Chapter 5 #3
Mr. Hawke and I both turned to see Mr. Pratt, who had positioned himself front and center among the onlookers. The hefty man crossed his arms and gave Mr. Hawke a challenging tilt of his head.
“I’ll take that bet,” another gentleman said.
“Your loss.” Mr. Pratt shrugged. “That Hawke fellow clearly doesn’t have his head in the game.”
Mr. Hawke straightened, his fist tightening around the cork of the shuttlecock. Interesting, I thought, recalling his refusal to shake Mr. Pratt’s hand. There was something there, something that could prove useful.
“Mr. Hawke?” I called out. “Ready for one last round?”
He shook himself out of his trance, then tossed the shuttlecock back to me.
His words were clipped. “Your serve.”
I made a clean hit over the net. One more point, and I would win—which meant I had one last chance to question him.
But Mr. Hawke’s stance changed in an instant. His feet were no longer too wide apart, and he lowered his grip on his racquet. When he hit the shuttlecock, the sheer force of it drove me back five steps, and I barely returned the shot.
Perhaps he could play after all.
“Do you have a favorite tavern that you frequent?” I asked, getting breathless. “I have a cousin visiting from the country who asked for recommendations.”
Mr. Hawke threw all his weight into his next hit.
I had to leap for the return. “Perhaps the Spaniard Inn?” I asked. Such places were breeding grounds for scandal.
He hit a backhand that angled the shuttlecock to my far left.
I smacked it with a practiced swing, growing frustrated at his lack of response. “How about the Old Bell Tavern?”
This time, Mr. Hawke braced himself, pulling back his arm, gearing for a hard hit.
This time, I anticipated it and moved back just as the shuttlecock hit his racquet.
But instead of swinging his arm hard, he barely tapped the shuttlecock.
It curved up in a lazy arc an inch over the net.
I tried to go for it, but it was too far away.
It bounced on the ground two feet in front of me.
“I thought you said this was a friendly game!” I called out.
“I thought you said not to hold back.”
I blew out a frustrated breath. Mr. Hawke made the next serve—a flawless one—and the volley increased in speed. Neither of us yielded.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed more guests had gathered to watch our match, including Lord Cranford who stood next to Mr. Marceaux. I set my jaw, ignoring the sweat dripping down my cheek. I could not afford to lose this match, not in front of both my candidates.
Hit. Return. Strike. Lunge—
Mr. Hawke managed to score another point.
“We’re tied now.” He flipped his racquet in his hand with frustrating ease. “My serve.”
I clenched my teeth. Had he been pretending the first two rounds? Concealing his skill? It was one of Sun Tzu’s tricks I’d used on him earlier: Pretend to be weak, that he may grow arrogant. But why try to fool me? Was it merely for his amusement, or did he have an ulterior motive?
When the shuttlecock soared toward me, I pulled out one of my more complicated moves, sending the rubber-and-feather ball back to Mr. Hawke in a deceiving arc.
“On your right, Hawke! Allez!” Mr. Marceaux shouted. Mr. Hawke caught the shuttlecock just in time, sending it back my way with potent force.
I simmered. Was my suitor cheering for him?
As if Mr. Hawke were some underdog to root for?
The thought shattered the thin shield that kept my anger at bay.
Precision was getting me nowhere. In a swell of rage, I thrust the shuttlecock forward with all my strength, piercing the air like a musket ball.
Mr. Hawke’s eyes widened. The shuttlecock was headed directly for his forehead. In a split second, he jumped forward and ducked, holding up his racquet so it miraculously caught the shuttlecock. Then, he flung it over the net at an impossibly sharp angle.
I was too far back. There wasn’t time. I threw myself across the lawn, holding out my racquet in my outstretched hand as I dove nose-first into the grass. Pain tore across my elbows and knees as I made contact with the hard ground, but my eyes never left the shuttlecock as it barreled downward—
And landed three inches in front of my racquet.
Everyone fell silent, except for Mr. Pratt, who muttered a string of curses as he handed fifty pounds to the man next to him.
I couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything more than stare at the shuttlecock on the ground. A boiling heat rushed into my cheeks, and my heartbeat thundered in my ears.
Had I… had I just lost?
It wasn’t until Mr. Hawke’s polished boots stepped in front of me that I realized I was lying face down in the grass, my skirts up and around my knees—in front of two dozen spectators.
Mr. Hawke crouched beside me, putting himself between me and the crowd, and tossed the dirtied hem of my dress back down over my legs.
He reached out his hand. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine.” I shoved his hand away and pushed myself up, ignoring my skinned elbows and the hot humiliation crawling up my face. I could hear people whispering from the crowd, including muffled giggles from Sybella and Gabby.
Mr. Hawke’s brow furrowed, and he brushed a blade of grass out of my hair. “Are you sure you’re—”
“I said I’m fine!” I pulled away from him and looked down at my dress, wincing. Grass stains striped the pink muslin, and the newly tailored hem was ripped. Father’s words roared like cannons in my head. Not even a wrinkle.
I was nothing but wrinkles.
Mr. Hawke rested his racquet on his shoulder and offered a weak smile. “Excellent game. Care for a rematch?”
It took every ounce of my willpower not to strangle him. But I had to remain composed, considering I was still on full display.
“I must decline,” I said. “For, yet again, I must change clothes after an encounter with you.”
His eyes flashed. “What do you mean again?”
From the side, I saw Lord Cranford shake his head and walk away with his uneven gait. The rage burning in my chest rose above the boiling point.
“Never mind. Enjoy your victory, Mr. Hawke.” I pushed past him, lowering my voice so only he could hear. “You won’t get another.”
I paraded through the amused looks and whispers of the crowd, only to be stopped by Mr. Marceaux. He leaned in and whispered in my ear, “Do not concern yourself with Hawke, ma chère. All men become fools in the presence of a beautiful woman.”
His words sparked an idea—a way to escape my father’s ire and get much-needed retribution against Mr. Hawke.
“Thank you for your kindness, Mr. Marceaux,” I said. “But the only concern I have is the state of my dress. If you’ll excuse me.”
Using the scraps of dignity I still possessed, I curtsied and marched off, pausing only to grab Mrs. Sweete by the arm. I tugged her along as we retreated into the house.
As soon as we were alone in the hallway, Mrs. Sweete gave me that terribly concerned look of hers. “Are you all right? That was quite a fall.”
“I’m fine,” I repeated for a third time. “Great, actually. One might even say I’m rapturously exuberant.”
“That bad?”
I crossed my arms and looked out the window towards the lawn. Mr. Hawke was surrounded by both women and men alike, the former batting their eyelashes and the latter clapping him on the back, all eager to celebrate his triumph over me.
I had never wanted to throw something so badly. Preferably at his head.
“I can see now why you do not wish to pursue Mr. Hawke, despite his assets,” Mrs. Sweete said. “I will help convince Lord Highcliffe that he is an unsuitable candidate.”
“No.”
Mrs. Sweete coughed. “No?”
“No.” I spun around to meet Mrs. Sweete’s confused stare. “Put Mr. Hawke at the top of my list.”
Mrs. Sweete frowned. “But I thought you despised him.”
“He has beaten me, Mrs. Sweete. At my own game, nonetheless. And I won’t stand for it.”
“And that makes you want to pursue him… why?”
I turned back to the window, my eyes narrowing on the enemy.
He was awkwardly shuffling the racquet in his hands to accept Mr. Marceaux’s handshake.
As the Frenchman rattled off his congratulations, Mr. Hawke glanced around the garden, his brow drawn as if he didn’t even care about the accolades.
But why else would he have taken such pains to defeat me?
“Because,” I placed my hand on the window, “if I can get that scoundrel of a man to fall hopelessly in love with me, he will lose all sense of rationality—and I will have defeated him.” My hand balled up into a fist. “I will take his pride as well as his insufferable self-assurance and turn it into my triumph. He will be in my power, at my mercy, and I will prove once and for all that I have won.”
“Oh dear,” Mrs. Sweete breathed. “God help us all.”