Chapter 3
CHAPTER 3
R oderick always forgot how utterly tedious a country party could be until he was trapped in the midst of one. And now, three days after his arrival to Mr. and Mrs. Lockhart’s, he found himself nearly going out of his skull with boredom as he stood over the sideboard, looking at what was left in the selection of breakfast.
Oh, he had friends here. Lockhart and Ramsbury were great fun, though Ramsbury now sequestered himself with his wife more often than not. They were in love. Head over heels. Roderick couldn’t begrudge his friend that, as it was exactly what he, himself, sought.
As if conjured by the thought, Ramsbury entered the breakfast room, his hair a little mussed and his eyes slightly bleary despite the late hour.
“Kirkwood,” he said with a good-natured slap on the shoulder. “You’re up early.”
“It’s eleven,” Roderick laughed as he handed over a plate and stepped aside so they could look at the spread together. “I think we might be the last ones.”
“Hmmm,” Ramsbury murmured with a little smirk. “Well, some days it is harder to get out of bed than others.”
“I imagine so in your current position as a besotted husband. ”
Something softened in his old friend’s expression. “It will be the position I hold for the rest of my life.”
“Then I’m truly happy for you,” Roderick said. “You and the countess do seem well suited, so I suppose that what they say is true.”
“They?” Ramsbury put a few items on his plate. “What do they say?”
“Something about reformed rakes and the best husbands.”
Ramsbury laughed. “True only if one is in love with one’s wife. Which I am. And now I shall rejoin the lady, herself, and deliver sustenance to tempt her back to the party. But I hear there will be some lawn games before tea to get the blood pumping to prepare for the ball tonight. I look forward to trouncing you soundly at pall-mall.”
He gave a little salute and then swept from the room, apparently back to his waiting wife. Roderick’s smile fell. There was the proof, yet again, of true love out there in the world. But he’d never even come close. Every one of his many lovers had been transactional, a pleasant way to purge a physical desire. He had never felt drawn enough to any woman that he would officially court her.
He shook his head. He was young still, with plenty of time to be struck by the lightning he knew would accompany meeting his future love. In the meantime, he would continue to enjoy his life. Starting with a spirited game of pall-mall.
C larissa tried to school her expression as she stood to the side of the pall-mall court and watched the play, her mallet gripped in her hand. They had a large enough party that they had split into two groups, declaring that the winners amongst them would face each other in the end for the ultimate prize. Normally she would have enjoyed the match, her group was to go second and to display herself with chastened sportiveness was one of the required abilities of The Mirror of the Graces .
If she were honest, it was one she struggled with. How was she to display both playfulness and restraint? To be both quiet and enthusiastic? It was one of the many parts of her handbook that she read over and over and tried to define for herself so that she wouldn’t fail.
Right now trying to display both was even harder because one of the gentlemen on the field of play was Lord Kirkwood. He was with Lord Ramsbury; Mr. Longford, who was a second son; Clarissa’s mother; and Lord Crossworth’s mother. Kirkwood was laughing loudly, drawing attention to himself. And he had stripped from his jacket and rolled his sleeves to the elbows in a shocking display of dishabille. Even his dark hair was a little mussed because between shots down the alley, he kept running his fingers through it.
It all felt entirely ungentlemanly and uncouth. Everyone was meant to pay attention to their grooming, to be modest in their attire. To do otherwise displayed a familiarity that couldn’t be born.
Not to mention, his forearms were distracting. Lined with lean muscle, peppered with light brown hair, there was just too much skin there. She could see others had noticed. Mr. Longford’s sister, Beatrice Vale, for example, couldn’t seem to stop staring, despite being in her late thirties and a relatively recent widow. Surely she should have more decorum.
“Ah!” Kirkwood crowed, drawing her attention back as his ball rolled through the raised ring at the end of the alley in, she had to admit, an impressive shot. It had to be at least twenty-five feet from where he had started.
“I would accuse you of cheating, but I cannot determine how,” Ramsbury said with a chuckle as he reached out to shake Kirkwood’s hand. “But I’ll give Marianne as much advice as I can so that she will beat you after she wins the next round.”
“I’m terrible at pall-mall, dearest,” Lady Ramsbury declared as she slid her hand through Clarissa’s arm and they walked onto the alley together as the servants gathered up the balls to return them to the opposite end. “I fear I shall not redeem the honor of our title.”
The whole party was laughing now and Clarissa joined in. Somehow Ramsbury or Marianne being playful didn’t bother her as much as Kirkwood doing it. She stepped past him with only the slightest look, though she heard him give a little snort of laughter.
“Lady Ramsbury, I believe you have the rank and thus the first shot,” George said as the players aligned themselves.
Marianne lined up her shot and swung her mallet, but it turned out she was just as hopeless at the game as she had declared, for she hardly rolled the ball forward and also slid it to the very edge of the alley.
“You see,” she called back with a little smile for her husband.
He looked anything but annoyed by her failure and Clarissa found her smile falling. If she missed her shot, she would hear no end of it from her father, who chose not to play, but was obviously judging all who did.
“Are you quite well, Miss Lockhart?” Lord Crossworth asked. “Your face is suddenly pinched.”
She almost gasped in horror that she had been seen as such. Showing such dark emotions was not done, certainly not in public. Rarely in private. “Oh, I apologize. I was just thinking about…” She glanced at Lord Kirkwood and found him watching her closely. “Thinking about my best strategy for a shot. Perhaps you could advise?”
She didn’t need the advice, of course. But this was what women did. They pretended to be less so that men could act like more. An annoyance, but also an expectation she was bound to uphold if she wanted to follow societal rules.
Lord Crossworth began to talk and she mostly blocked him out, just nodding and murmuring little sounds of affirmation. Instead, she was still distracted by Kirkwood. He arched a brow at her and then he had the audacity to wink. He winked at her! She, an unmarried miss. He a…a rogue…a scoundrel. A rake!
She took a long step away from the viscount, hardly realizing that he was still talking, and strode up to her ball. With a grunt she swung the mallet and hit the ball so hard that it soared upward as well as forward and landed with a thud far farther than anyone else’s had .
She wanted to shout with the achievement, but managed to keep her wits and her composure. As the rest of the crowd clapped she gave one last glare toward Kirkwood and made her way down the alley.
They continued the game that way, taking their turns one after the other. Poor Marianne never fully recovered from her bad first hit, but she laughed with real pleasure at the game each time. In the end, it came down to Clarissa and Lord Crossworth. He lined up for his shot, his face increasingly serious about the endeavor. When he swung the mallet, the ball rolled forward and then stopped just next to the ring. His lips pinched with obvious frustration before he turned toward Clarissa.
“Your shot, Miss Lockhart,” he said with an indulgent smile that only served to irritate her further. “May I advise you so that you get as close to the ring as possible?”
“No, thank you, my lord. I believe I can manage,” she said.
She heard her mother make a little noise from the crowd. Wonderful, it seemed she had done something else wrong. Refused the assistance of a potential suitor, in front of others. Forget that she had been playing better than he had for the entire round.
But now she was in a pickle. She knew she could make the shot before her. It was long, but she had a good angle. If she did so, though, that meant besting Crossworth. She wasn’t supposed to do that. Etiquette said that a lady was to defer to a man. Especially one she might link herself to.
And yet, if she won, she would face Lord Kirkwood in the final round. There would be such pleasure in defeating him , if only to take the smug satisfaction from his handsome face. To show him that poor manners could not be rewarded.
She drew a long breath, swung her mallet and hit it just so. The ball rolled and she leaned forward, feeling all in the crowd do the same. It began to slow as it approached the ring and Lord Crossworth smiled.
“No shame in—” He cut himself off as the ball cleared the ring and the crowd behind her erupted in applause and shouts of support .
Crossworth turned toward her, a smile on his face that did not reach his eyes. He held out a hand. “Good show, Miss Lockhart.”
“You are too kind. It was purely luck,” she lied. “And your good advice.”
She took his hand and he shook it, but he squeezed as he did so, a little too hard to be friendly. She pulled her hand away and rubbed it slightly as he turned from her and went to accept the condolences of the other gentlemen.
“It will be Clarissa and Kirkwood to the death, it seems!” George crowed. “I’ll be taking wagers to the side if anyone would like to partake.”
He was teasing and Clarissa laughed, but many of the gentlemen actually approached him. She shook her head. Men could be ridiculous on what they wagered on.
As the servants gathered up the balls and retrieved mallets from the other players, Clarissa made her way back down the alley. Her father stepped in as she did so, his long face even longer with a scowl.
“Why did you defeat the viscount?” he whispered.
She glanced at him. “It was a friendly game, Father. I merely had the luck of it.”
He glowered at her. “I have spared no expense to bring these men here for you to exhibit without competition. Do not make me regret it. When you face off with Lord Kirkwood, don’t repeat this foolishness. He is even more important than Crossworth and could raise you higher if you don’t muck it up as you’ve done so many times before.”
“You cannot possibly wish for me to match with?—”
But she couldn’t finish the sentence. Her father moved away from her and she sighed, letting her shoulders roll forward. She should have guessed her parents would see Kirkwood as a mighty catch, despite how ill-suited he would be to her. That didn’t matter to them. It was not supposed to matter to her.
“Deference to one’s parents,” she murmured as a reminder to herself. She didn’t have to fear. Kirkwood couldn’t possibly want her. And if she behaved correctly, she might catch the eye of some other gentleman and that would end their interest. Not Crossworth, it seemed, for he still glared at her.
But there were others here who would watch her match with Kirkwood. So she would have to be demure. Meek. And let Kirkwood win, just as her father suggested.
“That was an excellent show, Miss Lockhart,” Kirkwood said as he stepped up to her at the end of the alley. “I was mightily impressed by your final shot.”
She looked up at him. He seemed genuine in the compliment. Probably trying to soften her up for the battle to come. No, not a battle. She was letting him win, after all.
“I certainly cannot compare to you,” she choked out.
His brow wrinkled and he opened his mouth, but the footman arrived with their balls for the game and the crowd gathered closer.
“You have the rank, my lord,” she said, inclining her head.
“A gentleman always defers to the lady,” he replied. “Please.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. He wanted her to go first. Out of politeness or because he wanted to see her shots to know what he needed to do. A good strategy, honestly, but one that irritated her once more when it came to him.
“Thank you,” she managed to choke out with a false smile. “How kind.”
He made that little sound in the back of his throat again, almost a chuckle that she doubted anyone else could hear. She stepped up to the line at the beginning of the alley, set her ball down and drew a breath. Let him win.
She knocked the ball with the mallet and it rolled forward with just half the strength that she had used in the prior game. There was polite applause as she stepped aside and Kirkwood took his place on the line. He shot her an odd look, then swung his mallet and hit the ball with a crack. It rolled and she frowned as it stopped just barely farther than her own.
They moved forward together, the crowd on either side of the alley doing the same. “You can best him, Clarissa!” Marianne called from the side with a wide smile. “Do it for the honor of the ladies!”
Clarissa returned the smile even though her stomach felt sick. What she wanted to do was wallop the ball as hard as she could and take this man in the least number of shots possible. To make him sweat when he realized he couldn’t win against her, a lady. Take him down a peg or two and then accept the congratulations of the women in attendance while the men had to pay their wagers out because they hadn’t believed she could win.
“Deference to one’s parents,” she murmured under her breath.
Kirkwood tilted his head. “What was that?”
She ignored him and hit the ball. She hit it harder this time, but purposefully drove it off the best line, resulting in an “awwww” from the gathered crowd.
“Oh no,” she said, trying to put as much genuine disappointment in her tone when she was actually impressed with herself that she could purposefully put the ball exactly where she wished to.
“Indeed.” Kirkwood’s tone was dry and he stepped up, met her gaze, and without looking, hit the ball. It rolled forward and also to the side, nearly hitting hers.
She glared at him. Was he doing that on purpose? Matching her shot for shot? Why would he do that?
She gave him a sickly-sweet smile. “We seem to be well matched, my lord.”
He arched a brow. “Don’t we just? I wonder at it, for we both seemed to perform better in the previous rounds.”
She huffed out a breath. And now he was drawing attention to their mutual bad play? The man had no sense of decorum at all. A gentleman would have ignored it, played his round and then been chivalrous about her loss. Why could he not follow even those most basic rules of courtship?
No, not courtship. She shook her head at that thought. Interaction. That was what she’d meant. She was just all turned around in her head thanks to the potential suitors all around .
“Are you going to play, Miss Lockhart?”
She blinked. “I-I was just thinking about my strategy to get out of this awful angle.”
“Ah.” He didn’t look like he believed her and made no attempt to cover that expression. “Yes. We’ve both gotten ourselves into quite the predicament.”
She forced her countenance to remain calm and aligned her mallet before she swung and sent the ball rolling. Oh, she had hit it too hard in her frustration and this time it rolled into the middle of the alley and within a shot’s length of the ring. Drat and damn. If he continued to play poorly, whether by design or accident, she would be hard pressed to win.
He flashed her a smile as he aligned and took his shot. Like her, he hit better and his ball rolled close to hers. He was definitely doing this on purpose.
“Hmmm,” she murmured as they walked up together. “It seems our fortunes are bound. I wonder why that is?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “A question for the ages. It seems you’ll win here, Miss Lockhart, as you are within a shot of the ring.”
She pursed her lips. She was determined to do as her father had asked. Or at least, that was what she tried to tell herself. In truth, now she wanted Kirkwood to win because somehow that had become how she would beat him. But she had to be careful. She couldn’t be too obvious. The crowd, when she actually noticed it was there in her focus on the earl, was already murmuring and putting their heads together to discuss this odd round.
She worried her lip a little and looked over to find him watching her. He tilted his head almost as if to say, Well?
She scowled and hit the ball. It rolled forward, slid a little off-line and stopped within a tap’s distance of the ring.
His smile fell and he stared at her. “I see,” he said softly.
“Yes. It’s bad luck, isn’t it?” She made her voice as sweet as she could. “Ugh, so frustrating. It looks to be your game, my lord. ”
“It does.” He hit the ball and it rolled forward, passing hers slightly, but not making it into the ring. “Ah, curses.”
“Curses?” she repeated under her breath as she shot him a look.
He smiled. She almost wanted to stomp her foot in frustration, all reminders that all things must be in moderation for ladies, especially emotions, forgotten because of the irritating person at her side.
But she drew a few breaths and looked at her options. There was almost no way not to win here. Her shot was too close to pretend she had gone off unless she faked an injury and that was going too far. Unless…
She smiled as the solution formed in her head. It would take a little talent, but she’d always been good at pall-mall. She drew in a long breath, exhaled and hit her ball. It rolled toward the ring, then slightly to the side, struck Kirkwood’s ball and slid it into the ring instead of her own.
“Oh!” George called out, startling her as she had forgotten, once again, about the crowd watching in suspense. “Kirkwood wins due to Clarissa’s pushing him into the ring!”
There was applause from the crowd and Clarissa found herself grinning as Kirkwood stared at his ball on the other side of the ring. When he looked at her, though, the grin faded. He tilted his head. “Good show, Miss Lockhart.”
“What do you mean, my lord?” she asked as she extended her hand in congratulations. “You took the day.”
He took her hand and his thumb grazed across her skin briefly. “Did I?”
The others rushed in to congratulate him and console her before the group of them started back up toward the house for refreshments and then to separate to prepare for the ball that night. Kirkwood was pushed forward by the men, who were clearly celebrating whether he’d won the day by her move or his own. He smiled slightly but when he looked back over his shoulder at her, her heart beat a little faster. He arched a brow and then winked. Like he knew what she’d done.
Just as she knew what he’d been doing. She scowled .
“Oh, don’t feel badly,” Beatrice Vale said, mistaking her frown for disappointment. “The earl is such a good player.”
Clarissa shot her a look. “Yes,” she ground out.
“And he cuts a fine figure,” Beatrice continued, and all but batted her eyes at his retreating figure.
Why Clarissa was so annoyed by that, she couldn’t say. The widow could have him. Certainly she didn’t want him for herself. The Earl of Kirkwood could hang for all she cared. His good looks weren’t enough to tempt her. They never would be.