The Duke and I

by Julia Quinn

  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 something.”

  Kate counted to ten in her head, and then sure enough, Edwina happened across her, Penelope trailing three steps behind. The pair had become something of a team, with Edwina doing all the swinging and Penelope consulting on strategy.

  “Oh, Kate,” Edwina said with a pitying sigh.

  “Don’t say it,” Kate growled.

  “You did make the puddle,” Edwina pointed out.

  “Whose sister are you?” Kate demanded.

  Edwina gave her an arch smile. “Sisterly devotion does not obscure my sense of fair play.”

  “This is Pall Mall. There is no fair play.”

  “Apparently not,” Penelope remarked.

  “Ten paces,” Kate warned.

  “From Colin, not from you,” Penelope returned. “Although I do believe I shall remain at least a mallet’s length away at all times.”

  “Shall we go?” Edwina inquired. She turned to Kate. “We just finished with the fourth wicket.”

  “And you needed to take the long way ’round?” Kate muttered.

  “It seemed only sporting to pay you a visit,” Edwina demurred.

  She and Penelope turned to walk away, and then Kate blurted it out. She couldn’t
help herself:

  “Where is Anthony?”

  Edwina and Penelope turned. “Do you really want to know?” Penelope asked.

  Kate forced herself to nod.

  “On the last wicket, I’m afraid,” Penelope replied.

  “Before or after?” Kate ground out.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Is he before the wicket or after it?” she repeated impatiently. And then, when Penelope did not answer instantly she added, “Has he gone through the bloody thing yet?”

  Penelope blinked with surprise. “Er, no. He has about two more strokes, I should think. Perhaps three.”

  Kate watched them depart through narrowed eyes. She wasn’t going to win—there was no chance of that now. But if she couldn’t win, then by God, neither would Anthony. He deserved no glory this day, not after tripping her and sending her tumbling into the mud puddle.

  Oh, he’d claimed it was an accident, but Kate found it highly suspicious that his ball had gone spluttering out of the puddle at the exact moment she’d stepped forward to reach her own ball. She’d had to do a little hop to avoid it and was congratulating herself on her near miss when Anthony had swung around with a patently false “I say, are you all right?”

  His mallet had swung with him, conveniently at ankle level. Kate had not been able to outhop that one, and she’d gone flying into the mud.

  Face down.

  And then Anthony had had the gall to offer her a handkerchief.

  She was going to kill him.

  Kill.

  Kill kill kill.

  But first she was going to make sure he didn’t win.

  Anthony was smiling broadly—whistling, even—as he waited his turn. It was taking a ridiculously long amount of time to get back ’round to him, what with Kate so far behind that someone had to dash back to let her know when it was her turn, not to mention Edwina, who never seemed to understand the virtue of speedy play. It had been bad enough the last fourteen years, with her ambling along as if she had all day, but now she had Penelope, who would not allow her to hit the ball without her analysis and advice.

  But for once, Anthony didn’t mind. He was in the lead, so far so that no one could possibly catch up. And just to make his victory all the sweeter, Kate was in last place.

  So far so that she could not hope to overtake anyone.

  It almost made up for the fact that Colin had snatched the mallet of death.

  He turned toward the last wicket. He needed one stroke to get his ball at the ready, and one more to push it through. After that, he needed only to steer it to the final pole and end the game with a tap.

  Child’s play.

  He glanced back over his shoulder. He could see Daphne standing by the old oak tree. She was at the crest of a hill, and thus could see down where he could not.

  “Whose turn is it?” he called out.

  She craned her neck as she watched the others playing down the hill. “Colin’s, I believe,” she said, twisting back around, “which means Kate is next.”

  He smiled at that.

  He’d set the course up a little differently this year, in something of a circular fashion. The players had to follow a twisting pattern, which meant that as the crow flew, he was actually closer to Kate than he was to the others. In fact, he need only move about ten yards to the south, and he’d be able to watch her as she pushed on toward the fourth wicket.

  Or was it merely the third?

  Either way, he wasn’t going to miss it.

  So, with a grin on his face, he jogged over. Should he call out? It would irritate her more if he called out.

  But that would be cruel. And on the other hand—

  CRACK!

  Anthony looked up from his ponderings just in time to see the green ball hurtling in his direction.

  What the devil?

  Kate let out a triumphant cackle, picked up her skirts, and began running over.

  “What in God’s name are you doing?” Anthony demanded. “The fourth wicket is that way.” He jabbed his finger in the appropriate direction even though he knew she knew where it was.

  “I’m only on the third wicket,” she said archly, “and anyway, I’ve given up on winning. It’s hopeless at this point, don’t you think?”

  Anthony looked at her, then he looked at his ball, resting peacefully near the last wicket.

  Then he looked at her again.

  “Oh no you don’t,” he growled.

  She smiled slowly.

  Deviously.

  Like a witch.

  “Watch me,” she said.

  Just then Colin came dashing over the rise. “Your turn, Anthony!”

  “How is that possible?” he demanded. “Kate just went, so there is Daphne, Edwina, and Simon between.”

  “We went very quickly,” Simon said, striding forward. “We certainly don’t want to miss this.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” he muttered, watching as the rest of them hurried near. He stalked over to his ball, narrowing his eyes as he prepared his aim.

  “Be careful of the tree root!” Penelope called out.

  Anthony grit his teeth.

  “It wasn’t cheering,” she said, her face magnificently bland. “Surely a warning doesn’t qualify as cheer—”

  “Shut up,” Anthony ground out.

  “We all have our place in this game,” she said, lips twitching.

  Anthony turned around. “Colin!” he barked. “If you don’t wish to find yourself a widower, kindly muzzle your wife.”

  Colin walked over to Penelope. “I love you,” he said, kissing her on the cheek.

  “And I—”

  “Stop it!” Anthony exploded. When all eyes turned to him, he added, rather in a grunt, “I’m trying to concentrate.”

  Kate danced in a little closer.

  “Get away from me, woman.”

  “I just want to see,” she said. “I’ve hardly had the chance to see anything this game, being so far behind the entire time.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “I might be responsible for the mud, and please note my emphasis on the word might, which does not imply any sort of confirmation on my part.”

  He paused, quite pointedly ignoring the rest of the gathering, all of whom were gaping at him.

  “However,” he continued, “I fail to see how your position in last place is my responsibility.”

  “The mud made my hands slippery,” she ground out. “I could not properly grip the mallet.”

  Off to the side, Colin winced. “Weak, I’m afraid, Kate. I’ll have to grant this point to Anthony, much as it pains me.”

  “Fine,” she said, after tossing Colin a withering glare. “It’s no one’s fault but my own. However.”

  And then she said nothing.

  “Er, however what?” Edwina finally inquired.

  Kate could have been a queen with her scepter as she stood there, all covered with mud. “However,” she continued regally, “I don’t have to like it. And this being Pall Mall, and we being Bridgertons, I don’t have to play fair.”

  Anthony shook his head and bent back down to make his aim.

  “She has a point this time,” Colin said, irritating sod that he was. “Good sportsmanship has never been valued highly in this game.”

  “Be quiet,” Anthony grunted.

  “In fact,” Colin continued, “one could make the argument that—”

  “I said be quiet.”

  “—the opposite is true, and that bad sportsmanship—”

  “Shut up, Colin.”

  “—is in fact to be lauded, and—”

  Anthony decided to give up and take a swing. At this rate they’d be standing there until Michaelmas. Colin was never to going stop talking, not when he thought he had a chance of irritating his brother.

  Anthony forced himself to hear nothing but the wind. Or at least he tried.

  He aimed.

  He drew back.

  Crack!

  Not too hard, not too h
ard.

  The ball rolled forward, unfortunately not quite far enough. He was not going to make it through the last wicket on his next try. At least not without intervention divine enough to send his ball around a fist-sized stone.

  “Colin, you’re next,” Daphne said, but he was already dashing back to his ball. He gave it a haphazard tap, then yelled out, “Kate!”

  She stepped forward, blinking as she assessed the lay of the land. Her ball was about a foot away from his. The stone, however, was on the other side, meaning that if she attempted to sabotage him, she couldn’t send him very far—surely the stone would stop the ball.

  “An interesting dilemma,” Anthony murmured.

  Kate circled around the balls. “It would be a romantic gesture,” she mused, “if I allowed you to win.”

  “Oh, it’s not a question of your allowing,” he taunted.

  “Wrong answer,” she said, and she aimed.

  Anthony narrowed his eyes. What was she doing?

  Kate hit the ball with a fair bit of force, aiming not squarely at his ball but at the left side. Her ball slammed into his, sending it spiraling off to the right. Because of the angle, she couldn’t send it as far as she might have with a direct shot, but she did manage to get it right to the top of the hill.

  Right to the top.

  Right to the top.

  And then down it.

  Kate let out a whoop of delight that would not have been out of place on a battlefield.

  “You’ll pay,” Anthony said.

  She was too busy jumping up and down to pay him any attention.

  “Who do you suppose will win now?” Penelope asked.

  “Do you know,” Anthony said quietly, “I don’t care.” And then he walked over to the green ball and took aim.

  “Hold up, it’s not your turn!” Edwina called out.

  “And it’s not your ball,” Penelope added.

  “Is that so?” he murmured, and then let fly, smashing his mallet into Kate’s ball and sending it hurtling across the lawn, down the shallower slope, and into the lake.

  Kate let out a huff of outrage. “That wasn’t very sporting of you!”

  He gave her a maddening grin. “All’s fair and all that, wife.”

  “You will fish it out,” she retorted.

  “You’re the one who needs a bath.”

  Daphne let out a chuckle, and then said, “I think it must be my turn. Shall we continue?”