Page 70 of About a Rogue
Bianca stopped in her tracks. “They’re still forming sides,” she said, waving one arm in the air. “Amelia!”
One of the young women looked up, and came running over. “You’re back! And just in time, too. We need good bowlers. Gemma can’t play this year.” She waved one hand at another woman, who held a baby in her arms.
Bianca laughed and began tucking up her skirts. “I’m lamentably out of practice.“
“We’ll be forced to rely on Anne if you don’t play,” retorted her friend.
“You’re going to play?” Max asked in astonishment. He had heard of an all-female game of cricket, several years ago at Hambledon, but never women playing with men.
Bianca took off her hat and handed it to him. “Of course! We go against the Mannox potteries every year.”
“Those are Mannox men?”
“And women,” put in Bianca. “Mostly Mannox workers, although they always get Tall Bob the bargeman to join them.”
“Tom Mannox is playing,” added her friend. “He asked about you, Bianca.”
Bianca rolled her eyes, and Max paused. “Why?”
“He fancied her,” said Amelia with a giggle. “And only partly for her bowling.”
“Amelia,” said Bianca in exasperation.
“Right! Are you a better batsman or bowler, sir?”
Max began to smile. “Batsman.”
“Oh my, George will be delighted by that!” The woman, Amelia, clapped her hands together and ran back to the group, calling out that Miss Tate—she swiftly corrected herself, to Max’s private pleasure—and Mr. St. James would play as well. The pace of wagering grew considerably brisker.
“Are you any good?” Bianca asked directly. She had pulled up her skirts into her pockets, and retied her fichu, winding the long ends around her back. It outlined her figure beautifully.
“Tolerably.” Max shed his coat and waistcoat, dropping his hat atop them.
She didn’t look satisfied. “I want to win, you know. If you’re only tolerable—”
He laughed and snatched her hand to his lips for a swift kiss, which seemed to shock her. “Trust me.” He strode off toward the fellow with the bats, turning up his sleeves.
They had enough interested players to form a full eleven, and a coin toss relegated the Perusia players, under the captainship of George Tucker from the throwing house, to the field. There was a brief argument about the wickets, with some alleging they were too close together, but that was resolved and the first innings began. Gemma Tucker with the new baby settled down to keep score under the gaze of an interested crowd and the oversight of the umpires, namely the butcher and the head groom from the Two Foxes tavern.
Mick, one of the Perusia modelers, bowled the first over. He had a strong arm, but the Mannox batsman scored five before being bowled out. The second swung a good bat, and made a respectable fourteen before being retired.
Bianca, assigned to the end of the field near Max, darted up to him as the next man strode to the crease. “That’s Tom Mannox,” she reported breathlessly. “He has a strong bat.”
“Has he?” Max smiled grimly, and settled in to watch the fellow. He did bat well, but when he’d made twelve already, he whacked the ball hard toward Max. Max fell back, eyes fixed on it. It was heading toward the boundary, which would be another six, unless he managed it—
He leapt at the last second, straining upward, and snatched the ball in his fingertips. Behind him he heard the roar of his teammates, including Bianca’s whoop of delight. He lobbed the ball back to the bowler, and made a bow toward the applauding crowd as Mannox stormed off the pitch.
The next several batsmen came and went, and the score reached seventy-eight before disaster struck. Mick slipped on the flattened grass and went down hard on his throwing arm. The crowd behind Gemma erupted with cries of concern as he was taken off, and George Tucker grimly waved Bianca in.
Unbidden, Max went, too. “Can you bowl fast?” He didn’t think it likely, or she would have been put in earlier.
Bianca pushed the hair from her face and gave him a severe look. “Fast enough, sir.”
He backed off, hands up, grinning in delight. “Go to it, then.”
She bowled respectably. Max, having never had the pleasure of playing cricket with ladies, found himself captivated by the sight of his wife running forward to fling the ball toward the wickets, as fierce as any bloke at Balliol. She wasn’t the fastest bowler, but she was, as she had said, fast enough. She gave up two paltry singles in her over, and Max roared in appreciation as she yielded to the next bowler.
“Well done!” he said as she came back into the field. Flushed but smiling, she curtsied.
