Page 128 of Courting the Wrong Duke

She laughed when William nearly collided with his mother. She protested when Lady Whitcombe accused her of an illegal strike and demanded to know precisely where such laws governing battledore and shuttlecock had been written.

When William solemnly offered to compose them himself, she informed him that his literary endeavor would pale in comparison to her own manual.

Even William seemed lighter.

She had seen him exhausted that morning, shaken by truths he had never asked to learn. Now his hair had fallen slightly out of place, his coat had been abandoned over the back of a garden chair, and he was laughing while his mother accused him of cheating.

Rosalind watched him for a moment longer than she should have.

Peach-gold.

The thought arrived without permission, and she quickly looked away.

Unfortunately, her gaze landed upon Lady Sophronia. The other woman was watching William too.

Rosalind struck the shuttlecock rather harder than necessary and it sailed directly over the hedge.

Silence fell across the lawn before William’s laughter broke it.

Rosalind lowered her battledore and fixed him with a warning look. “Not one word.”

“I said nothing.”

“You were about to.”

“I would never.”

The brightness in his eyes suggested otherwise, and Rosalind tried very hard to remain annoyed with him.

She failed.

Her laughter joined his, and something inside her seemed to loosen with it. For weeks, every moment of happiness had been interrupted by guilt or worry, as though enjoying anything while her father remained missing was somehow a betrayal of him.

Yet standing in the sunshine with William laughing beside her, his mother arguing cheerfully with Lady Whitcombe over whether the shuttlecock had crossed an imaginary boundary, Rosalind forgot to feel guilty.

She knew the reprieve could not last. Nelly was still waiting near the edge of the garden, and there were questions Rosalind would have to return to soon enough.

For now, however, she allowed herself this.

Another serve. Another ridiculous argument over a point. William grinning at her from across the lawn as though he had already decided precisely how to make her miss the next shot.

For the first time in longer than Rosalind could remember, she did not have to convince herself to be happy.

She simply was.

They continued until the afternoon heat finally drove Rosalind toward the shade. By then her cheeks were flushed, several strands of hair had escaped near her temples, and she could feel the warmth of the sun lingering beneath the collar of her dress.

She surrendered her battledore to Lady Whitcombe and crossed toward the refreshment table beneath the trees, where she poured herself a glass of lemonade and took a grateful sip.

She had barely lowered it when Nelly appeared beside her.

“My lady.”

The gravity in her maid’s voice stripped away the pleasant haze of the afternoon almost at once.

She looked toward the lawn. William was still with his mother, listening while the dowager apparently explained precisely where he had violated one of her newly invented rules.

Rosalind moved farther beneath the shade. “What is it?”