The Duke of Ford looked at his younger sister as if she had just suggested they set the manor house on fire for entertainnt.
"Absolutely not," Rowan said.
He dropped the heavy wooden bowling ball. It hit the soft grass with a dull, heavy thud and rolled a few inches before coming to a stop near his polished leather boots. He crossed his arms tightly over his chest, matching her defiant stance.
"I am not playing this ga, Ines," Rowan stated. His voice was firm, carrying the absolute authority of a man who was used to giving orders and having them obeyed instantly. "I have estate ledgers to review. I have letters to write to the magistrate. I have..." He cast around for another excuse. "I have a lot of things to do. I have sheep to count."
Ines did not move. She stood directly in his path, her bright green silk skirts whipping around her ankles in the brisk wind. She tilted her chin up.
"You do not count the sheep, Rowan," Ines replied calmly. "You pay a steward to count the sheep. And you are not going back to your dark, depressing study. You are staying right here on this lawn."
"I am the Duke," Rowan reminded her, though he knew it was a useless defense against his sister.
"And I am the Duchess of Carleton," Ines countered with a wicked smile. "Which ans I outrank you in stubbornness. You will play. And you will partner with Miss Kingsley."
Rowan looked past Ines to where Delaney was standing. The matchmaker was hugging her elbows, her plain blue dress making her look small and fragile against the vastness of the garden. She looked utterly miserable. Rowan’s chest tightened. He wanted to play the ga with her. He wanted to stand beside her in the sun. But he knew that if he did, he would not be able to hide what he feels.
He had to be cold. He had to be distant. For her safety, and for his family’s future.
"No," Rowan said, stepping to the left to walk around his sister. "I do not want to play anymore. I am going inside."
Ines stepped to the left, blocking him again.
Rowan stepped to the right. Ines mirrored him flawlessly, stepping to the right with a graceful little hop.
Rowan let out a growl of deep, brotherly frustration. "Ines, move out of my way."
"You are being a coward," Ines whispered, so only he could hear.
Rowan’s eyes flashed with real anger. "You do not know what you are talking about. Now move."
Ines realized that quiet intimidation was not going to work. Rowan was too tense. He needed a different kind of pressure. He needed the one thing he feared more than his own feelings: public humiliation.
Ines took a deep breath. She cupped her white-gloved hands around her mouth like a town crier. She turned her head toward the stone terrace where the older ladies were sitting.
"Aunt Margery!" Ines shouted at the absolute top of her lungs. Her voice carried across the lawn, echoing off the brick walls of the manor like a child who had a report. "Aunt Margery! Rowan doesn’t want to participate!"
Rowan froze. His eyes widened in sheer horror. "Ines, you are not a child, do not do this. Do not bring her into this."
It was too late.
Up on the terrace, Aunt Margery was reclining on a padded wicker chair. She was currently wearing a large, feathered hat that looked like a sleeping bird, and she was busily petting Fifi, the apricot poodle, who was sitting on her lap eating a piece of roasted chicken.
At the sound of her niece’s shout, Aunt Margery perked up.
She leaned forward, adjusting her spectacles. She looked down at the lawn, spotting her nephew trying to escape toward the gravel path.
Aunt Margery took a deep breath. When she spoke, her voice possessed the booming volu of a seasoned theater actress.
"Rowan!" Aunt Margery yelled back, her voice cutting through the wind. "That’s not very gentlemanly of you!"
Rowan closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He felt a headache forming instantly. "Aunt Margery, please, I have business..."
Aunt Margery did not care about his business. She waved a piece of chicken in the air, sending Fifi into a frenzy.
"Do not be such a spoilsport!" Aunt Margery lectured loudly, ensuring that every servant, gardener, and footman within a mile could hear her. "Your intended is watching you! Do you want to keep her bored? Are you trying to put the poor girl to sleep before you even marry her?"
Rowan snapped his eyes open. He looked over at Celine.
Lady Celine was standing near the edge of the bowling green. She was wearing her pale yellow dress, and she was indeed watching him. She looked awkward, shifting her weight from foot to foot. Her mother, Lady Farrington, was glaring at Rowan from the terrace, clearly offended that the Duke was ignoring her daughter.
Rowan was trapped.
If he walked away now, he would look rude to his future bride. He would insult the Farrington family. Hawksley would hear of it. The fragile, dangerous peace he was trying to maintain would shatter.
He lowered his hand from his face. He looked at Ines.
Ines was smiling a sweet, innocent, perfectly angelic smile. She fluttered her eyelashes at him.
Aunt Margery continued " Thirty minutes out of the whole twenty four hours in a day won’t kill you, Rowan. Loosen up and play with your sister."
Rowan let out a long, heavy sigh of defeat. His broad shoulders slumped.
"Fine!" Rowan ground out between his teeth.
He glared at Ines. It was a dark, venomous glare that promised severe retaliation. He looked as though he wanted to lock her in the highest tower of the estate and throw away the iron key.
Ines was not intimidated in the slightest. She glared right back at him, her dark eyes flashing with triumphant fire. She lifted her chin, daring him to complain further.
"Excellent," Ines declared cheerfully, dropping the glare instantly. She turned to the servants. "Bring the bowls! The Duke has graciously decided to join us."
The footn hurried forward, carrying the heavy, polished wooden bowls.
The ga of lawn bowls began.
It was, without a doubt, the most tense, uncomfortable ga ever played on the grounds of Hamilton House.
Ines and Celine ford one team. Rowan and Delaney ford the other.
The objective was simple: roll your heavy wooden bowl across the grass so that it stopped as close as possible to the small white target ball, called the "jack." Because the bowls were weighted on one side, they did not roll straight. They curved. It required a delicate touch and intense concentration.
Rowan possessed neither of those things today.
He stood at the starting line beside Delaney. He was trying so hard not to look at her, not to sll the faint scent of jasmine soap that clung to her skin, and not to think about the way she had felt in his arms the night before.
"You should aim slightly to the left, Your Grace," Delaney suggested softly, her voice perfectly polite and incredibly distant. "The wind will push it back."
"Thank you, Miss Kingsley," Rowan replied, sounding neutral.
He swung his arm and released his bowl. He put entirely too much force into the throw. The heavy piece of wood zood across the grass, completely missed the white target ball, and crashed into a wooden bench on the far side of the lawn.
Ines let out a loud, ringing laugh.
"My goodness, brother," Ines teased, stepping up to the line. "Are we trying to chop down trees today, or are we playing bowls?"
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