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Victor released him and stood, offering a hand to his defeated opponent. “Your tactics remain as dishonorable as ever.”

“And yet somehow still ineffective against you,” Nathaniel conceded, accepting the assistance with a rueful grin. He brushed the grass from his clothes with exaggerated care. “Next time, I shall have to resort to discussing her eyes. I’ve heard they’re quite remarkably?—”

“Your Grace! My Lord!” a voice called urgently across the garden. The manor’s harried-looking housekeeper hurried toward them, her apron fluttering with each quick step. “Forgive the interruption, My Lord, but there’s a matter requiring your immediate attention regarding tomorrow’s ball!”

Nathaniel smoothed back his disheveled hair. “What catastrophe has befallen us now, Mrs. Hammond? Has the orchestra fallen ill with collective consumption? Have the flowers wilted in protest of our color scheme?”

“The French chef is threatening to leave, My Lord,” Mrs. Hammond replied, wringing her hands. “He insists that the wine selection is an insult to his menu and will not be associated with such—forgive me for repeating his words—‘barbaric English palates.’”

“Good heavens,” Nathaniel sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose with his index finger and thumb. “Tell him I have ordered three cases of that Bordeaux he was rhapsodizing about last week. They’re in the east cellar, behind the port. And remind him that his contract stipulates a full season, not merely when culinaryconditionsplease him.”

The housekeeper’s relief was palpable. “Yes, My Lord. Thank you, My Lord.” She bobbed a curtsy and hurried back toward the house.

Victor reached for his discarded coat, shaking his head. “This is precisely why I avoid these spectacles. Temperamental chefs, gossiping matrons, debutantes with matrimonial aspirations…”

“And yet attend you shall,” Nathaniel declared, clapping him on the shoulder. “Unless you wish me to relocate the entire affair to Westmere Hall? I am certain your staff would appreciate the challenge of accommodating two hundred guests with only a day’s notice.”

Victor’s expression darkened. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, but I absolutely would,” Nathaniel replied cheerfully. “Besides, Lady Cuthbert has already accepted the invitation. Surely that is sufficient incentive for you to attend?”

Victor’s hand shot out, grabbing Nathaniel by his cravat, his eyes cold as ice. “Another word about Lady Cuthbert and you’ll find yourself back on the ground, eating dirt.”

Nathaniel laughed, entirely unfazed by the threat.

Many others would be cowering by now, but then again, Nathaniel had seen just as much horror as Victor had. Little threats like these would most definitely not ruffle the Marquess.

“Come now, there’s no shame in enjoying certain aspects of life again. Particularly when those aspects include a lovely woman with both intelligence and beauty.”

Victor released him with a sound of disgust. “You’ve been reading too many of those ridiculous novels your sisters hide in the library.”

“And you’ve been scowling at the world for far too long,” Nathaniel countered, straightening his cravat. “It wouldn’t kill you to dance once or twice tomorrow night. Preferably with the aforementioned widow rather than old Lady Hartwell, who still steps on toes despite her forty years of London Seasons.”

Victor turned away, brushing dirt from his sleeves with more attention than necessary. He would not admit—least of all to blasted Nathaniel—how often his thoughts had drifted to Lady Cuthbert as of late.

The precise shade of her brown hair in sunlight. The resolute set of her chin when she disagreed with him—which, if he was being honest, happened very often. The surprising softness of her lips against his that day by the lake.

Damn it.

“I’ll attend your infernal ball,” he conceded gruffly. “But I make no promises about dancing.”

“Ah, splendid!” Nathaniel declared, his victory clearly sweeter than any wrestling match could provide. “Eight o’clock sharp. And do wear something besides black for once. You look like an undertaker on perpetual business.”

Victor scowled but said nothing, his mind already wandering to tomorrow evening.

Would she wear blue again? The color suited her complexion admirably. Or perhaps a color to complement her eyes? Not that he had noticed the exact shade of her eyes, of course. Certainly not how they flashed with indignation when he challenged her or softened when she watched her son.

“You’re thinking about her again—I can see it,” Nathaniel observed with a maddening accuracy that always threatened to drive Victor to rage. “Your face does this peculiar thing where it appears almost human.”

“I am contemplating how satisfying it would be to toss you into that ornamental pond,” Victor replied, though without real heat.

Nathaniel merely grinned, entirely too pleased with himself. “The blue drawing room at eight. Don’t be late.”

As they walked back toward the house, Victor found himself wondering if Emma was looking forward to the ball or if she felt the same reluctance he did about these social obligations.

Perhaps he might claim a dance, after all—only to spare her the attentions of less worthy partners, of course.

* * *