He took a sip of coffee, turned on his heel, and walked to the breakfast room before he heard anything else that would ruin his morning.
The afternoon brought a Pall Mall tournament on the south lawn.
Hugo had arranged it because Pall Mall required no particular skill, accommodated any number of players, and provided a leisurely, conversational environment that allowed guests to mingle freely without the rigid structure of a dinner or a ball. It also kept everyone outdoors and visible, which reduced the opportunities for the private conversations he had just spent the morning trying not to overhear.
The course wound through a series of iron hoops set into the grass between the rose garden and the lake, with a turning post at the far end and a return path that curved past the terrace where the non-players could observe from the shade. Mallets and balls had been laid out in a rainbow of colors on a tablenear the starting position, and a footman stood by with a tray of lemonade and champagne.
The guests assembled with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Sir Philip selected the largest mallet with the confidence of a man who believed that force compensated for accuracy.
Mrs. Thorne examined the hoops with the puzzled concentration of someone who had never played. Lord Ashton was already drinking champagne. Edward picked up a mallet with the quiet focus that meant he intended to win, and Sophia stood beside him and offered strategic advice that suggested she was the more competitive of the pair.
Lady Stapleton settled into a chair on the terrace with a glass of lemonade and an expression that conveyed her belief that physical activity was something other people did while she watched and drew conclusions. Miss Beatrice Stapleton, however, joined the players, selecting a pale blue ball and positioning herself near Lord Wilfrey with the seamless precision of a woman who had been taught to occupy strategic ground without appearing to try.
Wilfrey stood beside Lily.
Hugo watched them from across the lawn as he took his position at the starting line. Lily held her mallet with comfortable familiarity, and the emerald crepe she wore caught the afternoon light as she leaned down to place her ball. Wilfrey stood close, closer than he had at any point during the Season, his bodyangled toward hers, his words tumbling out with an eagerness he would never have permitted himself in a London ballroom.
Hugo could not hear the words. He did not need to. He could read the body language from fifty paces. Wilfrey’s posture was open, his shoulders angled toward Lily, his head inclined in a gesture of focused attention that Hugo recognized because he had taught Lily that exact technique three weeks ago. She was using it on Wilfrey, and now Wilfrey was unconsciously mirroring it back.
The tournament began. Hugo played with the distracted competence of a man whose mind was elsewhere, clearing the first three hoops with clean strokes while his attention tracked Lily and Wilfrey around the course. They walked together between turns, their conversation animated.
At some point, Hugo noticed Wilfrey’s hand hovering near the small of Lily’s back, but he withdrew it quickly. Thankfully, he wasn’t a total fool.
At the fourth hoop, Hugo’s ball struck Lily’s and knocked it off course. She looked up at him.
“Apologies, my betrothed.” He offered her a smile that was all charm and no apology. “The angle was unfortunate.”
“The angle was deliberate.”
“You wound me. I would never sabotage my own fiancée.”
“You would absolutely sabotage your own fiancée. You are competitive by nature and incapable of losing at anything.”
“That is a gross exaggeration. I lose at things constantly.” He paused. “I simply choose not to remember them.”
Her mouth twitched. She fought it, pressed her lips together, and lost. The smile broke through, quick and real and directed entirely at him, and for one second the rest of the lawn, the guests, the mallets, the carefully maintained fiction of their engagement, all of it fell away, and there was only Lily smiling at him in the afternoon sun with grass stains on her gloves and her green eyes bright with the particular warmth she reserved for moments when she forgot to guard herself.
Wilfrey appeared at Lily’s elbow.
“Shall I help you reposition your ball, Lady Lily? The angle from here is tricky, but if you aim for the inside edge of the hoop, the curve of the ground will carry it through.”
Hugo’s smile did not waver. He stepped forward and placed his hand on the small of Lily’s back, the gesture easy, possessive, and perfectly calibrated to remind every person on this lawn that she was his.
“Excellent advice, Wilfrey. My betrothed is fortunate to have such attentive friends.” He looked down at Lily. “But I suspect she can manage the angle on her own. She has a remarkable eye.”
Lily sent him a look that carried an entire conversation in a single glance.
What are you doing? Stop it. You are being territorial, and it is transparent.
Hugo received the look and responded with a slight widening of his smile that communicated, with equal clarity:
I know. I do not care.
She turned back to her ball and struck it with a clean, precise swing that sent it sailing through the hoop and halfway to the next one.
Wilfrey made a sound of admiration. Hugo felt a spike of pride so fierce it bordered on absurd, because Lily did not need help with angles, and watching her prove it in front of the man who had offered to assist gave him more satisfaction than any bullseye ever had.
The tournament continued. Hugo played well enough to stay competitive without dominating, a restraint that cost him more than he would have admitted. His attention kept drifting to Lily and Wilfrey, who had resumed their conversation between turns as though the rest of the lawn did not exist.
