James thought of the boat tipping, the cold, the shock.Of Esme's voice saying, Thank you.For holding on."I blame Miss Moreland's biscuits," he said."And your wife’s enthusiasm for willow trees."
Magnus's mouth quirked."You deflect badly."
"You are becoming sentimental," James said."Alexandra is a terrible influence."
"Possibly," Magnus said."She seems to think there is hope for you."
James chuckled.
Magnus straightened."James."
He glanced up.
"Be honest with yourself, James.Is this only mischief?"
James opened his mouth, but did not speak.
He pictured Esme wrapped in a blanket, wet hair clinging to her cheeks, eyes bright even through the shock.The lightness he had felt when she stood in the water and accused him with more amusement than anger.The way his name had sounded when she thanked him.
He set the glass down.
"No," he said.
Magnus nodded."Then you have decisions to make."
"I despise decisions," James said.
"Then they will be made for you," Magnus replied."By the dowager Viscountess.By Woodmere.By the Season.By someone who cares more for neat columns than for your heart."
James did not look away."Esme," he said slowly, "deserves better than to be a column."
"Then act like you believe that," Magnus said."And do not let 'the ducks did it' be your only defense."
James laughed."You ruin all my best lines."
Magnus moved to the door, then paused."Alexandra says there will be a small gathering at Foxmere's in a fortnight.Gardens, battledore, lemonade.Lady Woodmere and Esme will receive invitations."
"Of course," James muttered.
“I have it on good authority you will also be invited.”Magnus moved to the sideboard.
James looked out at the April sky.
"I expect," he said, "that the Mutual Mischief Society will require a quorum."
Magnus shook his head."At some point you will have to stop calling it mischief and admit what it is."
James took a slow drink.
"One catastrophe at a time, my dear Langley," he said."Today, ducks.Tomorrow, wife-stealing lemonade.We shall see what the Foxmere gardens bring."
When he was alone again, he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.
Somewhere in Grosvenor Square, Lady Esme was likely standing in front of a fire, wrapped in blankets, listening to her mother lament ruined gowns and lost prospects.
He hoped she would remember the feel of cold water, the absurdity of ducks, and the fact that she had laughed.And most of all, that a thoroughly disreputable man had held on and not let go.
The Mutual Mischief Society, he thought, had never seemed less harmless.
