Page 11 of Hers By Summer’s End

“Miss Townsend?” Nancy cooed.

She nearly stumbled.

Good Lord. She’d been ogling him again.

Heat rushed into her cheeks, and she tore her eyes away so abruptly that bright spots danced across her vision. By the time they faded, she had reached the group. Miss Blount wore a knowing smirk. Cecelia ignored her.

“I beg your pardon?” she asked, grateful her voice didn’t emerge as a squeak.

“I asked if you would be willing to compete with Mr. Sutton.”

“At…croquet?” she asked weakly.

“No.” Nancy looked at her like she were a dunce. “I’m referring to the new game everyone has already agreed to play.”

For Pete’s sake. She'd fallen behind the others by scarcely two minutes. How had Nancy managed to organize an entirely new humiliation in so little time?

“I understand if you’re not up to it,” Drew said, a hint of amusement tugging at his mouth. “We can wait for the Cactus Dahlia Contest.”

She glared at him. Seemed like he wanted to face whatever nastiness Nancy had in store for him. She’d rather nap in a briar patch than play one of Nancy’s inventions but declining now would only convince everyone it was because of Drew. By suppertime, the gossip would have spread like unpotted peppermint. She’d be declared either too proud—or too cowardly, depending on who spilled the tale—to compete with him outside the garden.

“Waiting,” she said through gritted teeth, “would be intolerable.”

“Wonderful!” Nancy exclaimed.

Minutes later, Cecelia found herself seated across from Drew with a pasted smile on her face. The tea table between them was cleared save for two slates and two sticks of chalk. Nancy clapped her hands, and the guests clustered around the table quieted.

“My sister and I spent all week devising this game,” Nancy said, wagging a finger in a wide circle. “So you’d all better be good sports!”

“Of course,” Miss Harcourt said, bobbing her head up and down so hard her hat ribbon slipped loose.

“This,” Nancy continued, “is a game not of wits but of familiarity. It was inspired, of course, by the most famous rivals in town. I am of the opinion⁠—”

“As am I,” Miss Blount added.

“—that even the most bitter enemies often have more in common than they may think. Who knows? Perhaps there’s something more⁠—”

“Like love?” A woman Cecelia didn’t recognize asked, her gaze darting between Drew and herself. Cecelia resisted the urge to throw the chalk at her.

“Who is to say?” Nancy said airily, waving a hand. “But I suspect we shall discover before the day is done who among us holds a tendre for someone else.”

“But how do we play?” A thin, mustachioed man demanded. “How can I prove I do have⁠—”

“Mr. Corley, please,” Nancy trilled. “Do not reveal yourself before we begin!” The laughter grew. “Each participant will answer a list of questions about themselves in writing. Once the slates are collected, their partner must answer those same questions aloud. Every answer that matches earns a point.”

“How will you know the answers are correct?” Mr. Corley blurted.

Irritation flashed across Nancy’s face before she could hide it. “We spoke with friends, colleagues, and neighbors.”

“We’re well prepared,” Miss Blount assured everyone.

Cecelia’s toes began to tap under the table. So that was the game. A respectable excuse to pry into everyone's private affairs, then reward the best-informed gossip with points. She couldn’t imagine whom the sisters would have talked to in her life, let alone Drew’s. It all felt rather…invasive.

“Playing for points is rather boring,” Mr. Edgewood mused, missing entirely his wife’s swift glare. “A boxer as famous as Mr. Sutton plays for stakes, not points.”

Time to intervene. “There’s no need⁠—”

“Stakes, eh?” Drew interrupted, his head swiveling toward the host. “You’ve caught my attention.”