Colin approached, swinging a mallet in a low arc. “Are they having a spat?” he asked Kate.
“A discussion,” Daphne corrected.
“God save me from such discussions,” Colin muttered. “Let’s choose colors.”
Kate followed him back to the Pall Mall set, her fingers drumming against her thigh. “Do you have the time?” she asked him.
Colin pulled out his pocket watch. “A bit after half three, why?”
“I just thought that Edwina and the viscount would be down by now, that’s all,” she said, trying not to look too concerned.
Colin shrugged. “They should be.” Then, completely oblivious to her distress, he motioned to the Pall Mall set. “Here. You’re the guest. You choose first. What color do you want?”
Without giving it much thought, Kate reached in and grabbed a mallet. It was only when it was in her hand that she realized it was black.
“The mallet of death,” Colin said approvingly. “I knew she’d make a fine player.”
“Leave the pink one for Anthony,” Daphne said, reaching for the green mallet.
The duke pulled the orange mallet out of the set, turning to Kate as he said, “You are my witness that I had nothing to do with Bridgerton’s pink mallet, yes?”
Kate smiled wickedly. “I noticed that you didn’t choose the pink mallet.”
“Of course not,” he returned, his grin even more devious than hers. “My wife had already chosen it for him. I could not gainsay her, now, could I?”
“Yellow for me,” Colin said, “and blue for Miss Edwina, don’t you think?”
“Oh, yes,” Kate replied. “Edwina loves blue.”
The foursome stared down at the two mallets left: pink and purple.
“He’s not going to like either one,” Daphne said.
Colin nodded. “But he’ll like pink even less.” And with that, he picked up the purple mallet and tossed it into the shed, then reached down and sent the purple ball in after it.
“I say,” the duke said, “where is Anthony?”
“That’s a very good question,” Kate muttered, tapping her hand against her thigh.
“I suppose you’ll want to know what time it is,” Colin said slyly.
Kate flushed. She’d already asked him to check his pocket watch twice. “I’m fine, thank you,” she answered, lacking a witty retort.
“Very well. It’s just that I’ve learned that once you start moving your hand like that—”
Kate’s hand froze.
“—you’re usually about ready to ask me what time it is.”
“You’ve learned quite a lot about me in the past hour,” Kate said dryly.
He grinned. “I’m an observant fellow.”
“Obviously,” she muttered.
“But in case you wanted to know, it’s a quarter of an hour before four.”
“They’re past due,” Kate said.
Colin leaned forward and whispered, “I highly doubt that my brother is ravishing your sister.”
Kate lurched back. “Mr. Bridgerton!”
“What are you two talking about?” Daphne asked.
Colin grinned. “Miss Sheffield is worried that Anthony is compromising the other Miss Sheffield.”
“Colin!” Daphne exclaimed. “That isn’t the least bit funny.”
“And certainly not true,” Kate protested. Well, almost not true. She didn’t think the viscount was compromising Edwina, but he was probably doing his very best to charm her silly. And that was dangerous in and of itself.
Kate pondered the mallet in her hand and tried to figure out how she might bring it down upon the viscount’s head and make it look like an accident.
The mallet of death, indeed.
Anthony checked the clock on the mantel in his study. Almost half three. They were going to be late.
He grinned. Oh, well, nothing to do about it.
Normally he was a stickler for punctuality, but when tardiness resulted in the torture of Kate Sheffield, he didn’t much mind a late arrival.
And Kate Sheffield was surely writhing in agony by now, horrified at the thought of her precious younger sister in his evil clutches.
Anthony looked down at his evil clutches—hands, he reminded himself, hands—and grinned anew. He hadn’t had this much fun in ages, and all he was doing was loitering about his office, picturing Kate Sheffield with her jaw clenched together, steam pouring from her ears.
It was a highly entertaining image.
Not, of course, that this was even his fault. He would have left right on time if he hadn’t had to wait for Edwina. She’d sent word down with the maid that she would join him in ten minutes. That was twenty minutes ago. He couldn’t help it if she was late.
Anthony had a sudden image of the rest of his life—waiting for Edwina. Was she the sort who was chronically late? That might grow vexing after a while.
As if on cue, he heard the patter of footsteps in the hall, and when he looked up, Edwina’s exquisite form was framed by the doorway.
She was, he thought dispassionately, a vision. Utterly lovely in every way. Her face was perfection, her posture the epitome of grace, and her eyes were the most radiant shade of blue, so vivid that one could not help but be surprised by their hue every time she blinked.
Anthony waited for some sort of reaction to rise up within him. Surely no man could be immune to her beauty.
Nothing. Not even the slightest urge to kiss her. It almost seemed a crime against nature.
But maybe this was a good thing. After all, he didn’t want a wife with whom he’d fall in love. Desire would have been nice, but desire could be dangerous. Desire certainly had a greater chance of sliding into love than did disinterest.
“I’m terribly sorry I’m late, my lord,” Edwina said prettily.
“It was no trouble whatsoever,” he replied, feeling a bit brightened by his recent set of rationalizations. She’d still work just fine as a bride. No need to look elsewhere. “But we should be on our way. The others will have the course set up already.”
He took her arm and they strolled out of the house. He remarked on the weather. She remarked on the weather. He remarked on the previous day’s weather. She agreed with whatever he’d said (he couldn’t even remember, one minute later).
After exhausting all possible weather-related topics, they fell into silence, and then finally, after a full three minutes of neither of them having anything to say, Edwina blurted out, “What did you study at university?”
Anthony looked at her oddly. He couldn’t remember ever being asked such a question by a young lady. “Oh, the usual,” he replied.
“But what,” she ground out, looking most uncharacteristically impatient, “is the usual?”
“History, mostly. A bit of literature.”
“Oh.” She pondered that for a moment. “I love to read.”
“Do you?” He eyed her with renewed interest. He wouldn’t have taken her for a bluestocking. “What do you like to read?”
She seemed to relax as she answered the question. “Novels if I’m feeling fanciful. Philosophy if I’m in the mood for self-improvement.”
“Philosophy, eh?” Anthony queried. “Never could stomach the stuff myself.”
Edwina let out one of her charmingly musical laughs. “Kate is the same way. She is forever telling me that she knows perfectly well how to live her life and doesn’t need a dead man to give her instructions.”
Anthony thought about his experiences reading Aristotle, Bentham, and Descartes at university. Then he thought about his experiences avoiding reading Aristotle, Bentham, and Descartes at university. “I think,” he murmured, “that I would have to agree with your sister.”
Edwina grinned. “You, agree with Kate? I feel I should find a notebook and record the moment. Surely this must be a first.”
He gave her a sideways, assessing sort of glance. “You’re more impertinent than you let on, aren’t you?”
“Not half as much as Kate.”
“That was never in doubt.”
He heard Edwina let out a little giggle, and when he looked over at her, she appeared to be trying her hardest to maintain a straight face. They rounded the final corner to the field, and as they came over the rise, they saw the rest of the Pall Mall party waiting for them, idly swinging their mallets to and fro as they waited.
“Oh, bloody hell,” Anthony swore, completely forgetting that he was in the company of the woman he planned to make his wife. “She’s got the mallet of death.”
Chapter 10
The country house party is a very dangerous event. Married persons often find themselves enjoying the company of one other than one’s spouse, and unmarried persons often return to town as rather hastily engaged persons.
Indeed, the most surprising betrothals are announced on the heels of these spells of rustication.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 2MAY 1814
“You certainly took your time getting here,” Colin remarked as soon as Anthony and Edwina reached the group. “Here, we’re ready to go. Edwina, you’re blue.” He handed her a mallet. “Anthony, you’re pink.”
“I’m pink and she”—he jabbed a finger toward Kate—“gets to have the mallet of death?”
“I gave her first pick,” Colin said. “She is our guest, after all.”
“Anthony is usually black,” Daphne explained. “In fact, he gave the mallet its name.”
“You shouldn’t have to be pink,” Edwina said to Anthony. “It doesn’t suit you at all. Here”—she held out her mallet—“why don’t we trade?”
“Don’t be silly,” Colin interjected. “We specifically decided that you must be blue. To match your eyes.”
Kate thought she heard Anthony groan.
“I will be pink,” Anthony announced, grabbing the offending mallet rather forcefully from Colin’s hand, “and I will still win. Let’s begin, shall we?”
As soon as the necessary introductions were made between the duke and duchess and Edwina, they all plopped their wooden balls down near the starting point and prepared to play.
“Shall we play youngest to oldest?” Colin suggested, with a gallant bow in Edwina’s direction.
She shook her head. “I should rather go last, so that I might have a chance to observe the play of those more experienced than I.”
“A wise woman,” Colin murmured. “Then we shall play oldest to youngest. Anthony, I believe you’re the most ancient among us.”
“Sorry, brother dear, but Hastings has a few months on me.”
“Why,” Edwina whispered in Kate’s ear, “do I get the feeling I am intruding upon a family spat?”
“I think the Bridgertons take Pall Mall very seriously,” Kate whispered back. The three Bridgerton siblings had assumed bulldog faces, and they all appeared rather single-mindedly determined to win.
“Eh eh eh!” Colin scolded, waving a finger at them. “No collusion allowed.”
“We wouldn’t even begin to know where to collude,” Kate commented, “as no one has seen fit to even explain to us the rules of play.”
“Just follow along,” Daphne said briskly. “You’ll figure it out as you go.”
“I think,” Kate whispered to Edwina, “that the object is to sink your opponents’ balls into the lake.”
“Really?”
“No. But I think that’s how the Bridgertons see it.”
“You’re still whispering!” Colin called out without sparing a glance in their direction. Then, to the duke, he barked, “Hastings, hit the bloody ball. We haven’t all day.”
“Colin,” Daphne cut in, “don’t curse. There are ladies present”
“You don’t count.”
“There are two ladies present who are not me,” she ground out.
Colin blinked, then turned to the Sheffield sisters. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all,” Kate replied, utterly fascinated. Edwina just shook her head.
“Good.” Colin turned back to the duke. “Hastings, get moving.”
The duke nudged his ball a bit forward from the rest of the pile. “You do realize,” he said to no one in particular, “that I have never played Pall Mall before?”
“Just give the ball a good whack in that direction, darling,” Daphne said, pointing to the first wicket.
“Isn’t that the last wicket?” Anthony asked.
“It’s the first.”
“It ought to be the last.”
Daphne’s jaw jutted out. “I set up the course, and it’s the first.”
“I think this might get bloody,” Edwina whispered to Kate.
The duke turned to Anthony and flashed him a false smile. “I believe I’ll take Daphne’s word for it.”
“She did set up the course,” Kate cut in.
Anthony, Colin, Simon, and Daphne all looked at her in shock, as if they couldn’t quite believe she’d had the nerve to enter the conversation.
“Well, she did,” Kate said.
Daphne looped her arm through hers. “I do believe I adore you, Kate Sheffield,” she announced.
“God help me,” Anthony muttered.
The duke drew back his mallet, let fly, and soon the orange ball was hurtling along the lawn.
“Well done, Simon!” Daphne cried out.
Colin turned and looked at his sister with disdain. “One never cheers one’s opponents in Pall Mall,” he said archly.
“He’s never played before,” she said. “He’s not likely to win.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
Daphne turned to Kate and Edwina and explained, “Bad sportsmanship is a requirement in Bridgerton Pall Mall, I’m afraid.”
“I’d gathered,” Kate said dryly.
“My turn,” Anthony barked. He gave the pink ball a disdainful glance, then gave it a good whack. It sailed splendidly over the grass, only to slam into a tree and drop like a stone to the ground.
“Brilliant!” Colin exclaimed, getting ready to take his turn.
Anthony muttered a few things under his breath, none of which were suitable for gentle ears.
Colin sent the yellow ball toward the first wicket, then stepped aside to let Kate try her hand.
“Might I have a practice swing?” she inquired.
“No.” It was a rather loud no, coming, as it did, from three mouths.
“Very well,” she grumbled. “Stand back, all of you. I won’t be held responsible if I injure anyone on the first try.” She drew back on her mallet with all her might and slammed it into the ball. It sailed through the air in a rather impressive arc, then smacked into the same tree that had foiled Anthony and plopped on the ground right next to his ball.
“Oh, dear,” Daphne said, setting her aim by drawing back on her mallet a few times without actually hitting the ball.
“Why ‘oh, dear’?” Kate asked worriedly, not reassured by the duchess’s faintly pitying smile.
“You’ll see.” Daphne took her turn, then marched off in the direction of her ball.
Kate looked over at Anthony. He looked very, very pleased with the current state of affairs.
“What are you going to do to me?” she asked.
He leaned forward devilishly. “What am I not going to do to you might be a more appropriate question.”
“I believe it’s my turn,” Edwina said, stepping up to the starting point. She gave her ball an anemic hit, then groaned when it traveled only a third as far as the rest.
“Put a bit more muscle into it next time,” Anthony said before stalking over to his ball.
“Right,” Edwina muttered at his back. “I never would have figured that out.”
“Hastings!” Anthony yelled. “It’s your turn.”
While the duke tapped his ball toward the next wicket, Anthony leaned against the tree with crossed arms, his ridiculous pink mallet hanging from one hand, and waited for Kate.
“Oh, Miss Sheffield,” he finally called out. “Play of the game dictates that one follow one’s ball!”
He watched her tromp over to his side. “There,” she grumbled. “Now what?”
“You really ought to treat me with more respect,” he said, offering her a slow, sly smile.
“After you tarried with Edwina?” she shot back. “What I ought to do is have you drawn and quartered.”
“Such a bloodthirsty wench,” he mused. “You’ll do well at Pall Mall . . . eventually.”
He watched, utterly entertained, as her face grew red, then white. “What do you mean?” she asked.
“For the love of God, Anthony,” Colin yelled. “Take your bloody turn.”
Anthony looked down to where the wooden balls sat kissing on the grass, hers black, his appallingly pink. “Right,” he murmured. “Wouldn’t want to keep dear, sweet Colin waiting.” And with that, he put his foot atop his ball, drew back his mallet—
“What are you doing?” Kate shrieked.
—and let fly. His ball remained firmly in place under his boot. Hers went sailing down the hill for what seemed like miles.
“You fiend,” she growled.
“All’s fair in love and war,” he quipped.
“I am going to kill you.”
“You can try,” he taunted, “but you’ll have to catch up with me first.”
Kate pondered the mallet of death, then pondered his foot.
“Don’t even think about it,” he warned.
“It’s so very, very tempting,” she growled.
He leaned forward menacingly. “We have witnesses.”
“And that is the only thing saving your life right now.”
He merely smiled. “I believe your ball is down the hill, Miss Sheffield. I’m sure we’ll see you in a half hour or so, when you catch up.”
Just then Daphne marched by, following her ball, which had sailed unnoticed past their feet. “That was why I said ‘oh, dear,’” she said—rather unnecessarily, in Kate’s opinion.
“You’ll pay for this,” Kate hissed at Anthony.
His smirk said more than words ever could.
And then she marched down the hill, letting out a loud and extremely unladylike curse when she realized her ball was lodged under a hedge.
Half an hour later Kate was still two wickets behind the next-to-last player. Anthony was winning, which irked her to no end. The only saving grace was that she was so far behind she couldn’t see his gloating face.
Then as she was twiddling her thumbs and waiting for her turn (there was precious little else to do while waiting for her turn, as no other players were remotely near her), she heard Anthony let out an aggrieved shout.
This immediately got her attention.
Beaming with anticipation at his possible demise, she looked eagerly about until she saw the pink ball hurtling along the grass, straight at her.
“Urp!” Kate gurgled, jumping up and darting quickly to the side before she lost a toe.
Looking back up, she saw Colin leaping into the air, his mallet swinging wildly above him, as he cried out exultantly, “Woo-hoo!”
Anthony looked as if he might disembowel his brother on the spot.
Kate would have done a little victory dance herself—if she couldn’t win, the next best thing was knowing that he wouldn’t—except now it seemed that he’d be stuck back with her for a few turns. And while her solitude wasn’t terribly entertaining, it was better than having to make conversation with him.
Still, it was difficult not to look just a little bit smug when he came tromping over toward her, scowling as if a thundercloud had just lodged itself in his brain.
“Bad luck there, my lord,” Kate murmured.
He glared at her.
She sighed—just for effect, of course. “I’m sure you’ll still manage to place second or third.”
He leaned forward menacingly and made a sound suspiciously like a growl.
“Miss Sheffield!” came Colin’s impatient holler from up the hill. “It’s your turn!”
“So it is,” Kate said, analyzing her possible shots. She could aim for the next wicket or she could attempt to sabotage Anthony even further. Unfortunately, his ball wasn’t touching hers, so she couldn’t attempt the foot-on-the-ball maneuver he’d used on her earlier in the game. Which was probably for the best. With her luck, she’d end up missing the ball entirely and instead breaking her foot.
“Decisions, decisions,” she murmured.
Anthony crossed his arms. “The only way you’re going to ruin my game is to ruin yours as well.”
“True,” she acceded. If she wanted to send him into oblivion, she’d have to send herself there as well, since she’d have to hit hers with all she was worth just to get his to move. And since she couldn’t hold hers in place, heaven only knew where she’d end up.
“But,” she said, looking up at him and smiling innocently, “I really have no chance of winning the game, anyway.”
“You could come in second or third,” he tried.
She shook her head. “Unlikely, don’t you think? I’m so far behind as it is, and we are nearing the end of play.”
“You don’t want to do this, Miss Sheffield,” he warned.
“Oh,” she said with great feeling, “I do. I really, really do.” And then, with quite the most evil grin her lips had ever formed, she drew back her mallet and smacked her ball with every ounce of every single emotion within her. It knocked into his with stunning force, sending it hurtling even farther down the hill.
Farther . . .
Farther . . .
Right into the lake.
Openmouthed with delight, Kate just stared for a moment as the pink ball sank into the lake. Then something rose up within her, some strange and primitive emotion, and before she knew what she was about, she was jumping about like a crazy woman, yelling, “Yes! Yes! I win!”
“You don’t win,” Anthony snapped.
“Oh, it feels like I’ve won,” she reveled.
Colin and Daphne, who had come dashing down the hill, skidded to a halt before them. “Well done, Miss Sheffield!” Colin exclaimed. “I knew you were worthy of the mallet of death.”
“Brilliant,” Daphne agreed. “Absolutely brilliant.”
Anthony, of course, had no choice but to cross his arms and scowl mightily.
Colin gave her a congenial pat on the back. “Are you certain you’re not a Bridgerton in disguise? You have truly lived up to the spirit of the game.”
“I couldn’t have done it without you,” Kate said graciously. “If you hadn’t hit his ball down the hill . . .”
“I had been hoping you would pick up the reins of his destruction,” Colin said.
The duke finally approached, Edwina at his side. “A rather stunning conclusion to the game,” he commented.
“It’s not over yet,” Daphne said.
Her husband gave her a faintly amused glance. “To continue the play now seems rather anticlimactic, don’t you think?”
Surprisingly, even Colin agreed. “I certainly can’t imagine anything topping it.”
Kate beamed.
The duke glanced up at the sky. “Furthermore, it’s starting to cloud over. I want to get Daphne in before it starts to rain. Delicate condition and all, you know.”
Kate looked in surprise at Daphne, who had started to blush. She didn’t look the least bit pregnant.
“Very well,” Colin said. “I move we end the game and declare Miss Sheffield the winner.”
“I was two wickets behind the rest of you,” Kate demurred.
“Nevertheless,” Colin said, “any true aficionado of Bridgerton Pall Mall understands that sending Anthony into the lake is far more important than actually sending one’s ball through all the wickets. Which makes you our winner, Miss Sheffield.” He looked about, then straight at Anthony. “Does anyone disagree?”
No one did, although Anthony looked close to violence.