A Perfect Plan

by Alyssa Drake

  “Look how far it went,” Miss Shirely sang, dancing in a little circle, earning a charming smile from Mr. Lockhearst.

  Benjamin groaned, his eyes floating upward. He sighed deeply, longing to pinch the bridge of his nose. A small snort next to him drew his attention. Miss Hastings, spun away from Miss Shirely’s absurd antics, was struggling to keep ahold of her manners. She bit her lip forcefully, her eyes watering. Her eyes rose to him, dancing with amusement. Benjamin felt his loins stir. That plump lower lip, caught between her teeth, enticed him. He desired to taste her again, to feel her soft skin warming beneath his touch, to claim her over and over again until neither of them could move.

  “Miss Hastings, you are next,” Thomas interrupted Benjamin’s wicked thoughts.

  Smoothing her face, Miss Hastings turned around again and squared her shoulders. Looked down the course toward the first impossible wicket, she swung hard, connecting with a solid whack. Her red ball soared through the air, bouncing several yards beyond Miss Shirely’s yellow ball. It stopped just short of the first hoop. A smug smile appeared on Miss Hasting’s lips and vanished immediately, controlled by a discreet pinch from Mrs. Hastings.

  “What a fantastic hit,” crowed Mr. Lockhearst, jumping around with an inane celebration of his own. “I definitely chose the best partner.”

  “We shall see,” stated Mrs. Hastings grimly, stepping up next to the blue ball. With a deft swing, the ball flew several meters, knocking Miss Shirely’s ball away from the wicket, and bounced through the first hoop. Miss Shirely shrieked angrily; Mrs. Hastings winked at Miss Hastings.

  “I see Edward taught you how to play too,” laughed Miss Hastings.

  “Edward was not best at everything,” replied Mrs. Hastings with a wink. “I played a few games as a child.” She walked to her ball and took a second hit, sending it halfway across the course toward the second wicket.

  Mrs. Hastings’ comment drew Benjamin backward in time to summers spent on this very lawn with Thomas and Edward—three mischievous boys with nothing to do but invent dreadfully complicated wicket formations. A strange hollow feeling echoed in his body. He glanced up. Miss Hastings watched him intently as if she could read his melancholy.

  “Trade,” announced Benjamin, distracting himself from his thoughts.

  Mrs. Hastings passed her mallet to Thomas who accepted it with a boasting smile. Miss Hastings, too, relinquished her mallet, which Mr. Lockhearst seemed a little too eager to take. Benjamin noticed Mr. Lockhearst allowed his hand to linger longer on Miss Hastings’ than necessary, one digit slipped across her fingers. Benjamin’s eyes narrowed.

  Anger welled up in him; he longed to rip off Mr. Lockhearst’s arm. Instead, Benjamin walked to the errant yellow ball and whacked it with so much force, it passed Miss Hastings’ red ball and lined up perfectly with the opening. It sailed through the first hoop, allowing Benjamin to take a second turn. This hit placed him within a few yards of the next wicket.

  “Do not worry, Miss Hastings, we will catch up,” Mr. Lockhearst vowed in a low tone as he marched toward their ball, still positioned behind the first wicket.

  “I shall not worry, Mr. Lockhearst,” replied Miss Hastings, swallowing a grin.

  After several more strokes, Mrs. Hastings and Thomas remained in the lead, closing in on the final post. Miss Hastings and Mr. Lockhearst found themselves less than one yard behind them. Benjamin and Miss Shirely trailed far behind.

  As Miss Shirely stepped up to hit her lagging yellow ball, she smacked it violently in the wrong direction. The ball sailed skyward with more force than any of the other players anticipated and disappeared into the hedges surrounding their playing field. After swinging the mallet in a wide arc, Miss Shirely collapsed on the ground in an elegant heap, exhausted from the effort and claiming a sprained ankle. All play was halted as they searched for the missing ball.

  “I think she did that on purpose,” muttered Miss Hastings to Mrs. Hastings as they hunted through the grass, neither woman aware of Benjamin’s proximity.

  “Manners, Samantha,” reminded Mrs. Hastings without glancing up. She stooped to look under a nearby bush. Benjamin snickered softly as he listened; it seemed as though Mrs. Hastings was programmed to correct Miss Hastings’ objectionable decorum automatically. Miss Hastings stuck her tongue out at her sister-in-law’s back, just as Benjamin stepped around the hedge.

  “I do not believe that particular behavior is considered proper either,” he snickered.

  “Lord Westwood, I do not remember asking you for etiquette lessons,” Miss Hastings muttered quietly so Mrs. Hastings could not hear her retort. She stuck her tongue out at him as well.

  Benjamin moved closer to her, noting how the sunlight captured the red tinges in her hair. He lowered his voice, placing his lips near her ear. “I can give you private lessons if you like.”

  “I am not interested in learning anything you are offering to teach,” blushed Miss Hastings, twisting to her right to look him directly in the eye.

  His gaze greedily followed the blush as it traveled below her décolletage. “I have been told I am an excellent tutor.”

  “By whom?”

  “A gentleman never tells.”

  “I thought we established you were not a gentleman.”

  “Then you should not be surprised by my actions. However, since you are attuned to gentlemen, I must warn you. I have a suspicion Mr. Lockhearst is not one either,” rumbled Benjamin. His head tilted in the direction of the aforementioned man.

  Mr. Lockhearst lounged on the grass next to Miss Shirely, entertaining her with some longwinded story, neither he nor Miss Shirely feigning any interest in locating the missing croquet ball. Benjamin noted Miss Shirely glowed under Mr. Lockhearst’s singular attention. She giggled in appreciation of his devotion, pretending to accidentally brush her hand along his sleeve as she adjusted her injured ankle. Mr. Lockhearst fawned over her painful situation, offering words of sympathy and patting her hand.

  Benjamin shook his head, disgust roiling in his stomach. “I hope you do not have your mind set upon Mr. Lockhearst as a potential suitor.”

  “Do not worry, dear guardian, I have no intention of giving Mr. Lockhearst any encouragement,” she paused, “or any other man for that matter.”

  Benjamin narrowed his eyes. This was going to be a long season.

  “I found it,” stated Mrs. Hastings, interrupting Benjamin’s retort. She stood up with a grimace, adjusting her skirt. Bits of leaves stuck in her hair, the yellow ball clasped tightly in her hand. She waved it triumphantly in Miss Hastings’ direction.

  “I do not think Miss Shirely wishes to continue the game,” observed Miss Hastings as she nonchalantly increased the space between her and Benjamin, placing Mrs. Hastings directly between the two of them. Mrs. Hastings did not notice Miss Hastings’ subtle movement; however, Benjamin found it particularly amusing.

  In the distance, Miss Shirely limped slowly toward the house, her right leg gracefully lifted as she leaned her weight on Mr. Lockhearst’s offered arm. Miss Shirely’s pretty face strained with the effort of the pretense. She gingerly moved toward the nearest canopy. Mr. Lockhearst deposited her in a chair under the tent, and within moments, several young men flocked around, bringing punch and food.

  “I guess she did not enjoy losing the game,” Miss Hastings muttered under her breath, her voice carried louder than she expected.

  “Samantha!” hissed Mrs. Hastings, her gaze flying to Benjamin, silently begging him to forgive Miss Hastings’ improper comment. “Lord Westwood does not care for your prejudiced hypothesis.”

  “Are you implying Miss Shirely’s actions are fraudulent?” inquired Benjamin with a curious tone. He stared at her over Mrs. Hasting’s head.

  “No, my Lord,” answered Miss Hastings, casting her eyes down as Mrs. Hastings nodded in approval of the proper response. How often did Mrs. Hastings give subtle cues to improve Miss Hastings’ refreshing lack of societal manners?

 
“I think we should offer her our sympathy for her injury, a sprained ankle is quite painful,” suggested Mrs. Hastings, a firm tone in her voice. Handing the ball to Benjamin with a smile and a curtsy, Mrs. Hastings turned to start up the lawn. She signaled for Miss Hastings to follow with a snap of her fingers.

  “My Lord,” curtsied Miss Hastings. “It was a pleasure beating you at croquet.” Smiling sweetly, she dashed after Mrs. Hastings, catching her in seconds. “Someone should offer us sympathy for having to spend time with the wretched woman,” she muttered loudly.

  “Samantha!” chastised Mrs. Hastings. Her irritation ebbed across the lawn. “I had one simple request.”

  “Leave my shoes on?”

  “Behave as a lady,” retorted Mrs. Hastings and marched up the lawn. Miss Hastings sighed heavily, her shoulders deflating. Lifting her skirt, she trailed after Mrs. Hastings without another word.

  “Opinionated is she not?” Thomas’ voice resonated over Benjamin’s shoulder.

  “Very,” agreed Benjamin with a private grin. “Would you expect any less from Edward’s sister?”

  Thomas chuckled. “Actually, I would expect more.”

  “Did I ever tell you about the time she tried to stab me through the heart with a foil?”

  Thomas looked at Benjamin with a smirk. “Really? I thought you were an excellent swordsman.”

  “She attacked me from behind.” Benjamin rubbed the raised scar on his hand.

  Thomas paused for a moment, his eye catching Benjamin’s unconscious movement. “Is that where the scar on your hand came from?”

  “Yes.”

  Thomas howled with laughter. “Little Sam is quite dangerous.”

  “That she is,” answered Benjamin grimly, watching her figure move gracefully over the lawn. She reached the shade of the canopy and was plunged into shadow as she passed under the canvas. He felt drawn to her, unable to see her features now the shade encompassed her. He quickened his pace, wanting to be nearer. Thomas fell in step beside him.

  “Edward must have trusted you a lot.”

  “Why would you say that?” Benjamin asked in a distracted tone, glancing at Thomas.

  “Of all his friends, you were the only person to ever meet her.”

  “I would hardly ravish a ten-year-old,” Benjamin replied scornfully.

  “Still, with all your less than honorable exploits, he made you her guardian,” Thomas pointed out.

  “Yes, he did,” mused Benjamin, perturbed by the very fact.

  They walked for several moments without speaking. Benjamin sensed Thomas wanted to ask a personal question. Benjamin held his tongue, tossing the yellow ball in the air as they climbed the gentle slope.

  “And Miss Shirely?”

  “Miss Shirely?”

  “Is she to be my sister-in-law?” pressed Thomas. He snatched the ball out of the air with a jovial grin.

  “I believe Miss Shirely and I are not well suited,” replied Benjamin, gesturing toward the canopy.

  Miss Shirely remained seated under the tent, her right foot propped on a footstool. Gentlemen gathered around her like she was holding court, each one attempting to gain her favor. She smiled at each one, in turn, sharing her attention amongst all the young men.

  “Mother will be so disappointed,” laughed Thomas.

  “I am sure Mother would be more disappointed if I married Miss Shirely.”

  “Then whom do you intend on marrying?” asked Thomas curiously. “With your terrible taste in women, I would like to approve of my sister-in-law before the wedding.”

  Benjamin tersely replied, “I have other options.”

  Thomas waited for clarification, however, Benjamin offered none. They continued the rest of the walk silently.

  Samantha, the name whispered on the breeze ruffling Benjamin’s hair; the scent of honeysuckle strong in his nostrils. His eyes scanned the canopy again for Miss Hastings’ familiar face, his heart lightening when he caught sight of her, the glint of sunlight on a chestnut curl. Somehow, she had managed to plant herself on the outside edge of the canopy. A grin spread across his face. She looked rather miserable, trying to discreetly edge away from Mr. Charles Leveret II. Mrs. Hastings’ well-trained hand snaked out and gripped Miss Hastings’ nearby arm. He saw her wince; Mrs. Hastings’ biting fingers were made of iron.

  Poor Miss Hastings, he thought with a wry smile, Mrs. Hastings would throw every available suitor into her path—Samantha was due for a long season as well.

  Chapter Eleven

  “I am bored,” Sam whined, acutely aware she sounded very much like her absent nieces.

  “Then find something to do,” Wilhelmina responded without looking from her embroidery. Gnawing on her tongue, she poked a thread through the needle, allowing the metal piece to slide down the string.

  “I want to go outside.” Sam twisted away from Wilhelmina’s smug smile and stared out the window at a slate gray sky, her lower lip stuck out in a dramatic pout.

  Wilhelmina looked up from her lap, the needle hovering an inch above the napkin she was embroidering. Glancing quickly at the window, she shook her head at the burgeoning clouds.

  “It is going to rain again,” she answered, stabbing the cloth and pulling the thread gently through.

  Sam muttered an incoherent reply, complete with inappropriate language. Wilhelmina glanced up again at the sound.

  “You could work on your correspondence,” Wilhelmina suggested brightly, flashing a false smile before returning to her hoop again. She tied a knot and leaned over to search through a basket near her feet. Selecting a different colored string, she threaded her needle in one expert movement and grinned to herself.

  “There is no one left to write to,” replied Sam. She wagged her ink-stained fingers in Wilhelmina’s direction.

  “You have been neglecting your embroidery,” Wilhelmina pointed at the discarded hoop to her left.

  Sam pondered the idea briefly. “My fingers are still sore from last week.”

  “What about reading a book?” Wilhelmina mumbled around the needle in her mouth. “Usually I cannot get you to put one down.”

  Sam rolled her eyes.

  “I saw that,” her sister-in-law retorted without looking up. “You forget I have three children and right now, they are better behaved than you.”

  “They are not stuck inside, staring out a window,” Sam pointed out. She blew out a breath dramatically.

  “In fact, they are,” answered Wilhelmina. “They are upstairs, working on their lessons, and I am sure they would rather be outside too. Although you do not hear them whining.”

  “I would if I was upstairs with them,” Sam muttered.

  Wilhelmina ignored her. “Do not go upstairs and bother them.”

  Sam sighed and flopped down on the settee next to Wilhelmina. The sudden movement jostled the latter woman who stuck her finger. Wilhelmina sighed and dropped the needle, sucking on the tip where a drop of blood formed.

  “Samantha,” she announced, “I do not care what you do. But please, find something, you are beginning to annoy me.”

  “Sorry, Wilhelmina.”

  Sam had been out of sorts since Lady Westwood’s birthday party. She found herself reminded of Lord Westwood at the oddest moments—like during this morning’s breakfast when his name startled her by appearing in bold and dark letters in the society paper. His face swam into her mind, his blazing green eyes burning like molten emeralds. Mentally berating herself, she tried to clear him from her mind but found herself returning again and again to the kiss they had shared on the balcony. Having very little experience to draw from, she assumed her infatuation stemmed from his lips being the first to touch hers intimately. However, the memory of his mouth, soft and hard at the same time, continued to cause ghostly tingles across the sensitive skin of her lips.

  Shuddering, Sam glanced out the window again and rose quickly, pacing past the drawing room doors–a nervous ball of energy–unable to escape the thoughts of Lord Westwo
od, which chased her about the room. At his mother’s birthday party, he had remained cold and distant except for their brief tête-à-tête after the croquet game, when she saw a flash of his playfulness break through the icy façade.

  Why had Lord Westwood chosen to distance himself? She agonized over the thought as she paced. She concluded his nature was exactly as Edward had described to her—a true rake. Sam was not sure which irked her more—the fact she fell for his charms in the first place or the fact, no matter how many stern lectures she gave herself, she continued to fantasize about him.

  At least his imperceptible gentlemanly nature, which she would never admit he possessed, prevented him from taking advantage of her naïveté. Even so, she found herself anticipating the Leveret’s ball, wanting to see the man with bright green eyes.

  For the past two days, she paced the sitting room, trapped inside this prison of a house, surrounded by her churning thoughts. Yesterday’s rain, unrelentingly beat against the house, fraying her nerves and leaving her unable to avoid her thoughts of Lord Westwood’s wicked mouth. It was enough to try any sane person. She needed fresh air to clear her mind, the murmur of the wind through trees and the sound of water.

  Ideally, she wanted to wander beside the lake next to Hastings Manor, to dip her toes in the calm water; however, that desired solution was currently impossible. She wished for the diversion of country living. Sighing, she found herself drawn to the window again.

  “Maybe just a half hour,” she whispered, slipping out of the room and heading toward the hallway to grab her wrap.

  “What did you say, Samantha?” Wilhelmina asked, her eyes darting up from her needlepoint. An empty room answered her question; Sam had already disappeared out the door.

  The cool air greeted Sam’s face with a brisk kiss–an intimate exchange between old friends. She lifted her head toward the cloudy sky and decided to walk the ten minutes to the nearby park. If she kept her quick pace, she would have plenty of time to stroll leisurely along the riverbank and return before the first fat drops littered the sidewalks. She lifted her skirts and sped up, crossing the street without a backward glimpse.