Chapter 4 #2
A ridiculous sound broke from her. Half-gasp, half-laugh.
"This," she said, "is entirely your fault."
Redford's mouth twitched. His coat clung to his shoulders, water dripping from his lashes. He had never looked less composed or more alive.
"In my defense," he said, "I did not bring the duck."
Genny, blowing hair out of her eyes, added, "That was me."
Esme glared at them both. It was entirely ineffective.
From the bank, a child began to clap. Then laughter rippled outward—from the children first, then from the adults. Alexandra, still clinging to her hat, shook water from her sleeves and executed a dripping curtsey to her audience.
"Ladies and gentlemen," she called. "May I present the inaugural meeting of the Serpentine Swimming Society. Membership highly exclusive. Admission by catastrophe only."
The crowd laughed louder.
The pressure on Esme's chest eased a fraction.
Across the way, she caught a glimpse of Mother's expression. Horror tempered by the undeniable fact that Alexandra was also in the water, as was Magnus.
Harrison, already splashing toward them from his own boat, looked apoplectic.
"Esme!" he shouted. "Are you hurt?"
"Only my pride," she called back. "We were overrun by waterfowl."
Redford's hand still circled her wrist. His thumb brushed once, lightly.
"Apologies," he said in an undertone. "This was not quite the sort of mischief I had in mind."
She meet his gaze. "You have an alarming talent for understatement."
Harrison reached them. "What happened?" he demanded.
"A duck," Genny said promptly. "A very forward duck. You see, Lord Woodmere? This is what comes of encouraging wholesomeness. Nature rebels."
Magnus declared, "No one is injured, except, perhaps, Lord Redford's dignity."
"I assure you," Redford said, "it was never seaworthy."
Laughter rippled through the onlookers. Even Harrison's mouth twitched.
They splashed back to shore. Someone produced blankets, and someone else offered a flask. Alexandra and Magnus joked about their soaking, turning potential scandal into farce.
Esme stood on the bank, water pooling at her ruined slippers.
Mother hurried to her. "Esme," she breathed, eyes wide. “What…how—“
"I assure you, Mama," Esme said calmly, "we did not intend to bathe."
Genny sniffed. "If we had, we should have chosen a warmer month."
Mother's gaze darted from Alexandra to Magnus to the onlookers, to Harrison, and to Redford.
"Was there... impropriety?" she asked in a low voice.
Esme's cheeks burned.
"No, Mama," she said. "Only ducks."
Alexandra approached. "Lady Woodmere, I must take responsibility," she said firmly. "I insisted on admiring the willow. The boat shifted, and we were all sent into the water. Lord Redford behaved with utmost propriety and prevented Lady Esme from panicking. I, on the other hand, shrieked."
Mother’s shoulders relaxed a measure. "If Lady Langley vouches for you..." She began.
"I do," Alexandra said. "And I shall tell everyone that our little adventure was the most refreshing part of the morning."
Mother exhaled. "Very well. We must return home at once. Esme, Genny, into the carriage. Harrison, see that a message is sent ahead to have baths prepared."
Harrison nodded, then waved a footman over and began issuing orders.
Esme turned to the carriage, then hesitated. Redford stood nearby, watching.
She stepped back toward him.
"Lord Redford," she said softly.
He bowed. "Lady Esme, I trust you will accept my apologies for dragging you into an impromptu swim."
"It appears," she said, "that you have saved me from drowning twice in one week."
"Only once," he countered, "tonight the Serpentine, the other evening merely a sea of ink."
She smiled. ”I am grateful," she said, "even if my shoes never recover."
"I shall mourn them," he said gravely. "They died heroes."
She laughed.
Behind her, Mother called, "Esme."
She should go. She knew that. Every sensible part of her insisted on turning back, obeying, retreating.
Instead, she heard herself say, under her breath, "Thank you. For holding on."
His gaze sharpened. "Always," he said quietly.
The word lodged in her.
She retreated then, slipping into the carriage, Genny tumbling in after her with a shiver. The door shut, the springs creaked, the horses moved.
Through the small glass pane, Esme glimpsed Redford on the bank, water dripping from his hair, cloak hastily thrown over his shoulders, Alexandra and Magnus flanking him.
He lifted two fingers in a small salute as the carriage rolled away.
She leaned back against the squabs, closing her eyes.
"Esme," Genny said, wringing water from her sleeves, "on a scale from one to ten, how furious is Lord Woodmere?”
“Eight. Possibly nine. But Alexandra is a ten, and she is on our side."
"Excellent," Genny said. "Then I would call that a victory.”
“Ladies,” Mother reprimanded.
Esme smiled despite the damp chill creeping up her legs.
A victory, she thought, had never before involved so much water.
By the time James returned to Langley house, the morning's chaos had arranged itself into distinct images. He had not often found himself in such a condition while feeling so...exhilarated.
Esme, hair unbound and streaming, eyes wide from the shock of cold.
The strangled sound she'd made before it became laughter.
The feel of her wrist in his hand, slim and strong and very much alive.
He dropped into a chair by the window.
"What are you smiling at?" Magnus asked from the doorway, without preamble.
James covered by reaching for the decanter. "Your soothing bedside manner, clearly."
Magnus leaned against the jamb, arms folded. His hair still damp.
"Alexandra has already sent three notes," he said.
"One to Lady Woodmere, one to Genny, and one to that odious gossipmonger Lady Cardigan, making the entire thing sound like a farce staged for the amusement of the children.
By tonight, the story will be that we all fell in on purpose as a philanthropic demonstration. "
James relaxed a fraction. "Efficient, as always."
"She also informed your mother that you distinguished yourself," Magnus went on. "By not drowning anyone and by looking appropriately wretched."
"High praise," James murmured.
Magnus's gaze sharpened. "And Esme?"
"Cold, damp, furious," James said. "And... laughing."
"You like that," Magnus said.
It was not a question.
James toyed with the glass. "I like that she laughs at all. The Season seems designed to beat the laughter out of her."
Magnus studied him. "You are in deeper than you intended."
“Parish the thought.” James turned his attention to his tumbler.
“Woodmere will be looking for someone to blame."
"The ducks are first," James said. "Alexandra has already written a ballad about their villainy."
"After the ducks," Magnus said.
"Then me," James took a deep drink. "He made that clear."
"Do you blame yourself?" Magnus asked.
James thought of the boat tipping, the cold, the shock. Of Esme's voice saying, Thank you. For holding on. "I blame Miss Moreland's biscuits," he said. "And your wife’s enthusiasm for willow trees."
Magnus's mouth quirked. "You deflect badly."
"You are becoming sentimental," James said. "Alexandra is a terrible influence."
"Possibly," Magnus said. "She seems to think there is hope for you."
James chuckled.
Magnus straightened. "James."
He glanced up.
"Be honest with yourself, James. Is this only mischief?"
James opened his mouth, but did not speak.
He pictured Esme wrapped in a blanket, wet hair clinging to her cheeks, eyes bright even through the shock. The lightness he had felt when she stood in the water and accused him with more amusement than anger. The way his name had sounded when she thanked him.
He set the glass down.
"No," he said.
Magnus nodded. "Then you have decisions to make."
"I despise decisions," James said.
"Then they will be made for you," Magnus replied. "By the dowager Viscountess. By Woodmere. By the Season. By someone who cares more for neat columns than for your heart."
James did not look away. "Esme," he said slowly, "deserves better than to be a column."
"Then act like you believe that," Magnus said. "And do not let 'the ducks did it' be your only defense."
James laughed. "You ruin all my best lines."
Magnus moved to the door, then paused. "Alexandra says there will be a small gathering at Foxmere's in a fortnight. Gardens, battledore, lemonade. Lady Woodmere and Esme will receive invitations."
"Of course," James muttered.
“I have it on good authority you will also be invited.” Magnus moved to the sideboard.
James looked out at the April sky.
"I expect," he said, "that the Mutual Mischief Society will require a quorum."
Magnus shook his head. "At some point you will have to stop calling it mischief and admit what it is."
James took a slow drink.
"One catastrophe at a time, my dear Langley," he said. "Today, ducks. Tomorrow, wife-stealing lemonade. We shall see what the Foxmere gardens bring."
When he was alone again, he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.
Somewhere in Grosvenor Square, Lady Esme was likely standing in front of a fire, wrapped in blankets, listening to her mother lament ruined gowns and lost prospects.
He hoped she would remember the feel of cold water, the absurdity of ducks, and the fact that she had laughed. And most of all, that a thoroughly disreputable man had held on and not let go.
The Mutual Mischief Society, he thought, had never seemed less harmless.
Or more worth the trouble.