted,” Genny said.
"A dance? Please. He wants sport. Challenge. Someone to sharpen his dull wit against."
"And you, my dear, are the whetstone."
Alexandra felt a sudden flush of warmth creep up her neck at the image—sharp edges meeting, sparks flying—and she swallowed hard, irritated by her own reaction.
Alexandra snorted. "How poetic."
"Arthur would approve.” Genny took a bit of her sandwich.
"Arthur is currently under the impression that our flirtation is worthy of an epic poem." Alexandra tried to keep her tone dismissive, but a tiny part of her felt an embarrassing flicker of amusement at the thought of being the heroine in one of Arthur’s melodramatic sagas.
"Well," Genny said, sipping her lemonade. "It is shaping up to be rather epic."
Alexandra felt a mix of anxiety and reluctant anticipation tighten in her chest, knowing that whatever came next would be anything but ordinary.
She closed her eyes against the sun, feeling its warmth seep into her skin.
The breeze stirred her hair as if echoing the memory of his voice—low, teasing, impossible to ignore.
She hated to admit it, but part of her had enjoyed the game.
The teasing. The way Langley looked at her as if she were not just a pretty face, but an opponent worth besting.
That part of her was dangerous. Reckless. Like standing at the edge of a cliff with the wind in her hair—thrilling, intoxicating, and just foolish enough to make her lean closer.
Tempted.
Magnus sat beneath the shade of a linden tree with Viscount Redford, the sun-dappled grass still warm beneath him and his muscles pleasantly loose from the match, nursing a brandy and the smug satisfaction of a man who had just bested the most beguiling woman in London.
"You’re an idiot," James said.
"I won.” Magnus glanced across the lawn.
"Yes. A dance. Congratulations. You’ve just ensured the ton will watch you both like hawks."
"Let them." Magnus felt oddly liberated by the idea.
For years, his interactions had been carefully controlled, dull repetitions of polite conversations and predictable flirtations.
Alexandra's unpredictability, her wit, and the genuine challenge she posed felt like fresh air after too long in a stuffy room.
Society's whispers meant nothing compared to the exhilaration of Alexandra’s challenge—the spark of her defiance, the way her eyes flashed with intelligence and humor.
He was more than willing to risk a scandal if it meant continuing their thrilling, dangerous dance.
"You do realize that this is how gentlemen get trapped?"
"With lawn bowls?"
"With banter. With stolen dances. With reputations and rumors."
Magnus looked out at the lawn, where Alexandra stood in conversation with Louisa and Genny, animated, laughing, her hands moving expressively.
He found himself captivated by the genuine delight in her expression—the brightness of her laughter, the effortless grace of her gestures.
It was a glimpse into an unguarded moment, one that made him want to draw closer rather than turn away.
"I don’t mind rumors," he said.
James eyed him. "You like her."
Magnus paused, swirling the brandy in his glass, feeling its warmth seep through his fingertips. He opened his mouth to protest, but the denial died on his lips, replaced by an amused exhale. "Of course I do. She’s utterly maddening."
"And you're smiling like a man who just discovered his favorite tavern serves champagne."
Magnus didn't bother denying it. There was something fascinating in the challenge Alexandra presented—the quickness of her wit, the gleam in her eyes, the boldness with which she matched him stride for stride. It drew him like nothing else had in years, making denial utterly pointless.
Because for the first time in years, a woman had surprised him.
His usual flirtations felt predictable, safe—conversations that skimmed the surface, leaving him untouched and bored.
Alexandra, however, had reached past his defenses with an ease that unsettled as much as it thrilled him.
Not just with her wit or her aim, but with the way she looked at him—as if she saw right through the charm to the man beneath.
It stirred something he hadn’t felt in ages—a flicker of loneliness, perhaps, or the dangerous thrill of being truly noticed.
He could not remember the last time someone had truly surprised him—and it felt like stepping into sunlight after far too long in shadow.
And now she owed him a dance.
He fully intended to make it count. He imagined the weight of her hand in his, the subtle shift of her breath as he drew her closer, and the spark that would leap between them the moment her eyes met his—just long enough for her to realize she was no longer in control of the game.
Even if she did try to step on his foot.