Theo snorted and turned to speak with the duke and duchess, leaving the pair in a pocket of privacy once more.
Miss Tolliver leant back, thoughtful. “Next—billiards, I think. I have spent far too many evenings in the country not to profit by it.”
“Then I shall claim a foot race,” he replied easily. “A proper sprint.”
“Running, Mr Deverell?”
“You are not equal to the task?”
She gave him a look of mild pity. “My dear, I spent the better part of my childhood in the country, outrunning four sisters, an elder brother, and three spaniels. Not to mention my entire sojourn last Season escaping a succession of particularly vindictive geese. I assure you I shall manage perfectly well.”
Jasper took a measured sip of lemonade and regarded her over the rim of the glass, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. There was not the smallest chance she could outrun him.
“That brings us,” she said, with satisfaction, “to the final challenge. One more to crown the set.”
Jasper tilted his head, lips curving with languid amusement. “Indeed. What remains, I wonder? You have already challenged my skill on horseback, at sabres, cards, pistols, billiards, and on foot. What further humiliation do you propose?”
She appeared to consider the matter with great seriousness, then turned to face him fully. “Tell me, Mr Deverell… have you ever wrestled?”
He blinked. “Wrestled?”
Her smile was sweet as clotted cream. “Yes. That brutish display of masculine strength in which gentlemen strip down to their shirtsleeves and attempt to throw one another to the ground.”
He stared at her, half-laughing. “I—that is to say—yes, certainly. At school. And once at a very regrettable house party in Kent. But surely you do not mean—“
“I do,” she said brightly. “It seems only fitting. A final test of physical prowess. Entirely unrefined. Entirely inappropriate. And therefore, entirely perfect.”
His voice dropped. “And what, pray, would a lady know of wrestling?”
“I know enough,” she said. “And I am rather confident I could have you on your back in under a minute.”
He choked slightly. “Miss Tolliver. That may be the most indecent remark anyone has ever made to me in a public theatre.”
“Then I am vastly disappointed in your social circle.”
There was a long and terribly charged silence, during which their knees brushed and their eyes danced.
At last, Jasper lifted his glass once more. “Very well. Seven contests. Seven forfeits. And for the final trial… wrestling.”
“Privately, of course.”
“Naturally. It would be quite indecent to pin a lady to the floor before an audience.”
She leant nearer—closer than was strictly proper or wise—and said softly, “I do hope you mean to fight fairly. Though I must warn you, Mr Deverell… I never do.”
Chapter 11
There were, Charlotte Tolliver knew perfectly well, several things a lady ought never to do. She ought never to ride unchaperoned; she ought never to meet a gentleman unescorted; and she certainly ought not to do either of those things before dawn, clad in a riding habit cut altogether too snugly about the figure, and seated astride a spirited chestnut gelding. She was, therefore, in direct violation of Society’s expectations on no fewer than three counts, and the day had scarcely begun.
The air at Ashwick Park lay sharp upon the skin, touched with dew and the tang of woodsmoke drifting from distant cottages. It was the sort of hour that set the blood dancing in one’s veins—when all the world still belonged to men who rose early for sport, or to ladies sufficiently reckless to seize it for themselves.
Lottie adjusted her gloves and pressed her heels lightly to the horse’s flank, sending him along the narrow track. Her heart beat with a rhythm that felt suspiciously like delight.
She had informed no one of her intention to ride that morning—her sisters least of all, who possessed neither discretion nor the faintest respect for it. Still, Lottie entertained little doubt that, should Theo or the Duke of Morleigh discover she had ridden out nearly an hour beyond Town to meet Jasper Deverell—alone, before sunrise, no less—they would be moved to violence, despite the fact that Deverell was Theo’s closest friend. How fortunate, then, that neither gentleman resided at Tolliver House.
She rounded the final hedgerow and drew up her horse before the low rise that overlooked the south field.
Deverell sat astride a sleek black stallion, one hand resting lightly upon the pommel. He had neglected the civilising influence of a hat, and the early light had done him the disservice of rendering him picturesque. Indeed, he looked precisely like the sort of man for whom breathless young ladies wrote dreadful poetry.
