Page 7 of My Fake Mistress
‘I like the…’ Blythe fumbled for an appropriate word. ‘I like the pace of it all.’
‘Really? Because last week, you said cricket was duller than dishwater.’
Blythe bit her lip. She had said that, and she meant it. She did find cricket pointless and dull, but this afternoon, it wasn’t the game that carried her attention. ‘A girl can change her mind.’
Yvette’s curls shook as she tipped her head back and laughed. ‘Blythe Flintwood, you are the most delightfully stubborn woman I have ever met. You change your mind for no one.’
Blythe clasped her hands in the soft folds of her woollen skirt and stared hard at the grass by her feet. A ladybug inched its way along a green stalk before it separated its orange and black spotted shell and launched itself into the air. Blythe followed its lazy ascent, wishing she could escape this conversation with similar ease.
‘Fine. Keep your secret.’ Yvette crossed her arms and pouted. ‘But I will have it out of you. You may be as clever as Athena, but you are a terrible liar. Oh, look!’ Yvette pointed across the field, toward the pitch, where the sides were crossing paths as they traded places. ‘Father’s batting.’
Julian strode across the field to take his place in front of the wicket. He tapped the ground with his bat and readied himself, eyes fast on the bowler at the opposite end of the pitch. As the ball bounced before him, he lunged forward and swung hard. His biceps flexed against his shirt sleeves, his trousers stretched taunt across his thighs, and the willow clipped the leather and sent the ball hurtling into the air. Like a horse given free rein in an open field, he broke forward and sprinted down the pitch. Dark hair mussing with the exertion, he tapped the ground then lithely twisted, his shirt clinging to his chest and hinting at firm and defined pectorals beneath.
Blythe fanned herself with her hat. This was more than she could bear.
‘I fear I have had too much sun,’ she said as she pushed herself to her feet. ‘I am going inside to work on another painting.’
Julian’s muscles strained as he pushed the bat over the line, half a second before the ball clipped the wicket.
‘In,’ called Carlson, before adding under his breath, ‘Half your luck. If Wallace had fewer thumbs, you’d be out.’
‘If he had more fingers, I’d have stopped at the other end of the pitch.’ He spun the bat’s leather wrapped grip in his hand. His gaze flicked across the lawn, past the fielders staggered across the grass, to the hillock where the smattering of house guests lounged on picnic blankets beneath the beech trees. Yvette, sitting alone, waved before cupping her hands around her mouth. Her voice carried, but the wind snatched the shape of her words.
‘Did you hear what she said?’ Julian asked.
‘I thought she said, “you’re in a fix.” Is that the sort of thing she’d say?’
Julian laughed. ‘Hit a six, you dolt. I thought I was the old one.’
‘You know what they say about age?’ Carlson asked.
‘Hmmm?’
‘You’re only as old as the woman you—’
‘Feel, I know, I know. I’ve heard the joke before,’ Julian snapped.
‘Not the F word I was thinking of, but either will do. And you, my friend, might be the youngest man on the field.’
Was that praise? Admiration? Julian tried to ignore the perverse lick of pride that ran through him. He’d always been on the outer with men like Carlson. It was why he’d stayed away from London. But as the man regarded him, he had the undeniable sensation of being part of something, some club. And, as Blythe’s fake protector, he needed to maintain the façade. Not for himself, of course. But for her.
‘Tried to catch her for myself but you beat me to it,’ Carlson continued. ‘Although I’d keep a watch on her. Henderson was eyeing her as well.’
‘You didn’t tell him about her and I, did you?’ His light hold on the bat nearly slipped.
‘I didn’t mention names. Just said she was spoken for. Told him to keep his distance.’
Julian tapped his bat against the dirt. Wallace ran along the crease with a slight wobble, and when he bowled, the ball bounced once, then went wide. Julian stepped aside, idly rolling his bat. Carlson caught the wayward ball and launched it back down the pitch.
‘Mind, Henderson doesn’t have a snip of gentlemanly conduct about himself. I don’t think he’d put off a hunt even if old Bertie asked him to.’
Julian tried to focus on Wallace as he first jogged, then ran forward, his arm arching over his head, but Carlson’s revelation put a jolt of fear through him. How many men did he have to fight off? The ball came in and smacked hard into his shin pad. The dull pressure spread and quickly dissipated, but the uneasiness of Carlson’s words hung.
‘That’s me out,’ he said with a manufactured smile, partly chiding himself for losing sight of the ball, but also relieved to be able to get away.
Back on the sidelines, Julian scanned the small crowd as he ripped off his gloves and threw them on the grass. He crouched down and fumbled with the fastenings of his shin-guards, and as he did so, scanned the spectators, in the hopes of maybe catching a glimpse…
Yvette was still sitting on the rug, some damned spare heir stretched out beside her. His aunt hovered behind with a chaperoning eye. But no Blythe. Not with Yvette. Not anywhere.
