The Bridgertons Happily Ever After (6 page)

“I am your wife,” she said, glancing at her fingernails. “There should be no secrets between us, don’t you think?”

“You made a key?”

“You wouldn’t wish for me to keep secrets, would you?”

His fingers gripped the door frame until his knuckles turned white. “Stop looking like you’re enjoying this,” he ground out.

“Ah, but that would be a lie, and it’s a sin to lie to one’s husband.”

Strange choking sounds began to emanate from his throat.

Kate smiled. “Didn’t I pledge honesty at some point?”

“That was
obedience
,” he growled.

“Obedience? Surely not.”

“Where is it?”

She shrugged. “Not telling.”

“Kate!”

She slid into a singsong. “Not
tellllllllling
.”

“Woman . . .” He moved forward. Dangerously.

Kate swallowed. There was a small, rather tiny actually but nonetheless very real chance that she might have gone just a wee bit too far.

“I will tie you to the bed,” he warned.

“Yeeeessss,” she said, acknowledging his point as she gauged the distance to the door. “But I might not
mind
it precisely.”

His eyes flared, not quite with desire—he was still too focused on the Pall Mall mallet for that—but she rather thought she saw a flash of . . .
interest
there.

“Tie you up, you say,” he murmured, moving forward, “and you’d like it, eh?”

Kate caught his meaning and gasped. “You wouldn’t!”

“Oh, I would.”

He was aiming for a repeat performance. He was going to tie her up and
leave
her there while he searched for the mallet.

Not if she had anything to say about it.

Kate scrambled over the arm of her chair and then scooted behind it. Always good to have a physical barrier in situations like these.

“Oh, Kaaaaate,” he taunted, moving toward her.

“It’s mine,” she declared. “It was mine fifteen years ago, and it’s still mine.”

“It was mine before it was yours.”

“But you married me!”

“And this makes it yours?”

She said nothing, just locked her eyes with his. She was breathless, panting, caught up in the rush of the moment.

And then, fast as lightning, he jumped forward, reaching over the chair, catching hold of her shoulder for a brief moment before she squirmed away.

“You will never find it,” she practically shrieked, scooting behind the sofa.

“Don’t think you’ll escape now,” he warned, doing a sideways sort of maneuver that put him between her and the door.

She eyed the window.

“The fall would kill you,” he said.

“Oh, for the love of God,” came a voice from the doorway.

Kate and Anthony turned. Anthony’s brother Colin was standing there, regarding them both with an air of disgust.

“Colin,” Anthony said tightly. “How nice to see you.”

Colin merely quirked a brow. “I suppose you’re looking for
this
.”

Kate gasped. He was holding the black mallet. “How did you—”

Colin stroked the blunt, cylindrical end almost lovingly. “I can only speak for myself, of course,” he said with a happy sigh, “but as far as I’m concerned, I’ve already won.”

Game day

“I fail to comprehend,” Anthony’s sister Daphne remarked, “why you get to set up the course.”

“Because I bloody well own the lawn,” he bit off. He held his hand up to shield his eyes from the sun as he inspected his work. He’d done a brilliant job this time, if he did say so himself. It was diabolical.

Pure genius.

“Any chance you might be capable of refraining from profanity in the company of ladies?” This, from Daphne’s husband, Simon, the Duke of Hastings.

“She’s no lady,” Anthony grumbled. “She’s my sister.”

“She’s
my
wife.”

Anthony smirked. “She was my sister first.”

Simon turned to Kate, who was tapping her mallet—green, which she’d declared herself happy with, but Anthony knew better—against the grass.

“How,” he asked, “do you tolerate him?”

She shrugged. “It’s a talent few possess.”

Colin stepped up, clutching the black mallet like the Holy Grail. “Shall we begin?” he asked grandly.

Simon’s lips parted with surprise. “The mallet of death?”

“I’m very clever,” Colin confirmed.

“He bribed the housemaid,” Kate grumbled.

“You bribed my valet,” Anthony pointed out.

“So did you!”

“I bribed no one,” Simon said, to no one in particular.

Daphne patted his arm condescendingly. “You were not born to this family.”

“Neither was she,” he returned, motioning to Kate.

Daphne pondered that. “She is an aberration,” she finally concluded.

“An aberration?” Kate demanded.

“It’s the highest of compliments,” Daphne informed her. She paused, then added, “In this context.” She then turned to Colin. “How much?”

“How much what?”

“How much did you give the housemaid?”

He shrugged. “Ten pounds.”

“Ten
pounds
?” Daphne nearly shrieked.

“Are you mad?” Anthony demanded.

“You gave the valet five,” Kate reminded him.

“I hope it wasn’t one of the
good
housemaids,” Anthony grumbled, “for she’ll surely quit by the day’s end with that sort of money in her pocket.”

“All of the housemaids are good,” Kate said, with some irritation.

“Ten pounds,” Daphne repeated, shaking her head. “I’m going to tell your wife.”

“Go ahead,” Colin said indifferently as he nodded toward the hill sloping down to the Pall Mall course. “She’s right there.”

Daphne looked up. “Penelope’s here?”

“Penelope’s here?” Anthony barked. “Why?”

“She’s my wife,” Colin returned.

“She’s never attended before.”

“She wanted to see me win,” Colin shot back, rewarding his brother with a sickly stretch of a smile.

Anthony resisted the urge to throttle him. Barely. “And how do you know you’re going to win?”

Colin waved the black mallet before him. “I already have.”

“Good day, all,” Penelope said, ambling down to the gathering.

“No cheering,” Anthony warned her.

Penelope blinked in confusion. “I beg your pardon?”

“And under no circumstances,” he continued, because really, someone had to make sure the game retained some integrity, “may you come within ten paces of your husband.”

Penelope looked at Colin, bobbed her head nine times as she estimated the steps between them, and took a step back.

“There will be no cheating,” Anthony warned.

“At least no
new
types of cheating,” Simon added. “Previously established cheating techniques are permissible.”

“May I speak with my husband during the course of play?” Penelope inquired mildly.

“No!” A resounding chorus, three voices strong.

“You’ll notice,” Simon said to her, “that I made no objection.”

“As I said,” Daphne said, brushing by him on her way to inspect a wicket, “you were not born of this family.”

“Where is Edwina?” Colin asked briskly, squinting up toward the house.

“She’ll be down shortly,” Kate replied. “She was finishing breakfast.”

“She is delaying the play.”

Kate turned to Daphne. “My sister does not share our devotion to the game.”

“She thinks we’re all mad?” Daphne asked.

“Quite.”

“Well, she is sweet to come down every year,” Daphne said.

“It’s tradition,” Anthony barked. He’d managed to get hold of the orange mallet and was swinging it against an imaginary ball, narrowing his eyes as he rehearsed his aim.

“He hasn’t been practicing the course, has he?” Colin demanded.

“How could he?” Simon asked. “He only just set it up this morning. We all watched him.”

Colin ignored him and turned to Kate. “Has he made any strange nocturnal disappearances recently?”

She gaped at him. “You think he’s been sneaking out to play Pall Mall by the light of the moon?”

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Colin grumbled.

“Neither would I,” Kate replied, “but I assure you, he has been sleeping in his own bed.”

“It’s not a matter of
beds
,” Colin informed her. “It’s a matter of competition.”

“This can’t be an appropriate conversation in front of a lady,” Simon said, but it was clear he was enjoying himself.

Anthony shot Colin an irritated look, then sent one in Simon’s direction for good measure. The conversation was growing ludicrous, and it was well past time they began the match. “Where
is
Edwina?” he demanded.

“I see her coming down the hill,” Kate replied.

He looked up to see Edwina Bagwell, Kate’s younger sister, trudging down the slope. She’d never been much for outdoor pursuits, and he could well imagine her sighing and rolling her eyes.

“Pink for me this year,” Daphne declared, plucking one of the remaining mallets from the stack. “I am feeling feminine and delicate.” She gave her brothers an arch look. “Deceptively so.”

Simon reached behind her and selected the yellow mallet. “Blue for Edwina, of course.”

“Edwina always gets blue,” Kate said to Penelope.

“Why?”

Kate paused. “I don’t know.”

“What about purple?” Penelope asked.

“Oh, we never use
that
.”

“Why?”

Kate paused again. “I don’t know.”

“Tradition,” Anthony put in.

“Then why do the rest of you switch colors every year?” Penelope persisted.

Anthony turned to his brother. “Does she always ask so many questions?”

“Always.”

He turned back to Penelope and said, “We like it this way.”

“I’m here!” Edwina called out cheerfully as she approached the rest of the players. “Oh, blue again. How thoughtful.” She picked up her equipment, then turned to Anthony. “Shall we play?”

He gave a nod, then turned to Simon. “You’re first, Hastings.”

“As always,” he murmured, and he dropped his ball into the starting position. “Stand back,” he warned, even though no one was within swinging distance. He drew his mallet back and then brought it forward with a magnificent crack. The ball went sailing across the lawn, straight and true, landing mere yards from the next wicket.

“Oh, well-done!” Penelope cheered, clapping her hands.

“I said no cheering,” Anthony grumbled. Couldn’t anyone follow instructions these days?

“Even for Simon?” Penelope returned. “I thought it was just Colin.”

Anthony set his ball down carefully. “It’s distracting.”

“As if the rest of us aren’t distracting,” Colin commented. “Cheer away, darling.”

But she held silent as Anthony took aim. His swing was even more powerful than the duke’s, and his ball rolled even farther.

“Hmmm, bad luck there,” Kate said.

Anthony turned on her suspiciously. “What do you mean? It was a brilliant swing.”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Out of my way,” Colin ordered, marching to the starting position.

Anthony locked eyes with his wife. “What do you
mean
?”

“Nothing,” she said offhandedly, “just that it’s a trifle muddy right there.”

“Muddy?” Anthony looked toward his ball, then back to his wife, then back to the ball. “It hasn’t rained for days.”

“Hmmm, no.”

He looked back to his wife. His maddening, diabolical, and soon-to-be-locked-in-a-dungeon wife. “How did it get muddy?”

“Well, perhaps not
muddy
. . .”

“Not muddy,” he repeated, with far more patience than she deserved.

“Puddle-ish might be more appropriate.”

Words failed him.

“Puddly?” She scrunched her face a touch. “How does one make an adjective out of a puddle?”

He took a step in her direction. She darted behind Daphne.

“What is happening?” Daphne asked, twisting about.

Kate poked her head out and smiled triumphantly. “I do believe he’s going to kill me.”

“With so many witnesses?” Simon asked.

“How,” Anthony demanded, “did a puddle form in the midst of the driest spring of my recollection?”

Kate shot him another one of her annoying grins. “I spilled my tea.”

“An entire puddle’s worth?”

She shrugged. “I was cold.”

“Cold.”

“And thirsty.”

“And apparently clumsy, as well,” Simon put in.

Anthony glared at him.

“Well, if you are going to kill her,” Simon said, “would you mind waiting until my wife is out from between you?” He turned to Kate. “How did you know where to put the puddle?”

“He’s very predictable,” she replied.

Anthony stretched out his fingers and measured her throat.

“Every year,” she said, smiling straight at him. “You always put the first wicket in the same place, and you always hit the ball precisely the same way.”

Colin chose that moment to return. “Your play, Kate.”

She darted out from behind Daphne and scooted toward the starting pole. “All’s fair, dear husband,” she called out gaily. And then she bent forward, aimed, and sent the green ball flying.

Straight into the puddle.

Anthony sighed happily. There was justice in this world, after all.

Thirty minutes later Kate was waiting by her ball near the third wicket.

“Pity about the mud,” Colin said, strolling past.

She glared at him.

Daphne passed by a moment later. “You’ve a bit in . . .” She motioned to her hair. “Yes, there,” she added, when Kate brushed furiously against her temple. “Although there is a bit more, well . . .” She cleared her throat. “Er, everywhere.”

Kate glared at her.

Simon stepped up to join them. Good God, did everyone need to pass by the third wicket on their way to the sixth?

“You’ve a bit of mud,” he said helpfully.

Kate’s fingers wrapped more tightly around her mallet. His head was so very, very close.

“But at least it’s mixed with tea,” he added.

“What has that to do with anything?” Daphne asked.

“I’m not certain,” Kate heard him say as he and Daphne took their leave toward wicket number five, “but it seemed as if I ought to say
some
thing.”