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.
Chapter6
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."