Chapter 12

CHAPTER 12

T he gleam of victory carried Frances through to the following morning. When the game had ended, she'd been crowned the champion, the only one of their party not to have been successfully captured. Lord Hounton, who had eventually been ‘found' five separate times, gave her a teasingly obsequious bow and had begged her to share her secrets.

He'd been polite enough not to mention that her so-called secret was obvious: the Marquess of Oackley had protected her.

Frances' parents being who they were, however, they could not resist the urge to squash her happiness like some sort of unpleasant insect lurking where it should not.

"Are you stupid?" her mother asked by way of greeting.

Frances blinked, surprised to find that her happiness remained unsquashed, actually.

Frances decided to let that show because… Well, because why not? She'd seen what her parents really thought of her. When she was silent, they disdained her. When she was loud, they dismissed her. When she tried to do as they asked—and she had tried, no matter what they seemed to think, had spent years going to balls even though crowds made her feel twitchy and uncomfortable—they considered it insufficient.

If the reaction from them would always be disappointment, she may as well do as she pleased.

"I don't think so," she answered cheerfully. "But I suppose it could be a matter for debate, technically speaking."

Lord Reed scowled at her ferociously. "Watch how you talk to your mother, girl."

Frances beamed at him. "I answered her question," she said brightly.

His frown became distinctly bemused.

"Yes, well." Lady Reed clearly was uncertain how to regain control of the situation. "How do you account for your behavior last night?"

Frances cocked her head. "Well, the secret to Blind Man's Bluff is really quite simple," she said. "You stand very quietly and try not to move around too much. The rest is just a bit of luck."

"That's—that isn't what I'm talking about, and you know it, Frances! You didn't let the Marquess of Oackley catch you when it was clear to anyone with eyes that he intended to. He's going to be a duke , you fool."

"Not letting someone catch you is the entire object of the game," Frances explained very patiently. "Current or future title notwithstanding."

"You're playing with fire, girl," her father growled.

"No, that's Snapdragon; you're mixing up your parlor games, Father," she said.

And then she'd skipped away because she was ready for the conversation to be over and didn't much care if they felt the same. Maybe she'd suffer for that later—it honestly seemed likely—but for now, she delighted in her second victory in less than a day.

Goodness. Winning was delightful .

She was in such a good mood that she didn't even mind it when the marquess fell into step beside her.

"Well, good morning, Lady Frances. Might I say that you seem particularly cheerful this morning?"

"You might," she agreed. "I have no control over what you do or do not say, actually. So you really might say whatever you please."

He laughed and she grinned. So few people liked it when she let her teasing wit out to play—the same few that made her comfortable enough to do so. She'd thought them both back in London, cozied up in domestic bliss.

Lady Mary had been a pleasant surprise, and Frances decided to allow that the marquess was a fine enough conversationalist when he wanted to be, too. She could be gracious enough to admit it, especially as she'd trounced him in Blind Man's Bluff.

"A generous offer," he commented. "I daresay victory has gone to your head."

She stopped and whirled so she was standing in front of him, hands on her hips.

"You know, I had just decided to no longer be angry with you, and you had to go and say a thing like that." She shook her head sadly. "You simply cannot seem to help yourself."

Instead of arguing, as she'd expected, his grin only grew wider.

"I cannot," he agreed. "Therefore, you must take pity on me and allow me a chance to earn back my pride. I am prostrate before you."

She looked up at him, where he loomed nearly a foot taller than she. "You are not," she said dryly.

"Metaphorically," he amended. "If you'd prefer, I could throw down my gloves, really put forth a courtly challenge."

"You're not wearing gloves," she observed. "Which, I might add, is terribly uncouth of you. Your valet must cry himself to sleep every night."

"I pay him well in recompense; he dries his tears on silk handkerchiefs," he returned. "But I think you are evading my challenge. What say you, my lady? Will you brave another competition?"

He was goading her. She knew it, and he knew she knew it.

But she didn't care. She was riding high on victory and delight.

"Oh, very well, name your field of battle," she offered magnanimously. "I shall warn you, however, that I am very good at chess."

"I am not surprised in the least, you devious little thing," he said, and unlike his previous comments about her supposed manipulations, this sounded distinctly like a compliment. He paused, thinking, then his eyes lit. "You do recall the hunt scheduled for tomorrow?"

This was one of the great entertainments of the house party. There would be a hunt to mark the midpoint of the festivities, then a ball to mark its end.

"I do," she allowed, "but if you think I plan to compete at killing small, helpless animals, you are sorely mistaken."

"Don't be absurd," he scoffed and, again, this felt oddly complimentary. "No, I merely meant to say that some of us are going for a ride today, to get familiar with the horses we'll ride tomorrow. I meant to challenge you to a race."

She considered this.

"You've an unfair advantage," she argued. "You likely have one of your own horses with you. I'll be on an entirely strange mount."

He pressed a hand to his chest like he was offended she thought him so duplicitous. "I'd take one of Winchester's horses, naturally."

"Naturally," she echoed, thinking through the proposition.

She was a passable rider—neither truly accomplished nor truly dreadful. She'd spend most of her life in London, after all, not in the country, and she'd long preferred books and puzzles to riding. She was unlikely to win against a young nobleman like the marquess, who would have been put on his first horse as soon as he could walk.

She would likely lose, it was true. But…

She couldn't really lose, could she? At worst, it would be a draw—she was already ahead of him on one count. And her pride—not to mention her cheerful mood—urged her to accept.

So, she did.

"Oh, very well," she said, shrugging one shoulder like she was doing him a favor. "When should you to submit to be vanquished again, my lord? I am happy to beat you at any time."

A little bravado never went amiss, her actual chances at this contest notwithstanding.

She'd been learning that these past few days.

The marquess' eyes flicked over her in a way that made her grow warm; her only issue with the blush that threatened her cheeks was that it stood at odds with her efforts at cool competence.

"There's no time like the present, my lady," he said, his voice softly teasing. She fought against a shiver. "Shall we don our battle armor and meet on the field of combat?"

She gave him a regal nod of acceptance, then kept her head high as she swept past him and towards her rooms. It was only when she was entirely certain that she was out of earshot that she let herself collapse into the helpless giggles that wanted to bubble forth.

This, she felt entirely certain, was going to be fun.

It was tasteless for a man in Evan's position to gloat. He'd had so many advantages that being a braggart was simply a step too far in nearly every circumstance.

Today, he decided, he did not care. When he beat Frances at this race, he planned to gloat until he was blue in the face.

Not because he thought she'd take such a thing lying down. No, he intended to brag in the hopes that she'd take it extremely poorly, that she'd get that cross, scrunched-up look on her face, the one that said she was angry enough to storm up to him, to step into his space as if her diminutive form could ever be called threatening. She'd steam and rail at him until only inches separated them, and then he would?—

He would step back and apologize for his poor behavior, he told himself sternly.

Except alas, no, he really probably would not, because even as she approached him, wearing a riding habit with a tucked waist that emphasized her slender form, she did so with her head held high and a smug look already plastered across her face.

It was simply too easy to tease her and far too rewarding when he did.

"Frances," he said amiably. He could not bring himself to use her title in earnest any longer; if he called her ‘my lady,' it was designed to tease. He refused to admit that it rankled that she did not grant him the same familiarity.

Indeed, as she approached, she merely gave him an arch look. "My lord."

He looked at the sky as if it might grant him patience.

A middle-aged groom approached, two horses trotting so obediently beside him that it seemed he scarcely needed the reins. The larger was a roan sporting a traditional saddle, the smaller a gorgeous blue dun with a sidesaddle.

"Here you are, m'lord," he said amiably. "As requested."

Frances immediately shot Evan a suspicious look. "Tell me, please, sir," she said politely to the groom. "Which of these horses would you choose if you were riding?"

"Well, my lady, if t'were me, I'd be forced to choose Padraig, here." He clapped against the big roan. "Lady Bird here ain't suitable for a man o' my height, nor his lordship's there. But if yer askin' if she can keep up with this giant in a race—" He again clapped the big horse's side; Padraig preened as if this made him prince of horses. "—aye, I'd choose her any day."

A slow, sly smile crossed Frances' face.

"Thank you very much," she said sincerely.

She affected nonchalance as she turned back to Evan, but when he turned his head to glance at his mount, he saw her shake herself in a little gesture of excitement.

It was then he decided to let her win.

Bragging would be delightful, and Lord only knew how he adored that irritated way she scrunched her pert little nose. But it could not compare to the way his chest practically ached at the sight of her happiness, the way it shone out of her like sunshine. Her anger was marvelous, yes, but her joy was beautiful.

She whirled to face him, and he quickly wiped any trace of his too-sentimental thoughts from his face.

"Let's not dawdle, my lord. My victory awaits."

Despite her confident words, she looked at the horse before her with a hint of trepidation. From the side, the groom stepped forward, clearly intending to help lift Frances into the saddle. With a minute shake of his head, Evan halted the man's progress.

He would help Frances himself.

Aside from a glimmer of amusement in his eye, the groom did not react. Satisfied, Evan approached.

"If I may, my lady," he offered, putting on his most gentlemanly front to hide how very un gentlemanly he felt when he put his hands about Frances' waist and lifted her into her saddle.

It was easy to forget how physically small she was, he marveled as he hoisted her easily. She felt her emotions so passionately, her delight and her ire, that it rendered her in bold strokes in his mind.

She was so tiny, however, that she looked doll-like on the patient blue dun. Unease flickered in her gaze as she settled into the saddle—which was why, he told himself, he let his hands linger for longer than he might have otherwise done. He didn't want her to feel unsteady, and he wasn't in a rush. It was only considerate to be patient.

He snatched his hands away when she looked down at him, afraid that the combination of her waist in his grasp and her eyes on his would make his, ahem, feelings known in a way that would make riding a horse deucedly uncomfortable.

"Very well," he said somewhat stiffly once he'd gotten himself seated on his own mount. "Shall we say we each must circle around that tree—" He pointed to a large, distinctive oak in the distance. "—and make it back here? The first to return wins?"

He suspected, based on the hint of nerves that she occasionally let slip, that Frances was not a terrible adept rider. He hoped, therefore, that she'd mistake distance for difficulty; the tree he'd marked was a good ride away, but there were no clear obstacles or potential pitfalls marking the path there or back.

Frances assessed the course he'd charted, her chin jutting out determinedly. "Yes," she agreed. "That looks well enough."

"Good," he said mildly. "If you could count us down?" he asked the groom.

The servant looked decidedly amused and was clearly comfortable enough in his position that he didn't mind letting slip that he was entertained by the Earl of Winchester's guests.

"Aye, of course, m'lord," he agreed.

"Let's show them, girl, eh?" he heard Frances whisper to her horse. He got the tight feeling in his chest again.

"On yer marks," the groom pronounced dramatically, really getting into the spirit of the thing. "Set. Aaaaaaaand go!"

Evan gave Frances a spilt second's head start, watching her urge Lady Bird into a gallop, before he gave Padraig a similar signal, so they were following close behind.

No matter what her attitude had suggested, Frances was a competent rider, though Evan could have easily outpaced her if he'd really put his mind to it. He was happy where he was, though, he decided. With the wind blowing against them, he kept catching snatches of her giggles on the breeze. And when she glanced back over her shoulder to check his progress, he watched as her hair grew wilder and wilder, slipping its pins until she looked like some sort of wild, fae creature who was meant to live among the trees.

He did have one moment of worry when she took the turn around the tree a bit sharply, panic rising sharply in his blood when she wavered in her seat. But she regained control quickly and spurred her horse even faster, a long, thin tendril of hair flapping behind her like a banner in the breeze.

When she returned to where the groom stood to mark their finish line, he was a good three lengths behind her. She dismounted before he could even come to a full stop, stumbling a bit after the odd position she'd held to use the sidesaddle.

"I won ," she gloated. There was nothing ladylike about her in the moment. She was gleeful in his defeat. "I won! I won again!" She spun, beaming, to the groom. "You saw it! I won the race!"

"You did," agreed the groom. "As I said, ye can count on Lady Bird, my lady."

"Yes, she is the very best horse," Frances agreed, petting Lady Bird's nose. "And you're good too, Padraig." She pet Evan's mount, too. "It's not your fault your rider simply wasn't up to scratch."

She was entirely ungracious in her victory, and Evan couldn't help but be delighted.

Lord, how he wanted to kiss her.

"You," she said smugly, grinning up at him, "owe me a forfeit."

Yes, please , he thought, even as he put up a token protest, just to extend their bout of sparring.

"I never agreed to that," he countered.

"The winner earns a forfeit from the loser," she scoffed, clearly not concerned with the rules of making bets. "Everyone knows that, for goodness' sake."

The groom hastily left with the horses, but not before Evan glimpsed the man's increased difficulty at holding back a laugh.

"Very well," he said to Frances. "I owe you a forfeit. What shall it be?"

She gave him her most mischievous look yet. "I shall have to think on it," she said. "Give you a bit of time to worry over it, eh?"

Evan knew he'd be able to think of little else.