Page 10 of Hers By Summer’s End

28 days until Cactus Dahlia Day

“Miss Townsend, did you hear me?”

Cecelia started, her spoon clattering against the cut-crystal dessert bowl. A dollop of apricot tart threw itself over the outer rim, but she caught it before it could stain the linen-and-lace tablecloth.

“I’m afraid not.” She blotted her fingertip on the embroidered napkin in her lap, then offered the three women seated with her a cheerful smile. “Serves me right for being distracted by the croquet game.”

Mrs. Nancy Edgewood’s smile was as frozen and insincere as that of a porcelain doll. Cecelia stifled a sigh. Things hadn’t changed much over the years. If anything, Nancy had become even more tyrannical, directing Cecelia where to sit, what to eat, and which activities to play. The only reason Cecelia hadn’t yet invented a toothache and fled the scene was that she’d mercilessly jockeyed Drew into attendance.

And he seemed to be having the time of his life.

Her gaze—such an insubordinate, stubborn thing—once more drifted across the lawn, latching onto Drew with a gluttonous curiosity. He looked good. Annoyingly so. Who knew a blue cheviot coat and crisp white duck trousers straight out of the display window at Carlisle’s Department Store could have such an impact on her lower extremities?

Apparently, a well-tailored summer suit also inflated a man's natural showmanship into a menace. Drew had transformed Mrs. Edgewood’s simple game of mallet-hits-ball-through-hoop into an exercise in complexity. Extra wickets had appeared, hazards had been introduced, and the guests—including Mr. Edgewood—were now clustered around the lawn, arguing over rules hastily scrawled across Nancy’s pretty menus.

“He’s ruining my plans.”

Cecelia glanced at Nancy under the brim of her wide-brimmed straw hat. Her hostess’s porcelain doll smile was now a pinched glower. Concerning, that.

“I’m certain Mr. Sutton doesn’t mean to upset you,” she said at once. Why she felt the need to defend him, she didn’t know. But she did it, nonetheless.

“I should hope not,” Nancy said through thin lips.

“He’s rather uncouth,” Miss Gertrude Blount added, fussing with her embroidered cuff.

Cecelia eyed the younger woman. She and Nancy might have been twins, despite the years between them—identically pristine in white, identically puckered with disapproval. If one sister had been raised to wrinkle her nose at the world, the other had clearly taken careful notes. Pity for Gertrude. Cecelia had no qualms about challenging her.

“More uncouth than the guests eager to follow his commands?” she asked sweetly. “Isn’t that your fiancé tottering after him like a puppy?”

Miss Blount flushed an alarming shade of splotchy red. Miss Harcourt, a sweet thing who had barely spoken two words the whole afternoon, looked fluttery and uncomfortable and liable to faint. And Nancy…well, that was odd. Nancy ignored the tension entirely, her gaze fixed on the croquet game behind them.

Fixed on one unsuspecting boxer.

“I believe it’s time for a new game,” she announced, her tone once more serene. “Follow me, ladies.”

The three women rose in a rustle of sheer batiste and Valenciennes lace. Cecelia lingered just long enough to grimace. What had happened to the typical—and vastly preferred—dull garden party arrangements of drink tea, make insipid conversation, escape unscathed?

She really should have known better.

She’d been cast in enough of the Nancy’s little entertainments over the years to recognize the warning signs. The smile, the eager audience, the insistence that it was all in good fun. Drew was about to discover that Nancy’s idea of a game was rarely entertaining for the person being played.

The least she could do was provide a friendly face in the crowd—one slightly concerned, mostly impartial, and definitely-not-invested friendly face

She crossed the lawn at a slower pace, carefully sidestepping a mess of wobbly wickets and vibrantly painted balls. God forbid she slip and injure her newly healed ankle, although sidelining herself before witnesses was vastly preferable to doing so in a churchyard after everyone had gone home. Glaring at a hazard that far too resembled a headstone, she picked her way forward, following the sound of Nancy’s effusive voice. At last safe from imminent maiming, she sought out her hostess.

Instead, she found Drew.

He stood only a few paces away, near the final wicket. Bookended by Nancy’s chattering husband and Miss Blount’s fawning fiancé, he looked every inch the sought-after guest. Against his robust frame, the other gentlemen appeared positively scrawny. Their pale complexions only emphasized the healthy bronze of his skin. Even his crooked nose was somehow the superior specimen.

She realized, belatedly, that all three men were nodding at Nancy.

Oh no.

She was too late.

Drew’s gaze met hers, and the easy swagger he’d worn all afternoon vanished. His nostrils flared as though he'd caught an unexpected scent. His eyes darkened, fixing on her with an intensity that made the chatter and laughter around them fade.

Her heartbeat kicked. Her knees went to jelly. Every nerve seemed to wake at once, leaving her absurdly aware of how little space remained between them—and of how easily it could be crossed.