Chapter 5 #3
Her fingers had curled into his sleeve. Slowly, as if forcing herself, she loosened them. "You may relinquish me now," she said. "I believe I am no longer in danger of disgrace."
"That," he said softly, "is what you think."
For one wild moment, he considered bending his head to kiss her.
Woodmere’s voice cut through the hum. "Esme."
She flinched, almost imperceptibly. James let her go at once, stepping back over the invisible line between teams. The world flowed back in—applause, jokes, Alexandra's whistle.
"Rescue acknowledged," Esme said briskly, smoothing her skirts. "Now kindly return to your side so that I may defeat you properly."
His pulse thrummed. "There she is," he murmured.
"Who?" she asked.
"The woman who does not intend to be stacked neatly with sensible arrangements," he said, leaning closer. "I was worried the frog had swallowed her."
Her eyes flashed with amusement. "The frog has no such power."
"Then I am doomed," he said lightly, and retreated.
The rest of the match was a blur. Esme's team triumphed when Miss Eaton delivered a finishing shot that sent Lord Bertram sprawling. The frog was awarded amid cheers, while Miss Eaton and Mr. Carstairs beamed at one another.
James barely noticed.
Every time he looked at Esme, he saw the moment when she had let him hold her.
That, he suspected, was going to be a problem.
Harrison cornered Esme near the lemonade table.
"You're flushed," he said. "And your hat is crooked."
"It's a garden party," she replied. "Not a coronation. One is allowed to perspire."
He lowered his voice. "You were in Redford's arms in front of half the ton."
"In the interest of preventing my brains from decorating Foxmere's lawn," she said.
His jaw flexed. "You know what people are saying."
"I'm aware they are saying I fell into a lake," she said, "and that Lady Langley rescued me from death by duck. It's a thrilling story. I hope someone has added a sea serpent."
"This is not a jest, Esme."
"No," she agreed. "It's my life. Mine. And I would like, occasionally, to be consulted about how it is lived."
His mouth compressed. For a moment, she glimpsed past the sternness to the strain beneath.
"I'm trying to protect you."
"I know." She softened, just a little. "But you are protecting me from the wrong things."
He blinked. "Redford is exactly the sort of wrong thing you need protection from."
"You don't know him," she said.
"I know enough." His gaze flicked toward Redford, who was laughing with Niall, Louisa, and Alexandra. "He has never taken anything seriously. Not his prospects, his reputation, or the ladies he amuses himself with. He's not a man who marries."
The words landed hard and she inhaled a steading breath. "He's your friend," she said. "You've played cards with him for years."
"Yes," Harrison said. "And I have heard him declare, more than once, that he will never offer for a lady. That it would be cruel to saddle anyone with himself, that he prefers to keep his friendships and flirtations unentangled."
Esme's fingers tightened around her glass.
"Even recently. At Tattersall's last week, he said..." Harrison broke off, shaking his head. "It doesn't matter. Redford will not marry. Not you. Not anyone. If you tie your reputation to his, you'll be the one who pays the price."
She swallowed.
"What do you suggest?" she asked.
"Distance," he said simply. "Speak to him when you must. Dance with him if circumstances demand it. But don't allow yourself to be part of his...games. You deserve more than a man who treats life as a series of wagers."
He touched her sleeve. "You deserve someone who will stay."
The remark was so unlike Harrison that for a long moment she could only stare.
"Like you?" she asked softly.
He smiled. "Like someone less dull, ideally. But yes. Someone who will be there when the amusement fades."
He left her then, summoned by Mother and Mrs. Berkeley. Esme stood alone for a moment, the sounds of the party muffled.
Redford will not marry.
She had wanted mischief, companionship, a reprieve. But somewhere along the way, something in her had begun to lean toward him, to imagine how it might feel to have that laughter in her house, to have that hand on her wrist.
Foolish, she thought. You should have known better.
"Esme?" Redford's voice broke through her thoughts. "You look as though someone has told you the lemonade is sober."
She turned to face him.
He stood a few paces away, hands empty, cravat slightly loosened. A smear of grass marked his cuff, and a strand of her hair clung to his shoulder, a relic of their collision during the game.
"I dislike lemonade," she said coolly. "It's useful only as a delivery mechanism for brandy."
Something in his expression sharpened. "Ah. We're in that mood, are we?"
"What mood is that?" she asked.
"The one where you wield your tongue like a rapier," he said lightly. "I ought to have brought armor."
"Perhaps you should have. You do seem determined to insert yourself into dangerous situations." She glanced away.
"True," he conceded. "I did, after all, volunteer to be hit with shuttlecocks in order to see you laugh."
"It was not necessary," she turned her attention back to him. "I can laugh perfectly well without your assistance."
"I have no doubt." He hesitated, then stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Esme—"
"Lady Esme," she corrected, more sharply than she intended.
He stilled.
She saw the flicker in his eyes. Confusion, then caution. He straightened slightly, the easy warmth receding.
"Lady Esme," he amended. "Have I offended you?"
"No more than usual," she said.
"Which is to say...somewhat?" he guessed.
She remained silent.
He studied her for a long moment. "If this is about the battledore, I offer my apologies. I did not mean to...overstep."
"On the contrary," she said. "You are remarkably consistent. You never overstep. Not where it matters."
His brows drew together. "I confess I have absolutely no idea what that means."
"Then we are at an impasse." She notched her chin, determined to maintain her composure. "For a man who prides himself on rescuing people from boredom," she said, forcing a smile, "you have a curious talent for turning things... ordinary."
"Ordinary," he repeated, a question in his tone. "That is an interesting charge."
She set her lemonade on the table and folded her hands. "We have enjoyed our society, Lord Redford. It has been diverting. But it is time I remembered my duties."
His jaw clenched. “Woodmere has been speaking to you."
"This has nothing to do with my brother," she lied.
He laughed, humorlessly. "Of course it does. Everything does, in your world. Your mother, your brother, their expectations, the ton's opinions. You are a ledger with too many hands on the pen."
"And you," she snapped, "are a man who refuses to pick up a pen at all. One can hardly write a future with someone who does not believe in ink."
The words came out more raw than she liked. She saw them land, saw something flicker behind his eyes.
"Ah," he said softly. "You have been talking to Woodmere. And he has told you I mean to remain a useless creature until the end of my days."
"If the accusation suits," she said.
He flinched.
"Very well," he said, his voice cool and precise. "You are correct. I do not intend to marry. I have said as much, and I will say it again. I am not a safe bet for anyone's happiness, least of all yours."
The honesty should have relieved her.
Instead, it stung.
"Then we understand one another," she said.
"I suppose we must," he replied. "No wagers on your life. No mischief that touches your future. Only guarded conversations at respectable distances."
"That would be best," she agreed.
He bowed. "As you wish, Lady Esme."
Hearing the formality felt like stepping back into stays after running free.
He turned away. Louisa caught his arm. Alexandra called after him. He answered with wit that did not reach his eyes.
Esme stood straight, hands folded, a fixed smile on her face.
"Esme?" Genny appeared at her elbow, cheeks flushed. "Did you see? Miss Eaton and Mr. Carstairs have vanished behind the south hedge. I think we may have created a romance!"
"How wonderful," Esme said.
Genny's delight faltered. "You sound as though someone has died."
"Don't be absurd," Esme said. "The Mutual Mischief Society has simply... adjourned."
"For the day?" Genny asked cautiously.
"For good," Esme said, and watched the words land in her friend's bright eyes.
She turned away before Genny could answer, before she herself could shatter.
On the far side of the lawn, Redford laughed at something Louisa said and lifted a glass. The gesture was effortless, charming, exactly what the ton expected.
Only Esme, who had seen him in cold water, in lantern light, and glimpsed the thin edge of his honesty, could see the stiffness in his shoulders.
Her chest ached.
Harrison, passing with a tumbler of brandy, caught her eye and gave a small, approving nod, as if to say: You see? You can be sensible.
Esme forced a smile.
Inside, something wild and bright folded its wings.
It would not die, she thought stubbornly. It might sulk. It might bide its time. But it would not die.
Still, as the music swelled and the afternoon unfolded in laughter, Esme realized that mischief was far safer than whatever had passed between her and James.
Mischief, after all, was supposed to end.
This felt far from finished.