Lady Rosabella's Ruse (11 page)

Rosa nodded. ‘Not a word.’

A shout took her gaze back down the beach. Mr Fitzwilliam, waving them back. The rest of the party were wending their way to what had become a cricket pitch. Rosa was surprised to see how far they had walked from the site of the picnic. ‘It seems they are ready for our game. Do you play cricket?’

‘I don’t have the heart for it.’

‘Then perhaps you won’t mind serving as the umpire.’

As was only polite, the ladies were up to bat first, and the gentlemen were in the field. Since Mrs Mallow and Mrs Phillips had drawn first in the batting order, Rosa had nothing else to do but sit on the sidelines and watch.

All the gentlemen had discarded their coats, but none looked so fine in shirtsleeves as Lord Stanford preparing to bowl. He wasn’t as broad shouldered and brawny as Mr Fitzwilliam, but he had no sign of the paunch the lean Mr Phillips carried around his middle.

No, indeed. Lean and lithe, he moved with the lethal grace one observed in a predator. He reminded her of a great cat, a sleek black panther lazing in the sun, but ready to strike at a moment’s notice.

Mrs Mallow defended her wicket, while the other gentlemen stood ready. Stanford drew his arm back, let the ball fly and sent it whizzing down the pitch with a grin.

In that moment, he looked younger, less dissipated, perhaps even boyish. Her heart tumbled over and over, a wild fluttering starting up in her belly as the memory of his kisses tingled on her lips.

She forced herself to look away.

A crack of the bat and Rosa whipped her head around to see the ball speed past Hapton and into the waves. He splashed into the surf, retrieved the ball and tossed it back to the wicketkeeper, one of Lady Keswick’s footmen who had happily agreed to join the game.

Two runs.

‘Stanford bowls well,’ Rosa said to Lady Smythe.

‘He threw the ball at her bat,’ Lady Smythe said, her voice thickening. ‘My husband does the same for me. Oh, look. Stanford is ready to bowl again.’

For all her good intentions, Rosa could not resist watching his long stride, the flexing of muscle in his shoulders and his strong thighs. The man had a pure male animalistic fire. He stole her breath.

‘You like him, don’t you?’ Lady Smythe said.

She swallowed, hating to be caught out. She shrugged. ‘I like to see a man bowl well.’

‘That wasn’t—’

‘Howzat?’ one of the fielders yelled. The stump lay on the sand behind Mrs Mallow.

‘Oh, dear,’ Lady Smythe said. ‘She knocked it with the bat when she swung.’ She signalled the out.

Rosa stood with a feeling of dread. Now it was her turn to face the bowler. She set her shoulders. She’d played cricket at school. All the girls did. And she’d been one of the best players. She wasn’t going to let Lord Stanford intimidate her. No indeed. She’d think of the ball as his head, and she’d be sure to hit it for six.

‘Rotten luck,’ she said to Mrs Mallow as they passed and the other woman handed her the bat.

Rosa took her place, standing facing the bowler. The grin, which had enchanted her on the sidelines, now hit her with full force, melted her from the inside out. Her heart faltered. A tremble rippled through her body.

She tightened her grip on the bat, took a deep breath and nodded her readiness.

A dark eyebrow shot up and he started to run. The thud of his steps on the hard sand travelled through the soles of her feet and up her legs in a most extraordinary manner. Seeing him running those few steps towards her was far more unnerving than seeing bullocks chasing Digger. She adjusted her grip. Kept her eye on the ball, stepped into it and swung.

Thwack.
Wood on leather. A satisfying sound. The ball took flight into the dunes, heading straight at Fitzwilliam. ‘Run,’ Mrs Phillips yelled.

Picking up her skirts, she dashed for the other end of the pitch, where Stanford waited for the ball’s return. ‘Well done,’ he said at her arrival in the crease. His voice dropped to a low sensual murmur. ‘It is rare to find a woman who runs like a gazelle as you do. Such a pleasure to watch.’ His eyes gleamed wickedly and dropped to her heaving bosom.

Rogue. He was trying to put her off.

Fitzwilliam fumbled his throw. She grinned at Stanford. ‘Then watch from behind.’ She started running and passed a red-faced Mrs Phillips in the middle. ‘Good Lord, another two,’ the other woman panted.

At the other end, Rosa turned. Still no sign of Fitzwilliam with the ball, but Stanford had moved up to cover the gap and the other men were running in.

Should she run again? She started forwards. Her partner shook her head and Rosa stayed where she was. Glad of it, too, when the ball came whizzing back to Stanford, who spun around ready to throw them out.

‘Well played,’ he called to her with that cheeky smile.

The other men must have thought so, too, because they had rearranged themselves to cover off the left side of the field.

They were in for a surprise. This time, Stanford didn’t seem nearly as intimidating, despite that rakish grin as he ran a couple of steps before he let the ball fly. She kept her face deliberately blank as the ball came at her, much faster this time. He was showing a little respect. At the last possible moment, she altered the angle of her bat and fired the ball into the sea.

Groans of despair from the men and cheers from the women. Lady Smythe was on her feet, clapping. Not the actions of an impartial umpire at all.

Three runs. A panting Rosa stood in the crease at Lord Stanford’s end of the pitch with Mrs Phillips readying her bat.

‘Aren’t you full of surprises?’ Stanford said, tossing the ball in the air and giving her a jaunty smile.

‘As are you,’ she said. ‘That last ball had an odd sort of curve.’

He grinned. ‘Spotted it, did you?’

‘I almost didn’t hit it.’

‘I wonder what your partner will make of it.’

The beet-faced Mrs Phillips wielded her bat more like a battledore. Rosa inwardly groaned.

He leaned closer. ‘I’ll go easy on her for a kiss.’

Startled, she recoiled.

He laughed. ‘All’s fair,’ he said with a wicked lift of his brow.

His smile was infectious. Disarming. Playful. She grinned back. ‘Eat your heart out, Stanford.’

He leaned closer. ‘I am. For you.’ He tossed the ball in the air and strode off to take up his position.

Heart racing, Rosa stared after him. A softness filled her chest. Sweet and tender. She liked him, she realised with shock. He was funny and teasing when he was not playing the sardonic rake. Something in him reached out to her. And it shouldn’t. Because he was the worst sort of man.

She forced herself to focus on the game, to watch her team member, to ready herself for the ball.

Stanford bowled fast and hard. The ball hit the stump.

‘You’re out,’ Fitzwilliam yelled from the top of a dune.

Stanford winked at Rosa. ‘See. You should have kissed me,’ he whispered, dark eyes dancing.

And she wished she had. Not because she cared about winning, but because there was a yearning in her heart to have him hold her close and work his magic with his mouth.

Mrs De Lacy strolled out to take Mrs Phillips’s place. She proved to be an excellent player.

By the time the ladies were all out, they had racked up a nice fifteen runs and Lady Keswick had refreshments waiting, small beer for the men and fruit punch for the ladies.

‘You seem to know what you are doing,’ Mrs De Lacy said to Rosa. ‘Will you bowl for our team?’

‘If you wish.’

Mrs Phillips fanned her face. ‘It is so hot.’ She raised her eyes to the clear blue sky. ‘Perhaps we should just declare in their favour.’

‘I should think not,’ Mrs Mallow said. ‘You be wicketkeeper, then you don’t have to run. I’ll field on the water side, the grooms can cover the dunes, and Mrs De Lacy can fill in any gap.’

The men huddled off in a group. ‘Planning their strategy, no doubt,’ Lady Keswick said. ‘Ladies, my money is on you.’

‘Money?’ Rosa gasped.

‘I made a bet with Stanford.’

Rosa narrowed her eyes. Was that what they were doing over there, gambling on the outcome?

She marched over to Stanford and tapped him on the shoulder. He turned and smiled when he saw her. Lord, the man was tall up close. Every time she got this close she suddenly felt tiny and dainty. Which was ridiculous for a woman of her height.

‘A guinea, if you please, on the ladies.’

His eyes gleamed wickedly. ‘A guinea it is, but I warn you, I do not intend to let you win.’

‘Let us? Sir, are you intimating that our score is not honestly achieved?’

His eyes flickered a fraction as he realised she’d caught him left footed. He inclined his head in acknowledgement. ‘Indeed not, Mrs Travenor. I am happy to take your money.’

Fitzwilliam slapped him on the back.

Rosa marched back to her team-mates. ‘We are going to win this game.’

‘That’s the spirit,’ Lady Keswick said and covered her face with her handkerchief. ‘I am sure you won’t mind if I take a nap.’

The ladies took their positions in the field. Rosa cursed her skirts and petticoats, grasping them in one hand, and the ball in the other. She surged forwards and set her ball pelting down the pitch at Mr Phillips.

The ball hit the wicket.

‘Out,’ Lady Smythe called with a little more glee than was seemly.

‘I wasn’t ready,’ Mr Phillips said, his pale face turning the shade of a newly peeled beet.

‘The umpire called out,’ Stanford said, lounging on a blanket. ‘You should stop dreaming about your next play and focus on reality.’ Phillips stomped off and sprawled on the sand.

Hapton walked to the crease to take his place. She wasn’t going to catch him unawares, she could see that by the determined expression on his face. She settled into her stride.

The men’s team made heavy inroads on the ladies’ score; they were up to twelve, when by some lucky fluke a ball went straight up in the air. Mrs De Lacy put up her hands and closed her eyes and…unbelievably…she caught it. She opened her eyes and stared in surprise. ‘You are out,’ she said.

Both teams clapped.

Well, it really had been the most amazing piece of luck.

Rosa bowled out Fitzwilliam. One of her best efforts. And then she was facing Stanford.

He readied his bat. He handled it like a man who played professional cricket. She’d seen such a game once, when the school lent the local team their field because of flooding in the village. The men had been rough and ready and wore expressions just like Stanford’s.

A smile curved her lips. She’d saved him a surprise.

He tapped his bat in the crease and wriggled his hips. A breath caught in her throat. He flashed her a grin and heat rose up to her hairline in a scalding rush. Wretched man. She really must stop reacting to his flirting.

Three long strides, one small hop to make sure her feet remained behind the crease and her weight was balanced, then she let the ball go, with a twist of her wrist. Too much. She realised it as soon as the ball left her hand. It careened off to the left.

‘Wide,’ the umpire said.

Blast. She’d let him unnerve her.

‘Too bad,’ Stanford said, granted a walk to her end of the pitch because of her mistake.

‘It won’t happen again,’ she said, waiting for the ball’s return. She frowned when she realised he was staring at her feet. ‘Is something wrong?’

The corner of his mouth kicked up in a private smile. ‘No. Just admiring your sandals.’

Strange man. There was nothing at all unusual about her shoes, except maybe that she wasn’t wearing stockings. ‘Incorrigible,’ she muttered.

He laughed and she shook her head at him.

One of the grooms threw her the ball and she strode back to her position. She gripped the ball firmly and sent it down the pitch. It curved. Bannerby altered his position only to discover the ball straightening. It went between him and his bat and knocked the wicket askew.

‘Out!’ Mrs De Lacy jumped up and down in excitement.

‘Very nice,’ Stanford muttered as he waited for the next man to come out: Albert, the groom on the men’s side. ‘Where did you learn that little trick?’

‘Trick?’ she said innocently. ‘Now what will you give me, so I won’t make you lose?’

‘A kiss?’ he said.

She glanced at him over her shoulder with a small chuckle. ‘I think not.’

She signalled her fielders to draw in close. Their only chance to win was to stump one of them out, which meant fielding the ball close to the wickets.

‘Last desperate measure?’ Stanford called.

‘Sorry it is you at this end instead of the other?’ she replied.

He laughed ruefully. ‘How right you are.’

Once she was sure her ladies were in the best spots, she bowled her ball. A nice slow easy ball. Seeing his chance, Albert struck hard. It ran along the ground and bypassed Mrs Mallow. The men ran. Mrs De Lacy somehow scooped up the ball and threw it to Rosa. With a grin at the desperate face of the running groom, she knocked the stump down with the ball. ‘Out,’ she cried. ‘We won.’