The sextet wandered down the lawn, away from the canopies and other guests. Each man carried a wooden mallet of varying colors with a thick solid band of color near the handle to match a specific ball. Set out on the manicured grass were several iron wickets, designed in the most complicated pattern known to mankind. Benjamin snorted when he saw the location of the hoops—Thomas’ imagination had certainly influenced the positioning of the wickets. Ignoring him, Thomas set up three colored balls at one end of the course.
“Shall we allow the ladies to hit first?” suggested Mr. Lockhearst with a polite nod to Miss Hastings as he offered her his mallet. She took it from his hand, grasping the top of the handle carefully, so as not to brush her fingers against his.
“I think, since Miss Shirely has the least amount of experience with this game, we should let her go first,” recommended Mrs. Hastings, a dash of venom in her sugary statement.
Miss Shirely glared at her. Mrs. Hastings smiled serenely back and tilted her head slightly. Huffing, Miss Shirely accepted the mallet from Benjamin and leaned over the yellow ball. Her body positioned awkwardly, she swung the mallet with her eyes squeezed tightly shut. The mallet flew wide, missing the ball by several inches. Instead, a large chunk of grass sailed through the air, carved out of the ground by her wild swing. She pouted daintily and glanced up at Mr. Lockhearst who seemed struck silent by her sudden notice of him.
“I guess I am just not strong enough,” she sighed, sending a winning smile in Benjamin’s direction as well. She delicately picked a blade of grass off her pale skirt.
Benjamin watched her thoughtfully, failing to return her dazzling smile. Aunt Abigail may have been accurate in her assessment of Miss Shirely after all. She was feigning her inabilities to garner not only his attention but that of every man in the group. Benjamin slid his eyes furtively to the left, in his brother’s direction. Thomas, conscious of Miss Shirely’s pretense, raised his eyes dramatically at Benjamin, giving a subtle shake of his head. Then deliberately turning his back to Miss Shirely, Thomas placed his focus solely on Mrs. Hastings while they discussed their game strategy.
Clearly not reaping Thomas’ notice, Miss Shirely pouted, her eyes flicked to Benjamin. She flashed a second, even larger smile toward him. Ignoring her flirting, Benjamin busied himself with resetting the ball in its starting place. He glanced up briefly at Miss Hastings, realizing she observed the entire exchange between Miss Shirely and the three gentlemen. A ghost of a grin crossed her lips as if Miss Hastings were enjoying his disappointment.
Dejected by both brothers’ lack of interest, Miss Shirely turned her full attention back toward Mr. Lockhearst, a pout decorating her lovely face. Mr. Lockhearst took several unconscious steps toward Miss Shirely as if hypnotized by her beauty, his mouth hanging open slightly. Benjamin crossed his arms, bristling; Miss Hastings snorted quietly next to him.
“Perhaps, one of us could help you swing the mallet?” suggested Mr. Lockhearst, using the opportunity to slide closer to Miss Shirely, his outstretched arms trying to slip around her delicate waist.
“I think,” Miss Hastings declared in an unusual tone, “her partner should offer to help.” She watched Mr. Lockheast’s actions with a curious expression. “We would not want anyone think we cheated.”
“I agree,” concurred Thomas with a nod as he looked up from his discussion with Mrs. Hastings.
Benjamin flashed Miss Hastings a dark look. She tried to shrug innocently, but the ghostly smile graced her lips again. “It seems only fair, Lord Westwood.”
Mr. Lockhearst moved away from Miss Shirely, lowering his arms slowly. He, too, had a scowl on his features. Benjamin stepped behind Miss Shirely with a sigh, carefully placing his hands further down on the mallet, so they did not accidentally brush against hers. Warily, he swung the mallet with her, striking the ball evenly, sending it flying across the grass. As soon as the mallet connected, he immediately released the handle and moved several paces away, lest he appeared more eager to Miss Shirely than he intended.
Oblivious of his departure, Miss Shirely clapped her hands, dropping the mallet and squealing, the high-pitched sound grating his nerves. Benjamin shook his head slightly. Aunt Abigail was correct, he needed to reconsider his judgment of Miss Shirely. Surely no man should be subject to such ridiculous behavior.
“Look how far it went,” Miss Shirely sang, dancing in a little circle, earning a charming smile from Mr. Lockhearst.
Benjamin groaned, his eyes floating upward. He sighed deeply, longing to pinch the bridge of his nose. A small snort next to him drew his attention. Miss Hastings, spun away from Miss Shirely’s absurd antics, was struggling to keep ahold of her manners. She bit her lip forcefully, her eyes watering. Her eyes rose to him, dancing with amusement. Benjamin felt his loins stir. That plump lower lip, caught between her teeth, enticed him. He desired to taste her again, to feel her soft skin warming beneath his touch, to claim her over and over again until neither of them could move.
“Miss Hastings, you are next,” Thomas interrupted Benjamin’s wicked thoughts.
Smoothing her face, Miss Hastings turned around again and squared her shoulders. Looked down the course toward the first impossible wicket, she swung hard, connecting with a solid whack. Her red ball soared through the air, bouncing several yards beyond Miss Shirely’s yellow ball. It stopped just short of the first hoop. A smug smile appeared on Miss Hasting’s lips and vanished immediately, controlled by a discreet pinch from Mrs. Hastings.
“What a fantastic hit,” crowed Mr. Lockhearst, jumping around with an inane celebration of his own. “I definitely chose the best partner.”
“We shall see,” stated Mrs. Hastings grimly, stepping up next to the blue ball. With a deft swing, the ball flew several meters, knocking Miss Shirely’s ball away from the wicket, and bounced through the first hoop. Miss Shirely shrieked angrily; Mrs. Hastings winked at Miss Hastings.
“I see Edward taught you how to play too,” laughed Miss Hastings.
“Edward was not best at everything,” replied Mrs. Hastings with a wink. “I played a few games as a child.” She walked to her ball and took a second hit, sending it halfway across the course toward the second wicket.
Mrs. Hastings’ comment drew Benjamin backward in time to summers spent on this very lawn with Thomas and Edward—three mischievous boys with nothing to do but invent dreadfully complicated wicket formations. A strange hollow feeling echoed in his body. He glanced up. Miss Hastings watched him intently as if she could read his melancholy.
“Trade,” announced Benjamin, distracting himself from his thoughts.
Mrs. Hastings passed her mallet to Thomas who accepted it with a boasting smile. Miss Hastings, too, relinquished her mallet, which Mr. Lockhearst seemed a little too eager to take. Benjamin noticed Mr. Lockhearst allowed his hand to linger longer on Miss Hastings’ than necessary, one digit slipped across her fingers. Benjamin’s eyes narrowed.
Anger welled up in him; he longed to rip off Mr. Lockhearst’s arm. Instead, Benjamin walked to the errant yellow ball and whacked it with so much force, it passed Miss Hastings’ red ball and lined up perfectly with the opening. It sailed through the first hoop, allowing Benjamin to take a second turn. This hit placed him within a few yards of the next wicket.
“Do not worry, Miss Hastings, we will catch up,” Mr. Lockhearst vowed in a low tone as he marched toward their ball, still positioned behind the first wicket.
“I shall not worry, Mr. Lockhearst,” replied Miss Hastings, swallowing a grin.
After several more strokes, Mrs. Hastings and Thomas remained in the lead, closing in on the final post. Miss Hastings and Mr. Lockhearst found themselves less than one yard behind them. Benjamin and Miss Shirely trailed far behind.
As Miss Shirely stepped up to hit her lagging yellow ball, she smacked it violently in the wrong direction. The ball sailed skyward with more force than any of the other players anticipated and disappeared into the hedges surrounding their playing field. After swinging the mallet in a wide arc, Miss Shirely collapsed on the ground in an elegant heap, exhausted from the effort and claiming a sprained ankle. All play was halted as they searched for the missing ball.
“I think she did that on purpose,” muttered Miss Hastings to Mrs. Hastings as they hunted through the grass, neither woman aware of Benjamin’s proximity.
“Manners, Samantha,” reminded Mrs. Hastings without glancing up. She stooped to look under a nearby bush. Benjamin snickered softly as he listened; it seemed as though Mrs. Hastings was programmed to correct Miss Hastings’ objectionable decorum automatically. Miss Hastings stuck her tongue out at her sister-in-law’s back, just as Benjamin stepped around the hedge.
“I do not believe that particular behavior is considered proper either,” he snickered.
“Lord Westwood, I do not remember asking you for etiquette lessons,” Miss Hastings muttered quietly so Mrs. Hastings could not hear her retort. She stuck her tongue out at him as well.
Benjamin moved closer to her, noting how the sunlight captured the red tinges in her hair. He lowered his voice, placing his lips near her ear. “I can give you private lessons if you like.”
“I am not interested in learning anything you are offering to teach,” blushed Miss Hastings, twisting to her right to look him directly in the eye.
His gaze greedily followed the blush as it traveled below her décolletage. “I have been told I am an excellent tutor.”
“By whom?”
“A gentleman never tells.”
“I thought we established you were not a gentleman.”
“Then you should not be surprised by my actions. However, since you are attuned to gentlemen, I must warn you. I have a suspicion Mr. Lockhearst is not one either,” rumbled Benjamin. His head tilted in the direction of the aforementioned man.
Mr. Lockhearst lounged on the grass next to Miss Shirely, entertaining her with some longwinded story, neither he nor Miss Shirely feigning any interest in locating the missing croquet ball. Benjamin noted Miss Shirely glowed under Mr. Lockhearst’s singular attention. She giggled in appreciation of his devotion, pretending to accidentally brush her hand along his sleeve as she adjusted her injured ankle. Mr. Lockhearst fawned over her painful situation, offering words of sympathy and patting her hand.
Benjamin shook his head, disgust roiling in his stomach. “I hope you do not have your mind set upon Mr. Lockhearst as a potential suitor.”
“Do not worry, dear guardian, I have no intention of giving Mr. Lockhearst any encouragement,” she paused, “or any other man for that matter.”
Benjamin narrowed his eyes. This was going to be a long season.
“I found it,” stated Mrs. Hastings, interrupting Benjamin’s retort. She stood up with a grimace, adjusting her skirt. Bits of leaves stuck in her hair, the yellow ball clasped tightly in her hand. She waved it triumphantly in Miss Hastings’ direction.
“I do not think Miss Shirely wishes to continue the game,” observed Miss Hastings as she nonchalantly increased the space between her and Benjamin, placing Mrs. Hastings directly between the two of them. Mrs. Hastings did not notice Miss Hastings’ subtle movement; however, Benjamin found it particularly amusing.
In the distance, Miss Shirely limped slowly toward the house, her right leg gracefully lifted as she leaned her weight on Mr. Lockhearst’s offered arm. Miss Shirely’s pretty face strained with the effort of the pretense. She gingerly moved toward the nearest canopy. Mr. Lockhearst deposited her in a chair under the tent, and within moments, several young men flocked around, bringing punch and food.
“I guess she did not enjoy losing the game,” Miss Hastings muttered under her breath, her voice carried louder than she expected.
“Samantha!” hissed Mrs. Hastings, her gaze flying to Benjamin, silently begging him to forgive Miss Hastings’ improper comment. “Lord Westwood does not care for your prejudiced hypothesis.”
“Are you implying Miss Shirely’s actions are fraudulent?” inquired Benjamin with a curious tone. He stared at her over Mrs. Hasting’s head.
“No, my Lord,” answered Miss Hastings, casting her eyes down as Mrs. Hastings nodded in approval of the proper response. How often did Mrs. Hastings give subtle cues to improve Miss Hastings’ refreshing lack of societal manners?
“I think we should offer her our sympathy for her injury, a sprained ankle is quite painful,” suggested Mrs. Hastings, a firm tone in her voice. Handing the ball to Benjamin with a smile and a curtsy, Mrs. Hastings turned to start up the lawn. She signaled for Miss Hastings to follow with a snap of her fingers.
“My Lord,” curtsied Miss Hastings. “It was a pleasure beating you at croquet.” Smiling sweetly, she dashed after Mrs. Hastings, catching her in seconds. “Someone should offer us sympathy for having to spend time with the wretched woman,” she muttered loudly.
“Samantha!” chastised Mrs. Hastings. Her irritation ebbed across the lawn. “I had one simple request.”
“Leave my shoes on?”
“Behave as a lady,” retorted Mrs. Hastings and marched up the lawn. Miss Hastings sighed heavily, her shoulders deflating. Lifting her skirt, she trailed after Mrs. Hastings without another word.
“Opinionated is she not?” Thomas’ voice resonated over Benjamin’s shoulder.
“Very,” agreed Benjamin with a private grin. “Would you expect any less from Edward’s sister?”
Thomas chuckled. “Actually, I would expect more.”
“Did I ever tell you about the time she tried to stab me through the heart with a foil?”
Thomas looked at Benjamin with a smirk. “Really? I thought you were an excellent swordsman.”
“She attacked me from behind.” Benjamin rubbed the raised scar on his hand.
Thomas paused for a moment, his eye catching Benjamin’s unconscious movement. “Is that where the scar on your hand came from?”
“Yes.”
Thomas howled with laughter. “Little Sam is quite dangerous.”
“That she is,” answered Benjamin grimly, watching her figure move gracefully over the lawn. She reached the shade of the canopy and was plunged into shadow as she passed under the canvas. He felt drawn to her, unable to see her features now the shade encompassed her. He quickened his pace, wanting to be nearer. Thomas fell in step beside him.
“Edward must have trusted you a lot.”
“Why would you say that?” Benjamin asked in a distracted tone, glancing at Thomas.
“Of all his friends, you were the only person to ever meet her.”
“I would hardly ravish a ten-year-old,” Benjamin replied scornfully.
“Still, with all your less than honorable exploits, he made you her guardian,” Thomas pointed out.
“Yes, he did,” mused Benjamin, perturbed by the very fact.
They walked for several moments without speaking. Benjamin sensed Thomas wanted to ask a personal question. Benjamin held his tongue, tossing the yellow ball in the air as they climbed the gentle slope.
“And Miss Shirely?”
“Miss Shirely?”
“Is she to be my sister-in-law?” pressed Thomas. He snatched the ball out of the air with a jovial grin.
“I believe Miss Shirely and I are not well suited,” replied Benjamin, gesturing toward the canopy.
Miss Shirely remained seated under the tent, her right foot propped on a footstool. Gentlemen gathered around her like she was holding court, each one attempting to gain her favor. She smiled at each one, in turn, sharing her attention amongst all the young men.
“Mother will be so disappointed,” laughed Thomas.
“I am sure Mother would be more disappointed if I married Miss Shirely.”
“Then whom do you intend on marrying?” asked Thomas curiously. “With your terrible taste in women, I would like to approve of my sister-in-law before the wedding.”
Benjamin tersely replied, “I have other options.”
Thomas waited for clarification, however, Benjamin offered none. They continued the rest of the walk silently.
Samantha, the name whispered on the breeze ruffling Benjamin’s hair; the scent of honeysuckle strong in his nostrils. His eyes scanned the canopy again for Miss Hastings’ familiar face, his heart lightening when he caught sight of her, the glint of sunlight on a chestnut curl. Somehow, she had managed to plant herself on the outside edge of the canopy. A grin spread across his face. She looked rather miserable, trying to discreetly edge away from Mr. Charles Leveret II. Mrs. Hastings’ well-trained hand snaked out and gripped Miss Hastings’ nearby arm. He saw her wince; Mrs. Hastings’ biting fingers were made of iron.
Poor Miss Hastings, he thought with a wry smile, Mrs. Hastings would throw every available suitor into her path—Samantha was due for a long season as well.