18. Chapter Eighteen

The sun beat on Evan's back, and sweat dripped down his forehead as he and his party traversed the bustling street on their way to the cricket match. Once they reached the road leading to the grounds, a canopy of trees shielded them from the heat, and the occasional gust of sea breeze kept the air from being oppressive.

Evan adored cricket, and on any other day, he'd relish his position as bowler. He rather enjoyed finding the perfect throw to baffle each batter. It was just this particular day, at this very moment, that was the problem. Only because he'd prefer to be sleeping. Or fucking. Fucking Katrina Harrington, to be exact, although a woman of her temperament required kissing and making love. Which oddly was fine by him. He'd make love to every inch of her and her pouty lips, responsive curves, and rosebud nipples. And the things he'd do to her pussy… Which was probably tight as hell. And as tasty as honey cakes.

"We are going to beat The Queen's Castle this year," Harrington declared as he slapped Evan on the back with one hand and Wellspring with the other. "Now that you two are here, we stand a chance. Last year, they annihilated us." He looked over his shoulder to call to Buttons, "How are you at batting, mate?"

Buttons grinned from ear to ear.

"Ah," Harrington said. "With the four of us, we are loaded. Eaton was the best damn bowler at school, and Aunt Justine's got a pair of footmen who field as if they are league players."

"I've been meaning to ask, why are we playing on her team when we are not staying at your aunt's inn?" Wellspring asked.

"William, Katrina, and I used to cheer on our father and uncle when we were children. So we have been involved for as long as I can remember," Harrington said. "My uncle and the owner of The Queen's Inn were childhood friends, so it originated forever ago. And although we get quite competitive, 'tis all in fun. One hotel against another. Everyone, from guests to groundskeepers. The winner keeps the chalice in their hotel for the year."

The ordinarily sweet Anna smirked. "Tell them about the chalice, Ethan."

"'Tis a chamberpot painted gold," Harrington declared, the line of his jaw firm as his eyes twinkled with delight.

Despite his deteriorating mood, Evan managed a chuckle. It was bloody hysterical, after all.

"Do the hotels seek guests who are skilled athletes for game day?" Wellspring asked.

"Absolutely. Why do you think I am putting up with Eaton's shite for the fortnight?" Harrington said.

"William." Anna playfully slapped his shoulder. "I thought we invited Evan so he could paint my portrait." She giggled in Evan's direction, letting him know she was teasing.

"Just another bonus," Harrington said. "That and helping another man court my dour sister." Harrington winked at him. "You are earning your keep, Eaton."

Normally, Evan reveled in good-natured ribbing, but currently, he wasn't confident he could throw a ball a foot without losing his balance and toppling over. Therefore, laughing as others had fun at his expense left a lot to be desired. And the farce with Katrina no longer held any amusement.

"Oh my. 'Tis lovely." Anna popped onto her toes and pointed.

The sunlight and breeze combined, casting a hazy glow and giving the oval field a dream-like appearance. Vertical wooden posts topped with bails sat at each end of the rectangular pitch. A large tent ran along one side of the grounds. Dozens of people milled about in bright colors, many of the women carrying pastel parasols.

Evan and his party approached the group of players in white who surrounded Justine.

"Are you ready, men?" Harrington asked enthusiastically. The bloke had always made one hell of a team captain, whether it was boxing, fencing, cards, or cricket.

"Our opponents have not shown up yet," Justine said. "Although many of their guests have arrived."

Evan perused the crowd, his gaze landing on the beautiful blonde surrounded by the feminine peach glow. She was arm-in-arm with her cousin, and the two of them were whispering about something. Probably what a horse's arse he was for leaving Katrina in the library. Hopefully, someday she'd understand the discipline it had taken him to do the right thing.

"Excuse me, gentlemen." Anna beamed at her husband, then joined the spectators.

While they waited for the other team to arrive, Harrington led stretches and a light jog around the field. The exercise energized Evan, and it was invigorating to run past Katrina. So much so, that after they finished their laps, Evan sprinted across the field, pivoted, and raced back to his team. When he was a child, Grandmother Louisa had compared him to a frisky puppy showing off. One-and-twenty, and he hadn't changed an iota.

"They are finally here." Justine waved to a group of men plodding toward them.

Such a lethargic lot ought to be easy to beat.

"Hello, Felix," she called.

The man leading the parade shook hands with Harrington and bowed to Justine. "Please forgive us for our tardiness. Two of our men did not show. We waited and waited. No idea what happened to them. They are responsible workers. Don't know if you remember them from the past few years, Mrs. Fletcher, but they are both groundskeepers." He sighed. "Without them, we can't field a full team."

A few moments earlier, Evan would have excused himself from the competition to help even up the numbers, but with his second wind and Katrina watching, he was ready to kick some cricket arse. He wanted that golden chamberpot. Even more than that, he desired Katrina's admiration.

Justine's lips twisted as she considered their dilemma.

Finally, Harrington expelled an exasperated grunt. "Shall we see if any of the guests from either of the hotels would like to join your team? I am sure we can find men to fill in."

As if on cue, two arsewipes strolled across the field toward them. There was no mistaking the arrogant lift of their noses and the garish waistcoat of the leader.

"Bloody hell," Harrington mumbled.

Evan's thoughts exactly. Probably everyone's thoughts since there were a lot of shuffling feet and kicking of the unfortunate grass.

Up marched the duo of unwanted blighters, infiltrating the athletes. Greyson no longer wore his wrist bandage, but his eye had turned a blotchy purple, and his smirk was disconcerting. At least Taylor had the decency to look abashed.

"Why the long faces? What seems to be the problem?" Greyson asked.

"None of your bloody business," Harrington snapped. "Why do you look like you lost a pub brawl?"

Evan's thoughts exactly.

"Lord Greyson, two of our men did not show," Felix said.

Greyson tsked. "Probably out drinking last night and still in their cups today."

"Nay. They are good workers," Felix said. "They visit the local pub and have a few rounds on their nights off, but they'd never miss something this important. Why, we've been preparing for weeks."

"That's what happens when the classes mix, and why they should not. Absurd to have peers of the realm partnered with lowly groundskeepers." Greyson sniffed at Harrington. "In sport, life, marriage…"

Yet, Greyson had no qualms about tupping shopgirls and maids—as long as he could mistreat and browbeat them. If Harrington reached out and throttled Greyson, Evan wouldn't stop him. Probably not a man there would. At least Anna was not present to hear the barb.

"You don't have to cancel your game, do you? For that would be quite a shame." Greyson's feigned concern was wasted since everyone present knew he was a selfish piss. "We shall fill in." Palm up, he presented himself and his solicitor.

Like hell!

"No disrespect, my lord, but if you don't like to see the classes mix, why would you want to play on my team?" Felix asked.

Not only that, but how did he know the missing men were groundskeepers?

"Since we are already here and ready for the match, why not? Just this once. What does it matter since you have two men of our class on your team?" Greyson flicked his uninjured wrist toward Frederick Montague, then the quite influential Lord Rudolph. "Besides, Taylor here was one of the best batters at Oxford. Once scored one hundred eighty runs in a match."

Taylor cringed. "'Tis true. I did."

"Aye, Taylor is an ace player." Frederick gazed toward the beautiful cousins seated in the tent and sighed. "Considering the unfortunate circumstance, could the chaps play with us so we don't have to forfeit? They are here, after all. Unless you want two of your men to sit out and play nine on nine?"

Most likely, Frederick wanted to show off for Elizabeth. Not that Evan was passing judgment since he wished for Katrina to be in awe of his athletic prowess.

"Since those four are not staying at The Crown Jewel"—Greyson glared at Evan—"I would hardly think it a problem if we join the team and help out."

"Fine," Harrington said, his face a mass of tight lines. "But I've been playing for my aunt's team since I left behind my leading strings."

If no one else would stand up to the blackguard, Evan would do it. He stomped into Greyson's space and thumped him in the shoulder. "Sneck up."

As he turned to walk away, Greyson called, "You might want to rethink your treatment of me, Evan Eaton."

"I will see you in hell," Evan growled.

Unable to contain his fury, he marched from the group. Footsteps followed him. Probably Wellspring telling him to calm down and behave like a gentleman.

Evan wheeled to face him. However, it was Taylor who stood before him.

"Thank you for getting Caroline out of the house. Please protect her until I can get rid of that son of a bitch."

Before Evan could respond, Taylor walked away.

In the distance, something shiny flew into the air. Once the shilling landed, Harrington bent to peer at it. "The Crown Jewel bats first. Eaton, you're up."

Evan moaned. He could not stomp off like a petulant child if he meant to keep the marquess in line. Someone had to do it, and it suited his present mood. Heading toward the pitch, he grabbed his bat as eleven fielders fanned out around him.

The score was one-hundred sixty to one-hundred fifty-eight, and dusk had begun to settle when the tenth batter left the pitch, and Greyson, the final batter, took his place in front of the wicket. No way in hell would Evan let Greyson score. The match was so close that all Greyson needed was one hit to the boundary to win.

Smirking, Greyson motioned for Evan to come close. He'd tell the shite-sack to bugger off, but he didn't trust him not to say something hideous about Katrina—or the unfortunate Caroline—in front of an attentive audience. Therefore, pounding his hatred into the ground with every step, he approached Greyson.

"What in the bloody hell do you want?" he growled in the marquess's face.

The devil chuckled as he leaned close to whisper. "I will win this game and the girl."

What the…? He'd called Evan to him to make an absurd boast?

"Perhaps the game," Evan hissed. "But never the girl. She sees you for the pile of vermin feces that you are. We all see you for what you are. An entitled son of a bitch who must force women into his bed since his prick is pox-covered, minuscule, and limp."

Evan backed away and measured an inch with his thumb and forefinger—an absurd declaration since he had no knowledge of the marquess's appendage particulars. But the insult garnered the desired reaction: unnerving his enemy.

Greyson's chin jutted indignantly, and it was as if fire shot from his pupils. "I'll smash the ball right down your throat," he growled from between his clenched teeth.

"You will have to hit it first. In fact, I have a wager for you." Preposterous since Evan planned to wager something he couldn't afford to lose. But he'd racked his brain, and there was no other solution.

"Intrigued. Tell me," Greyson said.

"If I win the game, you leave Katrina alone and drop this blackmail nonsense."

"And if I win, she will spend time with me."

"If she agrees to it," Evan said.

"Deal." Greyson held out his hand.

What a deluded arrogant arsehole. Did the fool not realize she'd never consent to be with him? The Dowager Countess Greyson had to have spoiled him to the point he'd lost touch with reality. As much as he did not want skin-to-skin contact with the marquess, Evan shook on the deal.

"By the way, Greyson, you won't win." Evan turned on his heel, waved over his shoulder, and sauntered to the pitch. He faced the marquess and playfully tossed the ball above his head several times.

Greyson kicked the grass.

How exceedingly fun to provoke his ill-tempered nemesis. He moved slowly, doing his absolute best to goad Greyson with his nonchalant attitude. First, he rolled his shoulders. Then he tilted his head from side to side.

"Pitch the bloody ball," Greyson yelled.

The command earned the marquess a few more seconds of Evan's taunts. Finally, at long last, Evan prepared, willing the ball to sail past Greyson and knock the bails from their stumps. Crouching low, he focused on the blade of Greyson's bat, then aimed the ball just forward of the arses off-side.

Smack! Greyson's bat made contact, and the ball hurled toward Evan.

The arrogant fool had just sacrificed the game. And for what? To give Evan a black eye? He instinctually shielded his face, easily catching the ball-turned-missile.

"Caught and bowled," someone yelled.

"Caught and bowled," the crowd echoed.

Greyson was out, and the match was over. The shite-sack grumbled under his breath as he shook out his wrist.

Evan chuckled. Not only had his venomous little stunt cost Greyson the game, but it also seemed he'd aggravated his injury.

Like chickens to feed, his teammates surrounded Evan, hugging him and singing his praises. Harrington and Wellspring hoisted him onto their shoulders as if he were king of the world. From atop his human throne, Evan waved to the cheering crowd, his team running their victory lap behind him.

Evan sought Katrina's gaze, hoping to see approval. Surly, she'd admire him since he'd just won her aunt the golden chamberpot and a respite from Greyson's blackmailing. Not only had he bowled skillfully, but he'd also scored fifty-four runs, breaking his own record—and all on very little sleep. However, he had to wait for her to look his way because she embraced her cousin as the pair bounced on their toes.

Once Elizabeth released Katrina, she met Evan's gaze and smiled. It was as if an arrow of sunlight shot across the field, piercing his heart, and if the glowing shaft was tugged from him, he would bleed to death.

Huh! Lack of sleep had turned him into a sentimental fool. Still, he needed to confess his feelings to poor ol' Springy, for he must have this challenging woman who was undoubtedly a bigger prize than Greyson's demise or a cricket trophy.

"To The Purple Toad," someone yelled.

"Purple Toad! Purple Toad! Purple Toad!" His teammates chanted.

A mug of ale at the local tavern was the perfect way to celebrate. Evan raised a fist in victory.

"The Purple Toad," he whooped at the top of his lungs.

From around him, men celebrated—both the winners and the losers—for, the festive day ended with free ale for all participants. Well, almost everyone celebrated. Two sourpusses sat in the corner by themselves, horrific scowls consuming their visages. Greyson looked up from his tankard to snarl in Evan's direction. Seeming to take offense to his drinking partner's theatrics, Taylor winced.

Taylor's words came back to Evan. "Please protect her until I can get rid of that son of a bitch." From the first second he saw them together, he'd known they could not be friends. So why was Greyson visiting Taylor and turning the solicitor into a pariah?

Egad! The same reason any sane person would tolerate Greyson. Blackmail. What could Greyson possibly have on Taylor?

Wellspring plopped onto the stool beside Evan. "Well done." He clapped Evan on the back.

Since the ale had loosened his lips, now was as good a time as any to avow his feelings about Katrina. He chugged, and then before his nerves got the better of him, he spoke quickly.

"I must confess something, and I am unsure how you will take it. If you want to knock my teeth down my throat, I won't stop you," Evan said. "In fact, I quite deserve it."

"Ahh," Wellspring said, "I suppose you confessed our unscrupulous dupe to Katrina. I am not unhappy in the least. I no longer wish to deceive her."

"That is not entirely everything." Evan gulped a huge swig. "Springy, I have feelings for the chit. I am sorry. I know you are courting her, but I cannot stop thinking about her."

Wellspring exhaled, long and slow. When he didn't say anything, Evan blabbered on.

"I know you are a better man than I, and if I care about her, I should kick my attraction to hell. But I cannot. I have tried." He met Wellspring's gaze. "Truly, I have. I also know her brothers will never allow me to court her." Another quaff gave him the courage to finish. "I kissed her, mate. And that sly boot saw it." Evan waved his hand in Greyson's direction. "And now he is blackmailing us both. Well, was blackmailing. I think I have put an end to it."

Please let Wellspring's punch sting like hell because he deserved the pain. Although the man was so laid back, Evan had no idea if he knew how to land a debilitating blow.

"That doesn't surprise me, Eaton. I think I've known all along." Wellspring exhaled, clapped Evan on the shoulder, and stood. He strolled across the tavern to sit across from Buttons.

Hmm? It could have gone worse. Much worse because although Wellspring had not said, Go for it, mate, he had not lost his temper, and he looked… relieved?

Harrington dropped onto the seat beside Evan. "Well played, Eaton. What a deuce's-s of a match, and whatever you s-said, you unnerved Greys-son. He is-s s-still pouting," Harrington slurred.

While his friend was pleased with him—and in his cups—Evan should break the news of his attraction to his sister. He opened his mouth to confide his secret, but the words stuck in his throat.

"What is-s it?" Harrington asked. "You are s-sucking on the inside of your jaw again."

While Evan contemplated his admission, the weight of the last two days hit him with a heavy thud. "I think I shall head back to Yardley Manor. I am exhausted."

"I s-shall join you. I would now like to celebrate the day with my lovely wife." Harrington winked as he dug his elbow into Evan's side. "If you know what I mean?"

That was a bit more information than Evan needed. Anna was too sweet for such notions.

Frigging bollocks. What in the devil was wrong with him? If he did not get ahold of his silly emotions, he might soon grow a vagina and tits. And what fun would that be since he'd become too bloody noble to fondle them?

"You're sloshed, Harrington. Let us go." Thereupon, he wrapped his arm around his best mate, and they snaked through the tavern to the exit.