Chapter 10

Teague strode across the sweeping lawn, the sounds of laughter and lively music floating on the summer breeze. Groups of lords and ladies dotted the hillside, parasols and glasses of punch in hand. In the distance, children scampered about in anticipation of the games.

“No lady on your arm today, Dunmore?” his brother-in-law Simon, Lord Farleigh, remarked as he fell into step beside Teague. “You must be the most eligible bachelor in three counties.”

“Irish counties, perhaps. Not English.” Teague chuckled. “My sister may have found love at your family’s estate, but I’m not in any great rush.”

“Come now. I’ve seen the way your eyes follow a certain lady whenever you think no one is looking,” Simon said with a wink.

Heat prickled Teague’s neck, but he kept his tone light. “I haven’t the slightest idea whom you could mean.”

Simon’s eyebrows raised. Thankfully, he changed tactics. “What are your hopes for the festivities today?”

Teague gestured to the grounds. “I simply want to experience all of your family’s renowned hospitality this summer.”

His gaze drifted across the festive scene, searching for one face in particular. There—near a flowering trellis, in an elegant blue gown—stood Lady Ivy. Catching his eye, she offered a tentative smile before turning back to her conversation with the duchess.

“There you are again. Stealing glances at Ivy. The two of you have spent a lot of time speaking with one another. Have you enjoyed getting to know her?”

Teague tried to appear nonchalant. “We’ve had some pleasant conversations. She has a uniquely insightful perspective.”

Simon smiled knowingly. “Insightful indeed. Take care, my friend. Reputations are fragile things.” He gestured discreetly to where Lady Ivy stood speaking with other guests. “Especially for an unattached young woman.”

Teague’s jaw tightened, not appreciating the thinly veiled warning. “I assure you, I have nothing but respect for the lady.”

Clapping Teague on the shoulder, Simon nodded. “I’ve no doubt. Forgive my caution—a lifelong instinct where my family is concerned. Eyes and gossip follow more closely than you know.”

“I’m not about to give anyone fodder for gossip, Simon. I’ve my own reputation to worry over. I am being friendly enough, but I prefer to focus my time on the summer’s delights.”

“Speaking of summer delights...” Simon inclined his head discreetly to where Lady Ivy now stood alone. With an enigmatic smile, Simon departed.

Teague watched him go, irritated but contemplative. With a fortifying breath, he banished his troubling thoughts and turned his attention to where Lady Ivy awaited. An irrepressible grin spread across his face as he went to her.

“Lady Ivy,”a familiar masculine voice said from behind her as she bent to enjoy the fragrance of some of the duchess’s flowers. “How do you fare this fine day?”

She looked over her shoulder to find Teague Frost standing a few feet away, his dark eyes dancing.

“Thus far, I am well.” She returned his wide grin with a slight smile of her own. “Though I admit to some trepidation about that.” She gestured to the crowd of people forming nearer the castle as carriage after carriage lined the hill’s drive. The faces of children appeared in carriage windows and the vehicles with open tops were full of people laughing and calling out to one another.

The baron waved when an enthusiastic child in one of the carriages caught his eye and flapped her arm about with gusto. She doubted he knew the girl, but when a child waved, one always ought to return the gesture. It was only polite. “They’re all harmless enough, I think. So long as they are kept fed, no one ought to bite.”

She couldn’t help a laugh of surprise. “I suppose that is something to be thankful for, and the duchess has an impressive feast laid out in the shade. Every possible cold dish one could want, pies aplenty, and more pastries and puddings than I have seen in my life.”

“Her Grace never does things by halves. She fed the entire village on the day my sister married Lord Farleigh, a wedding breakfast that went on until it became a wedding dinner.”

Ivy tilted her head to one side, trying to imagine that feast. She’d never seen anything like it, likely because not everyone could afford to be as generous as the ducal family. Though her own family had enough and to spare, it was difficult to conceptualize what the duke had at his disposal.

That made her voice a thought she would normally keep to herself. “I imagine that was something of a surprise, your sister marrying into a duke’s family, given how few dukes there are with eligible sons. They both seem quite happy. My cousin says it was a love match.”

His gaze left hers to find his sister standing near where the guests had formed a line. Lady Farleigh, who had insisted on Ivy calling her Isleen, welcomed all who came with a grace and kindness that well suited her position as future mistress of the castle. The guests parted from her with smiles as they filtered through the area set aside for the picnic and into the gardens and amusements set about for the afternoon.

“I cannot claim I expected her to find her other half in an Englishman, much less one with such a revered title and heritage. Indeed, a surprise. Lord Farleigh is a good man, and he makes my sister happy.” His tone sounded almost wistful for a moment, and Ivy well enough understood such a thing. Watching others find their happiness sometimes caused difficulty with being content in one’s own life. He gave his full attention to her again and leaned close. “I’m told many an English rose mourned his loss in the marriage market.”

Ivy giggled, but swiftly stifled the sound by biting her lower lip. There had been a great deal of gossip—a flood of it, actually—when Simon had announced his betrothal shortly after the family had returned to London for the Season.

“I imagine it would be somewhat disheartening to learn a future duke no longer had need of wifely candidates. Who can blame them for their disappointment? A woman of our set is bred for one purpose, and that purpose is marriage.”

“I am well aware.” He huffed and folded his hands behind him, but there wasn’t any real heat or displeasure in his words. “My sisters regularly remind me of the unfairness of the world and a woman’s place in it. I assure you, I am well-versed in the frustrations they have expressed. Let us talk of something outside of the subject of matrimonial prospects.”

She cast him a sideways glance as she inspected a climbing rose on the trellis. “You dislike the subject that much? How unfortunate. It is one of the only things on my mind of late.”

Perhaps she ought to have bitten her tongue rather than admit to such a thing. Yet he made it so easy to speak her mind. Something about the way he looked at her made her realize her words were safe with him. He wouldn’t use them against her, wouldn’t censure or judge. He listened, and always as though what she said had interest to him. That it mattered.

This particular admission caught him off guard, if the sharp rise of his brows was any indication. “Is it?” He studied her a moment. “Why would that be, I wonder?”

There. He’d phrased the question in such a way that she could answer if she wished or keep her thoughts to herself.

She surprised herself by offering up more on the subject. But…whom else could she talk to about it? “Because I am faced with the daunting prospect of finding myself a husband by year’s end or my brother choosing one for me.” She didn’t look at the baron. She kept her gaze on the rose now bobbing in the light breeze. “Apparently, an unwed sister of five-and-twenty is a burden he can no longer bear.”

Teague’s mouth dropped open. She readied herself, but again, he surprised her with his tone as he said, “Ridiculous.”

Her attention snapped to his at the unexpected heat behind that word. “Is it?”

“Yes. I’d not have let Isleen go if I thought her unhappy, and I would never force her or Fiona to go from our home unless ‘tis what they wanted.” The light, teasing tone he’d used earlier had completely dropped away. Now she heard impatience. “I apologize for so easily dismissing the subject when it is one that must haunt your waking hours. As I said, my sisters have well informed me on the unfairness of the female plight.”

She stared at him with what she hoped was an open, curious expression. “It does seem unfair, doesn’t it? Once I’m wed, by my choice or my brother’s, I lose all independence. My will must necessarily bend to my hypothetical husband’s.”

“Hypothetical?” he repeated with a crooked smile. “Hm. Well. It needn’t be that way always.” He nodded again to where his sister greeted guests on the hill. “Isleen seems more willful than ever since her marriage.”

Ivy glanced that way. “Indeed? She must be a happy woman, then, and in a happy marriage.” She shook her head, then made a dismissive gesture with her hand. Looking beyond herself, she couldn’t help but feel selfish for sullying the day with her worries. Best to put them aside for the time being. “The day is too lovely to talk of my worries. I am certain I ought to speak of the weather, religion, and fashion.”

He obliged her with ease, moving into discussing the castle’s grounds. Yet the more polite and appropriate line of conversation didn’t seem to dull the mood between them. If anything, he seemed more than willing to speak on any topic she brought up. It was quite flattering, really. And different. When was the last time someone had listened to her with such unwavering interest?

Finally, several gentlemen came trotting across the lawn looking for others to challenge in a game of cricket. She released Lord Dunmore to their enthusiastic company with a laugh. She found her sisters speaking with Lady Farleigh—Isleen. They all stood about the refreshments, nibbling at biscuits and laughing.

“Here you are, Ivy.” Isleen grinned brightly at her. “Goodness, isn’t this a beautiful day? Perfect for the picnic. We’re gathering some sustenance before watching the cricket match.”

“It is. Yes.” She set about making herself a plate of treats.

“We saw you walking with Lord Dunmore earlier,” Betony said with a sly smile. “You seemed to enjoy his company.”

This pricked Isleen’s attention. “Oh, dear. I hope my brother is behaving himself.”

“Of course. Lord Dunmore is a complete gentleman.” Ivy sent a warning glance to her sisters, neither of whom seemed to care as they continued to grin at her. “I enjoy our conversations.”

She had to remind herself that was all they were—conversations between two people who happened to be guests at the same party. Pleasant distractions from her worries and nothing more. She made her way toward the open stretch of lawn where others lined up beneath parasols to watch the match.

Lady Isabelle appeared, her enthusiasm making her bounce. “Betony, Rosalind and I want you to watch the match with us. Do hurry!”

Betony gave her sister one last playful smirk before hurrying off with the duke’s daughter. Ivy tried to relax, keeping close to Isleen.

Cricket wasn’t a difficult game.One might play it casually or with competitive vigor. Given the mix of individuals playing that afternoon, both in age and sex, Teague doubted he would see any of the gentlemen playing roughly. Although one of the girls, likely no older than fifteen, had a look about her as though she planned to use the cricket bat as a cudgel.

After the gentlemen and boys had removed their jackets to play more easily in shirtsleeves, they formed teams. The girls playing rid themselves of bonnets and gloves. Only one married lady had asked to join the games, on the team opposing Teague’s.

Teague jogged behind the bowler, long-off on the chance the first batsman—an eager boy with a broad grin—struck the ball hard enough that it went by the other fielders.

Given the nature of a casual game, he was relatively safe to do no more than cup his hands around his mouth and cheer others on. The ball didn’t come near him for long stretches of time, which meant that his mind freely wandered to his conversation with Lady Ivy.

That she used words like hypothetical and serendipity, that she shared deeper thoughts on subjects from books to gardens, had amused and intrigued him from the first. Yet he couldn’t muster anything other than concerned dismay for her on the subject of matrimony.

In his usual talks with her, he often felt there was so much she wasn’t saying, holding back an intelligence he wanted to explore. Now he understood a new layer of her reticence beyond the simple tenets of polite behavior.

The woman carried the burden of her future on her shoulders. The uncertainty of it doubtless made her less interested in idle conversation. He had let the subjects drift to the weather, the castle, and the gardens, even as his mind turned over her troubles, wishing for a way to help her.

With a thud that seemed to echo against the walls of Castle Clairvoir, the hard leather ball struck Teague squarely in the stomach. The force of the impact doubled him over, the breath whooshing out of his lungs in a single, violent exhalation. The pain was immediate and intense, a fiery brand that seared through his abdomen, demanding his full attention with ruthless efficiency.

There was a collective gasp from the onlookers, and Teague looked up to see the young lady with the wicked look of a conquering tyrant on her face as she ran to the opposite wicket. He scooped up the ball that had tumbled to the ground, but was really too late to do anything other than get it back to the bowler, who happened to be Simon for their loosely organized team.

Simon caught the ball and gave Teague a look of such disappointment that the Irishman felt his ears turn hot. “Distracted, Dunmore?” he shouted.

Teague rubbed at his stomach. The bruise would likely be impressive. “Not anymore,” he called back. “Get me another like that and I shall prove I learn from my mistakes.”

Lady Ivy’s eyes were on him, her eyebrows raised, and her hand covering her mouth. She lowered it to wave and give him a sympathetic smile, but then Isleen said something that made Lady Ivy laugh. Of course she had seen him miss what would have been an impressive catch, had he been paying attention.

He certainly wouldn’t let that happen again.

“I’d really hoped for better from you,” Simon shouted.

Sir Andrew, on the opposite side of the makeshift playing field from Teague, shouted, “The English sport is obviously too much for our Irish friend!”

More friendly insults followed and Isleen’s voice was heard booing the statement. Teague chuckled and made a show of rolling up his sleeves. “I’ll not let you sully my countrymen. We’re as good with bats and balls as the next man.”

The harsh lesson delivered by the cricket ball served as a jarring reminder of the present, pulling him from the mists of distraction with a clarity both brutal and absolute. Yet even as he promised himself he would pay better attention, his eyes darted to where his sister stood with Lady Ivy and her younger sisters. His sister was, predictably, smirking at him. She’d not let him forget his mistake.

“Next one is easy,” Sir Andrew shouted. “The Sicilian!”

A cheer erupted from the watchers as the Conte di Atella stepped in front of the wicket, his expression somewhat rueful. “Are you implying I lack talent or understanding of your game, Sir Andrew?”

“Both,” the baronet shouted, moving closer. “Even if you hit the ball, it won’t go far.”

Simon bowled almost perfectly, the ball skimming the ground at quick velocity, heading straight for the wicket. Lord Atella swung but missed—and the ball narrowly missed the stumps, too. Teague, along with the other fielders, shifted and called out good-naturedly to Simon, who smirked and waved them off.

This time, as the ball was bowled, Lord Atella’s expression turned fierce. He stepped forward, swinging the bat in a powerful arc. The ball made contact with a crack, the sound sending everyone scurrying to catch it. Including Teague.

He ran, backward, arms stretched out—and the ball struck his hands with enough force to make him grunt. It was a clean catch, and the duke—overseeing the game to ensure it was fairly played—shouted “caught!” The Sicilian ambassador was out.

“Excellent for your redemption, Dunmore,” Simon shouted.

Teague held the ball aloft. “Was there ever any doubt that I’d do such a thing? Better luck next time, Atella.”

The count executed a formal bow toward Teague. “I am certain there will be.”

With that, it was time to change out. As Teague joined the queue of batsmen, ready to take his turn at the wicket, the other members of the team jested and advised one another with easy camaraderie.

Sir Andrew clapped him on the back, his grin friendly. “Let us see if you can hit as well as you catch, Frost,” he teased, the twinkle in his eye betraying his genuine respect for Teague’s earlier display of skill. Then he turned to face the crowd and waved toward his wife, Lady Josephine, who stood beside the duchess. His wife waved back and winked.

It was obvious the baronet enjoyed his wife’s eyes on him. Simon seemed equally distracted in that moment, grinning toward his own wife. Indeed, most of the men who were married or engaged in the courtship seemed to spend at least a moment during the change of players posturing for their lady-loves.

Teague merely smiled, a nonchalant facade that belied the nervous energy simmering beneath. His gaze inadvertently swept across the spectators, landing once again on Ivy. Their eyes met and for a fleeting moment, the world seemed to pause—the chatter, the laughter, and the gentle breeze all fading into a hushed silence. Ivy’s smile drew him in like a beacon, a silent encouragement stirring a tumult of emotions within him.

“Ready to lead us, Lord Dunmore?” one of the young ladies on their team asked with a bounce in her step. “Are you any good with the bat?”

“Am I any good?” Teague asked, hand going over his heart as he shook off the momentary distraction seeing Lady Ivy had caused. “Watch carefully, ladies and gentlemen,” he announced with a playful arrogance that drew a round of laughter from his friends. “Allow me to show you how it’s done.”

Simon, standing next in line, apparently couldn’t resist adding to the banter. “Just make sure you keep your eyes on the ball, not on the lady spectators,” he quipped, sending a knowing glance towards Lady Ivy.

The man was far too observant. A good thing in a future duke, an annoyance in a friend. Teague waved off the comment.

The first ball came at him with a challenging speed, and Teague, mindful of Simon’s jibe, focused entirely on the task at hand. With a swift, calculated swing, he connected, sending the ball rolling neatly between the fielders. Not a boundary hit, but a solid single that let him off the mark.

As he jogged to the safety of the opposite wicket, the mild success was met with cheers and a few exaggerated sighs of relief from his team. “Seems you’ve finally decided to join us in the game, Dunmore!” one of the players called out, his voice laced with humor.

Yet, even as the playful exchange continued, Teague’s mind wandered, unbidden, back to Lady Ivy. Her presence, a constant on the periphery of his focus, was quite the distraction. He knew the balance between the joy of the game and the complexity of his thoughts about her was a delicate one.

As the match progressed, Teague found himself stealing glances towards Ivy, each look a silent conversation. There was an ease to her, and that intelligent curiosity that seemed to pull him in time and time again. Each time their eyes met, he felt a driving need to help her solve her matrimonial problem.

Watchingthe cricket ball drive into Lord Dunmore’s stomach had made Ivy gasp and even take a step forward, as though she ought to do something to ensure his well-being. A ridiculous, instinctive reaction that made her blush rather fiercely.

His sister, standing beside her, hadn’t seemed to feel any sympathy at all given the way she shouted, “Keep your pretty head in the game, Teague Frost!” She shook her head and gave Ivy an exasperated look. “What in heaven’s name would distract a man when he has a ball of leather flying at him?”

Ivy swiftly shook her head in confusion. “I haven’t the slightest idea. The last time I played cricket, I was so worried the ball would take off my head I never took my eyes off it once.” She winced in sympathy again, looking at Teague. He had turned a shade of red that made her wonder if he felt more embarrassment than pain. “Do you think he’s all right?”

“It would take more than that to fell him,” Isleen said with a toss of her head. “The man is stubborn as an ox and thrice as wily. How else could he have convinced the English lords to elect him to Parliament?”

“I had wondered,” Ivy murmured, her eyes going back to the game. “Most of the Irish representatives chosen were quite old, with stronger ties to English peers through education or marriage.”

Isleen hummed in agreement. “He campaigned rather hard. I think he leaned on the fact that he was young. They won’t have to replace him any time soon.” She smirked. “Of course, the moment he took his seat, he became quite an annoyance to the opposition.”

Though Ivy found herself wanting to know more, it was difficult to concentrate on political discussion while trying to follow the game. Cricket wasn’t her favorite sport as a spectator, but she quite enjoyed the moment when Lord Atella took up the bat. He was a touch older than her cousin, Simon, but had practically married into the family when he wed Emma Arlen, ward of the duke and former companion to Lady Josephine.

“Is everyone here related to the family?” she muttered aloud.

The Irishwoman chuckled. “In some form or another, it would seem.” Then she cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted, “Don’t let him hit it, Simon!”

Her husband sent a wink at his countess before bowling exceptionally well—but Atella hit the ball anyway, and it sailed through the air directly toward Lord Dunmore. Who was, Ivy saw with a confusing amount of elation, completely prepared to leap up and catch the ball, keeping Lord Atella from obtaining the opposite wicket.

She clapped and cheered as loudly as Isleen, bouncing on her toes with far too much enthusiasm. “There now, he’s redeemed himself,” she said aloud.

“That he has,” Isleen agreed. Then she shouted, “For Ireland!”

That gave Ivy leave to laugh and shake her head. “You are fiercely proud of your homeland. Your brother, too, seems to mention it every chance he gets. Is England really so different?”

“Fundamentally, yes. The history between our nations is one I think will forever divide us, even if we’re ever fully accepted as equals.” Isleen didn’t speak with bitterness, but with a calm acceptance that made Ivy feel woefully ill-informed.

The time had come for the teams to switch places, which meant Simon and Lord Dunmore were jogging toward the lineup for batting. Isleen waved enthusiastically at her husband, and Ivy found herself making eye contact with the Irishman. The intensity of his stare momentarily took her by surprise, yet she found herself smiling her encouragement at him. He made a fine sight, running across the green with his white shirtsleeves bright in the sunlight. She half expected him to wink at her and was somewhat disappointed when he didn’t.

Quite silly of her, really.

It seemed he would be the first to bat.

“I know things have been bad in the past for your countrymen,” Ivy said quietly to her cousin’s wife. “Is there really such enmity now? Things are changing for the better, are they not?”

Isleen gave Ivy a measured look, as though trying to determine if Ivy’s interests were sincere or merely idle conversation. “We still live under the shadow of the Rebellion of 1798. The Penal laws keep Catholics from many rights, including representation in Parliament. A Parliament that dissolved Ireland’s own government and will elect Irishmen to seats only as they see fit. Then there are the taxes imposed on Irish tenants, and the ways the poor are taken advantage of by the English who have estates in Ireland.” She shook her head slightly. “If a man beats his horse with a stick instead of a whip, are things really better, or merely different?”

There was much to digest in Isleen’s words, and Ivy nearly missed the moment that Lord Dunmore’s bat connected satisfactorily with the ball, earning him a run to the opposite wicket. When he’d obtained safety there, he looked directly at her again and her heart skipped a beat.

She clapped along with Isleen, though she didn’t cheer aloud.

“I am sorry I am so ignorant of these things,” Ivy said at last to her friend, for she did feel she and Isleen had at least become that much. “I ought to be more aware, given my brother’s position.”

“Often we are unaware or uninterested in the things that do not directly impact us,” Isleen said without sounding offended. “It is a human failing, I think. There is much in the world I am ignorant of, as well. I think what is important is that when we learn of such things, we show compassion, interest, and understanding. If we can do something to make the circumstances better, then we act.”

The gentle wisdom of those words made Ivy nod in agreement, her eyes still on Lord Dunmore. He glanced at her again and she wondered what she’d done to earn his interest. And whether she could manage to hold on to it a little longer.