Chapter 5 #2
"It will be chaos," Magnus predicted, watching Lady Honoria tap a parasol against her palm as she evaluated potential players. "Alexandra with a whistle and Lady Honoria with opinions? You may as well hand out helmets."
"I am not missing the opportunity to see you hit in the head with a shuttlecock."
Alexandra blew the whistle, startling birds from the nearby trees. "Ladies and gentlemen! The inaugural Foxmere Battledore Tournament is now commencing. Remember our one rule."
"No fatalities!" the crowd chorused.
"And no aiming for bishops!" she added. "They bruise."
"It's like watching Esme once she is wed," Magnus said quietly.
"An alarming image," James said.
Before Magnus could reply, Genny materialized at James's elbow, eyes bright. "Lord Redford, we require your assistance."
"Am I to be used as target practice?"
"Not unless you insist. Louisa would like Lady Honoria occupied while we... rearrange some team pairings."
He glanced at Louisa, who stood near the other end of the lawn, apparently engrossed in a discussion of shuttlecocks with Esme. Their heads were bent close, the picture of innocuous feminine interest. He did not trust it for a moment.
"What is the goal?" he asked.
"To put Miss Eaton and Mr. Carstairs on the same team, without Lady Honoria insisting on inserting herself between them like a particularly determined chaperone."
"Lady Honoria believes it is her sacred duty to stand between people and happiness," Magnus murmured.
"Exactly. Hence our need for distraction. You are very distracting, Lord Redford."
"How kind of you to say so. And what sort of distraction do you have in mind?" He arched a brow.
Genny grinned. "Flattery, gossip, perhaps a vague hint that someone here has written a poem about her."
James winced. "Cruel."
"Kind for Lady Honoria lives on attention. We are merely feeding her."
Alexandra's whistle shrieked again. "Form your teams! Four per side! If you cannot count to four, find someone who can!"
"Go," Genny urged, giving James a little shove. "We'll handle the rest."
Honoria was, as expected, at the center of the forming chaos. "No, Lord Bertram, you cannot be on three teams. You are barely competent to occupy one body. Lady Agnes, do stop hiding behind the shrubbery."
James slid into her orbit. "Lady Honoria."
"Redford," she said, her fan pausing. "How nice to see you."
"Duty calls," he said. "I could not leave you without proper admiration."
"Mmm." Her gaze swept over him. "What do you want?"
"To be on whichever team you deem most likely to win," he said. "I seek reflected glory."
Lady Honoria's sharp profile softened. "An honest answer. How inconvenient. Very well. You may join my team."
He bowed. "I am honored."
As she turned, he caught sight of Louisa shepherding Miss Eaton and Mr. Carstairs toward a far pitch. Esme, racket in hand, drifted that way as well, her expression neutral. Genny darted behind Lady Honoria, seizing the moment to nudge place cards on the small chalkboard that listed teams.
Order of Battle: Eaton-Carstairs-Esme-Genny versus a hapless collection of young gentlemen.
Perfect.
James allowed himself a small smile. The Mutual Mischief Society was in excellent form.
"Stop smirking," Lady Honoria said, elbowing him. "You look as though you've stolen someone's favorite toy."
"I would never," he said. "I prefer to leave them where everyone can see me playing."
Lady Honoria's laugh rang out across the lawn. Somewhere behind them, Woodmere groaned.
James did not look back.
Esme discovered that she liked battledore.
It was not that she was particularly skilled, but that the game made it nearly impossible to be careful. Shuttlecocks did not respect decorum. They flew where they wished, spun unexpectedly, dropped ignominiously. One could either be mortified or amused.
She chose amused.
"Ready?" Genny called, bouncing on her toes at Esme's side.
Miss Eaton, pale but determined, nodded. Mr. Carstairs, a thoughtful-looking man with dimples, swallowed hard.
"I cannot believe Lady Honoria didn't insert herself," he murmured.
"She is busy terrifying Lord Redford," Esme said. "We must make the most of it."
Alexandra's whistle shrilled. "Begin!"
Miss Eaton missed her opening volley entirely. Genny hit hers with such enthusiasm that it went straight past the opposing team and nearly decapitated a shrub. Mr. Carstairs apologized every time his racket so much as grazed the shuttlecock.
Esme, whose competitive instincts had been honed by a childhood of fencing with Harrison for the last slice of cake, found this approach intolerable.
"Mr. Carstairs," she called after he let yet another shot go unchallenged, "we are not playing croquet. The shuttlecock has no feelings. Hit it."
He blinked behind his spectacles. "I wouldn't want to... overstep."
"You are meant to overstep," she said. "That is the point. If you do not, Genny will, and someone will be injured."
"Someone will be injured anyway," Genny said, lunging for a lob.
Miss Eaton laughed. Esme caught Redford's eye and he lifted a brow.
The next serve came high and slow toward Miss Eaton. She swung—and missed.
Esme caught the shuttlecock. "Again. You were too polite. Think of something that makes you furious."
Miss Eaton bit her lip. "The way Lady Honoria calls me 'dear girl' as if I were six."
"Excellent. Hit her with that."
Miss Eaton's brows lowered, and the next time the shuttlecock came her way, she struck it with such decisiveness that it landed squarely in Lord Bertram's hat.
The crowd roared.
Mr. Carstairs stared. "That was remarkable."
Miss Eaton flushed, but lifted her chin. "Thank you."
"There, you see? Like ledger columns, only airborne."
Carstairs laughed. "I do enjoy a straight column."
Esme's lips twitched. "Do not let Lord Watford hear you say so."
The game gathered pace. Genny, fueled by chaos and lemonade, darted everywhere, occasionally hitting the shuttlecock, but more often interfering. Miss Eaton, gaining confidence, began to call out to Carstairs—"Left! Yours! Oh, well done!"—and he, in turn, remembered that his arms existed.
Esme moved in concert with them, her body learning the rhythms of the game the way it learned the figures of a dance. Sweat prickled at her neck, and her pulse quickened.
So intent was she on returning a shot that she did not realize the spectators had drifted closer until Alexandra's whistle shrieked.
"Stop! Stop! I have been informed," Alexandra announced, "that the frog demands a sacrifice. Two champions must face two champions. We shall have a final match."
"That is not in the rules," someone protested.
"It is now. I am terribly susceptible to whim."
Louisa stepped forward. "Very well. My lord husband proposes that the winners of this round face his chosen pair. To make things interesting, we shall permit the frog to choose."
"The frog?" Esme murmured.
Niall held up the gilt monstrosity and waggled it toward the crowd. "The frog has spoken. He desires chaos."
"The frog," Louisa clarified, "would like to see Lady Esme and Lord Redford on opposite sides."
Esme's heart skipped a beat.
Redford, who had abandoned Lady Honoria, bowed. "I am at the frog's disposal."
"Of course you are," Lady Honoria muttered. "You both share a taste for mud."
Laughter rippled through the crowd.
Esme tried not to look at Harrison. "I am sure there are more deserving players," she began.
"Oh, undoubtedly," Alexandra said, stepping close enough for only Esme to hear, "But the frog finds you interesting. And Lady Esme, this is Foxmere House. We prefer choices made for ourselves, not for us."
The words slid under Esme's defenses.
For once, there was no dance card, no carefully ordered list of suitors, only a frog, a game, and the fact that she wished to see what happened when she and Redford stood opposed.
She lifted her chin. "Very well. I would not wish to disappoint a piece of statuary."
Within moments, Esme found herself teamed with Miss Eaton and Mr. Carstairs, and Redford with Genny and Lord Bertram.
"Try not to maim anyone," Harrison said as Esme took her place on the grass, "Particularly yourself."
"I shall endeavor not to be hurled into any lakes," she said. "Take comfort that there are none nearby."
"That has never stopped you," he muttered.
James had expected amusement, he had not expected to be aroused by a woman's competence with a battledore.
Esme moved as though the lawn belonged to her, with a fearless enthusiasm that made his chest ache. She threw herself after missed shots, laughed at her failures, and glowed with exertion.
"Redford," Genny hissed, jabbing him with her racket. "Stop staring. Hit it."
The shuttlecock was already descending. He recovered enough to send it arcing high toward Esme's side.
She lunged, stretching to reach it, and misjudged her step. Her slipper slid on the grass, and for a moment, she wobbled, arms windmilling.
James moved without thinking.
He vaulted the line between teams, catching her elbow just as she pitched sideways. The world narrowed to the feel of her weight against him, the brush of her hip, the soft swoosh of breath she let out as she collided with his chest.
Time took a detour.
Sunlight, spectators, frogs—all receded. There was only Esme, eyes wide, mouth parted, a damp tendril of hair clinging to her temple, her hat askew. She looked, James thought, gloriously alive.
"You," she said, slightly breathless, "are a menace."
"You," he murmured back, "are terrible at staying upright."
His hand, braced at her waist, felt the quick rise and fall of her breathing. She didn't immediately step away, and neither did he.
"Lord Redford," someone called, laughter in their voice. "That looks suspiciously like cheating."
"Yes," he said, not looking away from Esme. "Terribly unsporting. I shall expect the frog's censure."