by Sophia Nash
“How have you managed to avoid the prince’s eye, Candover?” Barry finally asked.
James glanced at Isabelle’s bowed head. She was fiddling with the fingertip of one glove. It was what she did when she was ill at ease.
“I have not,” he replied quietly. “What’s that?” He nodded toward the paper in Barry’s hands.
“Ah,” Barry said, scratching the back of his head. “Something very convenient, actually. Isabelle was kind enough to make up a list for me.”
“A list,” he said arctically.
“Yes,” Barry replied, good-humored but with the seriousness of a man who has seen too much death on a battlefield at too early an age. “I’m unfamiliar with some of the ladies here. And Isabelle made a few suggestions.”
Isabelle finally spoke, with coolness. “Barry likes lists.”
“Would you care to join us, Candover?” Barry gestured toward an empty chair.
“Thank you but no,” James replied. He turned to Isabelle. “I’m looking for Miss Primrose. Is she here?”
“Of course,” Isabelle replied. “She and Calliope are out gazing at the stars. I believe the archbishop is with them.”
“Thank you,” he replied, but did not move. For some reason he did not want to leave Isabelle and Barry to their own devices.
She smiled. “Perhaps your desire to see Miss Primrose is in conflict with your desire to not see Calliope.”
“That’s untrue. It’s rather that Calliope would not like to see me.”
“Why don’t Miss Little and Candover get on?” A hint of amusement colored Barry’s face.
“I think it has to do with the fact that they are both unused to hearing ‘no,’ ” Isabelle replied. “They do not take kindly to anyone questioning their authority.”
“I disagree,” James replied. “It is because neither of us likes to wait. And neither of us suffers fools with good humor.”
“I can’t imagine what you’re thinking. I actually wait and suffer fools very patiently,” piped up a young, familiar voice behind him. Calliope, in the flesh. “What I don’t care for are people who lock away other people and forget all about them.”
“Lock away?” James raised his eyebrows.
“Without a drop of tea or stale biscuit to gnaw on.”
“I know precisely of what you speak, Miss Little,” said the Duke of Sussex as he strolled toward them. Mary Haverty was beside him. “I, too, have endured such treatment. And worse. Such a distinct lack of manners. What shall we do in retaliation now that he is under my roof?”
“You are incorrigible,” Mary said to Sussex.
“Agreed,” James said dryly.
“Both of you are incorrigible,” Mary said, turning to Barry with a sly smile. “I’ve often wondered if all dukes are born as such.”
“I don’t believe so,” the Duke of Barry said. “I never had the slightest impropriety attached to my name until after I unexpectedly became duke.”
Mary suddenly laughed. “I’ve an idea. A brilliant idea. Let’s test my theory and see if dukes are more incorrigible than the rest of us mere mortals.” She looked toward Sussex. “But it will require your help.”
“Anything, my dear,” Sussex replied benevolently.
“Would it be possible to arrange for all of us to play a round or two of golf at the Royal Blackheath Silver Club tomorrow?”
“I do not play games,” James ground out.
“Don’t we know it,” muttered Isabelle.
He raised his brows. “I would not disappoint you, Mary,” James informed her. “But the course is reserved for gentlemen.” Thank God.
Sussex grinned. “I do believe the combined forces of three dukes, one duchess, and an archbishop might sway the rule keepers. Who would be of the party?”
“I say anyone who enjoys competition,” Mary replied. “Isabelle, have you ever played this game?”
“Once or twice with my father. I would love to spend the day out of doors,” she said with a smile. She looked toward Barry.
“Never tried,” he replied, “but I’m always ready to try new things and up for a challenge.”
Isabelle’s smile shone a little too brightly in James’s opinion.
“Such an admirable point of view,” she said.
“May I play on his team?” Calliope piped up, looking with devotion at Barry.
“Of course, Miss Little. I’d be honored.”
James would have given his eye teeth to know what sort of miracle Barry had performed to have her eating out of his hand. “Perhaps we should ask Miss Primrose too,” he said as offhandedly as he could manage.
Sussex’s expression darkened. “Excellent idea. Would not go without her. Where is she?”
“Still naming all the constellations with the archbishop,” Calliope said, rolling her eyes.
“I think we should invite everyone to go,” Isabelle said, pointedly looking in James’s direction. “The more the better. There are so many, many other ladies and gentlemen with whom to socialize.”
“I agree wholeheartedly,” Mary inserted.
“If we are to play,” James said, “I would request the honor of having you as my partner, Mary.”
“Of course,” she said, chuckling. “I’d be delighted.”
Calliope shook her head.
“Thank you, my dear,” he responded, his calm restored.
“She’s Scottish, remember?” Calliope loudly whispered in Isabelle’s direction.
“Indeed. Half.” Mary smiled. “My mother’s side.”
Calliope’s impish grin reappeared. “Didn’t the Scots invent golf?”
“They did,” James replied with great hauteur. “We dukes might be incorrigible but we know how to win.”
Calliope could not contain herself. Her whoops of laughter caused the other guests to turn around.
There was one other person listening nearby, hidden on the other side of the door. She, too, was Scottish.
And she was ready to play to win, too.
It had not gone according to the prior evening’s plan. Then again, nothing had gone according to anyone’s plans since the day (or rather, night) the royal entourage had embarrassed themselves, the entire ton, and worst of all caused a populous uprising against the Prince Regent.
The view in front of her, Isabelle thought as she watched fifteen of Sussex’s guests limbering up for the outing on the five-hole course, did not promise to improve the situation.
For some inexplicable reason, Sussex had insisted she be his partner, and so she’d had to turn down Barry, a man of unquestionable character, open to the idea of marriage, quite handsome, and so very kind. A prime candidate if ever there was one. He had blasted his way to the top of her list.
But at the last moment, when so many guests jumped at the chance to play, it was decided they would all form foursomes. Calliope had pleaded with Mary to be in her group. James had relented, but only on the condition that Amelia become his partner.
Isabelle shook her head, which was spinning from all the changes. Her foursome now included Sussex, Amelia, and James. The foursome to follow them was Mary, Barry, Calliope, and the archbishop.
Isabelle knew most of the ladies but not the gentlemen in the other groups. She had met Lady Pamela Hopkins at Kress’s house party. Lady Pamela appeared to like billiards more than anything else. Or cards. Or anything that involved wagering. Then there was Lady Katherine Leigh, a great horsewoman, and her red-haired sister, Lady Judith Leigh, who spoke few words but laughed quite a bit, especially when she was nervous. Lady Susan Moore was also in attendance, which was unusual. She almost seemed too fragile to endure athletic pursuits. But perhaps that was an illusion due to her affected manner of speech; her lisp was of the Georgian era.
Two of the other four peers on Isabelle’s list were playing: the Marquis of Haverston and the Earl of Bronway. The last two, a Mr. Parker and Mr. Adams knew better than to play this demented sport.
“So,” Sussex said as he c
hose a club from the bag a caddy held. “You know how to play, do you, Isabelle?” Before walking up to the first tee, he took a practice swing and sent ten inches of sod soaring. Amelia and James had not joined them yet.
She cleared her throat. “Yes. About as well as you.”
He took another swing. His club was so far above the ground that the grass did not move. He chuckled. “The thing to remember about golf is that honor, integrity, and knowing and following the rules are all vitally important.”
“You sound like my father,” Isabelle retorted. “Don’t worry, I reread all the rules last night.” What else could she do since she had not been able to sleep? James was presumably sleeping in chambers not three doors down from her own in the southern wing. It reminded her of the times he would come to visit her father, during the spring and fall equinoxes each year. She had sometimes dared to sit outside his door at night. It seemed shocking and very intimate when she had been four and ten. It was the same year she’d fallen in love with him.
Amelia, James, and another caddy joined them as Sussex took a few steps to the raised mound of grass, planted a tee and ball, then stepped back with great pomp.
“Yes, the game is often won or lost on knowing and employing the three hundred eighty-four rules,” Amelia stated.
Isabelle started. “But there were no more than a dozen rules listed in the guide in Sussex’s library.”
“That must have been a first edition,” Amelia said quietly. “This is the latest edition.” She pulled a thick book from the straw bag she carried.
“I choose my partners carefully,” James said, taking a few strides to stand beside her.
Isabelle raised her chin. “I wouldn’t expect any less of you.” It had hurt that he hadn’t asked her to be his partner. And it irritated her that she felt that way. She should be playing with two eligible gentlemen, not just one.
“Well, I know the rules well enough to know one thing,” Sussex said, a bit irritated. They all turned to look at him on the mound. “One is supposed to be very quiet and stay motionless while another is about to hit the ball.”
“He’s right,” Amelia muttered.
“Of course I’m right,” he replied coolly. “I am always right.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” Amelia said without a trace of a smile. Funny how Miss Primrose was capable of agreeing with someone, but with her posture saying just the opposite. Isabelle simply adored her.
Sussex harrumphed as he awkwardly bent his knees, arched his back, and wiggled his backside in the manner of a . . . duck shaking water from his tail feathers. Isabelle caught herself before she laughed. Sussex stilled and then repeated the motions.
And a third time.
James leaned down and whispered in her ear, “Is he about to lay an egg, do you think?”
She was so surprised by his unexpected humor that a quick ball of mirth erupted from her. God, she hated when James did that to her. Just when she decided he was a dry old stick, as Calliope suggested, he killed her with humor.
Sussex straightened and stared at her with ill-humor. “You are my teammate, Isabelle,” he said sourly. “A little respect, please.”
“Sorry,” Isabelle said.
James cleared his throat. “Do you think we could speed things up a bit so we finish before tomorrow?”
Edward narrowed his eyes.
No one dared say another word as he again went through his exaggerated motions. Sussex finally raised his silver-headed club behind his left shoulder and swung it through the air, missing the ball by a good three inches.
“One,” Amelia announced.
Sussex looked at her incredulously. “What are you talking about? That was a practice swing. It doesn’t count.”
“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” she said, her sweetness taking on a tiny edge. “It didn’t look like you were still practicing.”
“Anyone could see I was still practicing,” he insisted.
“Did it look like that to Your Graces?” Amelia asked, looking at her and James.
“He was definitely practicing,” Isabelle replied.
“He was definitely laying an egg,” James said.
It was impossible not to laugh. Isabelle tried desperately to make up for it by adding, “And you are only proving Mary’s suggestion that all dukes are incorrigible.”
“What’s good for the goose . . .” James replied, amusement in his eyes.
When he looked at her like that, with laughter in his expression, and his famous reserve in retreat, Isabelle had to look away. She would not love him any longer. She had a mind, and she could control her sensibilities. He didn’t truly want her and she would marry another, per the Prince Regent’s suggestion. “Do let’s get on with it. Others are waiting behind us.”
“I’m not going to hit my ball,” Sussex insisted peevishly, nodding toward Amelia, “until she or someone official”—he glared at the caddies who were polishing the faces of clubs nearby and pretending not to listen—”acknowledges that my practice swing does not count.”
James nodded toward the caddies. “You may leave us,” he said dryly. “We shall carry our own bags.” The caddies disappeared quietly, apparently quite used to the eccentricities that emerged when usually well-bred aristocrats trod these lawns.
Isabelle looked at Amelia and nodded toward Sussex in the universal feminine signal to let a gentleman who was being infantile and stubborn have his way.
“Don’t do it, Miss Primrose,” James said softly.
“Don’t you start,” Isabelle ground out to James.
“You’re only suggesting we give in to him because he’s your partner,” James retorted.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Isabelle insisted. “Golf is a game you play truly by and for yourself. He might be my partner on paper, but I’m playing against myself.”
“Exactly,” Sussex said, delighted to watch Candover be put in his place.
“That’s true,” Amelia said, raising her chin. “And so those who cheat—only cheat themselves. Do you want to cheat yourself, Your Grace?” She looked at Sussex.
“A fine one to talk of fair play,” Sussex replied hotly.
Isabelle did not know what was going on between Edward Godwin, the Duke of Sussex, and Amelia, but it was obvious it had nothing to do with a silly little leather ball stitched up with feathers inside. “Oh, go on, already. I will take the point,” Isabelle said to end the stalemate.
Sussex shook his head and approached the tee again. Without any further preening, he finally hit the ball, which surprisingly landed unseen, but fairly near the green.
Candover took his place when Amelia and she refused his invitation to precede him. He displayed far more elegance of form than Sussex and considerably more strength. His ball landed in the bunker on the far side of the green. Sussex coughed in amusement. Isabelle could see a muscle tic in James’s cheek. It was amusing to see him take this all so seriously. It was supposed to be a lovely little outing on well-manicured lawn, not a battleground of male pride.
Amelia insisted Isabelle go next. And so she gathered her skirts in one hand, a club in the other, and ascended the first tee. She shaded her eyes and surveyed the lay of the hole and the entire field of play. Foursomes littered the course in every direction. Behind her, Barry, Mary, Calliope, and the archbishop were walking toward them from the gathering house.
Isabelle turned, knelt to place the ball on a tuft of grass, straightened, eyed the green, and trained her eyes on the ball as she swung. The little white-painted ball made a satisfying arc and landed a respectable distance.
“Excellent shot,” Amelia said as she walked up to her.
Isabelle felt nothing but relief at not having made a fool of herself. She rejoined the two dukes to watch Miss Primrose.
Amelia went stock-still after sizing up the fairway and addressing the ball. In an extraordinary movement, she hit the ball, which landed not three feet from the hole.
Without a word, Amelia des
cended to collect her bag and marched toward the green, leaving the others speechless behind her.
“Do close your mouth, Sussex,” James finally said, “although it will be hard to do with that foot of yours in so deep.”
Sussex coughed on an oath to disguise it and marched toward the green.
Isabelle bit her lip to keep from laughing.
James turned to her, his brown eyes expressive. “Your form is lovely.”
She could not reply for a moment. “Thank you.”
He nodded and they walked behind the other two.
“What is going on between them?” Isabelle asked.
“No clue,” James replied. “But I assure you I won’t allow it to continue much longer.”
“I’ve never seen Sussex like this. Normally he is utterly charming, especially among all ladies. What are you going to do?”
“Amelia Primrose knows how to correct bad form in others. And I know she would prefer to handle this herself. She is everything good and kind and proper,” James said. “Very much like you in character, except . . .”
“Except what?”
“She does not have your stubbornness”—he gave her a look when she opened her mouth to defend herself—“or your sense of humor, your noble bearing, or your beauty.”
And now Isabelle felt just like Sussex as she stopped, her mouth ajar, as Candover’s stride lengthened and he left her side to find his ball in the sandy bunker. She quickly recovered and reminded herself that while he might say such things to her, he had also refused her. Compliments did not a husband make. He was most likely feeling guilty toward her for pricking her pride.
The four of them played on with few words except the occasional muffled oath, mostly by Sussex when he sliced and slaughtered the ball.
Near the next green, Sussex took out his masher, studied the difficult lie with exaggerated movements, and somehow managed to land the impossible putt. He squealed with delight.
“You are a disgrace to our sex,” James announced.
Sussex’s retort was sustained laughter as he looked toward Amelia. “Scots might have invented the game, but I daresay the English could teach a thing or three to the Highlanders.”
“But not a Lowlander,” Amelia muttered as she passed Isabelle toward the final tee.