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."

  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.

  Six

  James had never played so many hands of cards and taken so little pleasure in winning. He should have felt at home in the familiar haze of the club. Instead, he felt like an impostor.

  "Three kings," said the gentleman opposite him.

  James glanced at his cards, barely seeing them. "Straight flush. My apologies."

  Groans met the slide of coins toward him.

  "Devil take you, Redford," Lord Bertram complained. "Can you not at least look pleased when you fleece a man?"

  James narrowed his gaze. "I am saving my smiles for more meaningful occasions like when the Bishop misquotes Horace, for instance, or when you attempt poetry again."

  The table chuckled.

  Bertram clutched his heart. "Barbarian."

  "You knew that when you sat down," came a drawl from behind James.

  Magnus sank into the nearest empty chair. Beside him, Niall dropped into another and signaled for brandy.

  James's hand tightened on his cards.

  "Gentlemen," he said. "Come to rescue my opponents from ruin?"

  "Hardly," Magnus said. "I owe Lord Bertram revenge, and I intend to enjoy it. However," his gaze flicked over Redford," we also came to see whether the rumors were true."

  James arched a brow. "Which rumors? That Mrs. Dalrymple has taken up archery, or that the Bishop cried at Foxmere's battledore tournament?"

  Niall's mouth twitched. "Both true, as it happens. But I meant the rumor that you have been losing at diversion and winning at melancholy."

  Bertram, recognizing the tone of a conversation about to become serious, excused himself and gathered his coins. The other gentlemen drifted away, leaving James with his two oldest friends.

  "Melancholy does not suit your complexion," Magnus remarked. "You go sallow. It offends me."

  "You offend easily," James said. "It's one of your many charms."

  Niall leaned his elbows on the table, studying him. “Lady Esme Jones."

  James's fingers stilled.

  He kept his voice light. "You have narrowed the entire Season down to two words. Impressive. The gossip columns should hire you."

  "There are no columns about this," Niall said. "Everyone at Foxmere saw you in that garden. Saw her. And saw the way you both looked when you were not looking at one another."

  James shuffled the deck. "And how did we look?"

  "Like two people midway across a bridge," Magnus said quietly. "And too stubborn to admit the boards are cracking."

  James's laugh sounded like a cough. "Then perhaps it is better to step back before we both fall into the river."

  "You have already fallen into the river," Niall said. "Twice, by my count. Once literal, once not."

  "I do wish you would stop keeping track of my aquatic humiliations," James muttered.

  "We heard you told Woodmere you had no designs upon his sister," Magnus said.

  "I did. Because I do not. Designs suggest intent. I have never intended, never planned, to marry anyone. You both know that."

  "Yes," Niall said slowly. "I remember. Several years ago, after that business with Miss Cavendish⁠—"

  James's jaw tightened. "We agreed never to mention Miss Cavendish."

  "You declared marriage was a cruel joke played by optimists upon themselves," Niall went on. "That you would not subject any woman to your... 'restless incompetence at being a proper man'?"

  "You have always had a gift for dramatics," Magnus said.

  "It was not drama. It was a resolution." James's voice hardened. "My parents' marriage was a battlefield. My father gambled away half his sanity and most of our comfort. My mother spent twenty years pretending she did not mind. I have no intention of recreating that."

  "You are not your father."

  "And ladies are not ledgers," Niall added. "However much Woodmere treats his sister like one."

  James exhaled sharply. "Esme deserves safety. Steadiness. A man who doesn't wake some mornings wondering whether he has already ruined everything simply by existing. Do you truly believe I am that man?"