Page 21 of Duke of Destruction
They were within a few strokes of one another with only two wickets left remaining. Catherine hit her ball, holding her breath as she took the difficult angle, swung, and watched as the ball?—
She let out a little hop of happiness, not even caring that it was unladylike, when her ball rolled through the hoop, then let out an actual gasp of horror when it kept rolling—and rolling—and rolling.
She could have keeled over in relief when it came to a haltjustbefore it dropped over a little hilly outcrop that looked out over the lake, shining and blue below.
The duke came up to his ball next. His strike was far less dramatic, coursing through the hoop and coming to a stop several yards before Catherine’s.
He gave her a smug look.
“I suppose that’s our match, Lady Catherine,” he said.
Goodness, she’d known he was difficult, but she hadn’t known he was alsoblind.
“I still have one hoop to go,” she said. “And if I get it, I’m the victor. Or have you lost count?” She gave him her sweetest smile. “I’m sure we could ask the Duke of Wilds to confirm for us.”
He looked at her, his brow falling low.
“It’s an impossible strike, unless you intend to make it while standing on water. And I have no doubt as to your confidence, my lady, but I doubt even you would liken yourself to Christ himself.”
Catherine rolled her eyes.
“Those are the words of a person who fears himself destined to lose,” she said.
“I cannot be destined to lose when I havealreadywon,” he countered. “You cannot make that. The direction—it’s impossible.”
“Truly, Your Grace, I implore you,” she said. “Say ‘impossible’ one more time. It shall make it all the sweeter when I manage things so beautifully that they shall put it in the papers.”
“You are being ridiculous,” he said hotly. “My lady, truly you cannot?—”
He sounded almost concerned. But Catherine wasn’t listening. She was stalking over to where her ball, and victory, awaited.
“Lady Catherine, you really shouldn’t—” She ignored that bothersome duke.
“Kitty, are you sure—” She ignored Ariadne.
She situated herself in the perfectly spacious, absolutely bountiful patch of grass between her ball and the overhang. She lined up her shot, pulled back her mallet, swung, and?—
Her foot slipped on the grass, her ladylike slippers offering no purchase. The force of her swing pulled at her balance. She saw, in the last moments, the Duke of Seaton’s wide eyes and Ariadne’s horrified gasp.
And then she plunged over the edge of the small cliff and directly into the water below.
For a horrifying moment, Percy was twelve again, watching a lake for his brother who would never surface again.
A heartbeat later, and he was moving before he’d even decided to do so. He ripped off his jacket, throwing it to the floor with his mallet. He didn’t even bother kicking off his boots. He crossed to the ledge and dove straight in.
It didn’t matter who she was. He couldn’t let someone else drown while he stood idly by.
They might have been in the last vestiges of summer, but the lake apparently had not gotten any message that it ought to getwarm. The iciness nearly stole his breath as he cut through the water.
He didn’t care. He didn’tcare.
All that mattered was that Catherine—Lady Catherine, that was—was beneath the surface, her heavy skirts dragging her down. Worse, though, was that she didn’t even seem to be fighting it.
He kicked forward and grabbed her around the waist, then swam with all his might toward the surface.
She gasped when they broke free into the air. He, too, gasped—and then shocked himself to his bones when he used that breath of air to bellow into her face.
“What were you doing?”
