Lady Rosabella's Ruse - By Ann Lethbridge Page 0,34
Mallow.
‘Oh, dear,’ Lady Smythe said. ‘She knocked it with the bat when she swung.’ She signalled the out.
Rosa stood with a feeling of dread. Now it was her turn to face the bowler. She set her shoulders. She’d played cricket at school. All the girls did. And she’d been one of the best players. She wasn’t going to let Lord Stanford intimidate her. No indeed. She’d think of the ball as his head, and she’d be sure to hit it for six.
‘Rotten luck,’ she said to Mrs Mallow as they passed and the other woman handed her the bat.
Rosa took her place, standing facing the bowler. The grin, which had enchanted her on the sidelines, now hit her with full force, melted her from the inside out. Her heart faltered. A tremble rippled through her body.
She tightened her grip on the bat, took a deep breath and nodded her readiness.
A dark eyebrow shot up and he started to run. The thud of his steps on the hard sand travelled through the soles of her feet and up her legs in a most extraordinary manner. Seeing him running those few steps towards her was far more unnerving than seeing bullocks chasing Digger. She adjusted her grip. Kept her eye on the ball, stepped into it and swung.
Thwack. Wood on leather. A satisfying sound. The ball took flight into the dunes, heading straight at Fitzwilliam. ‘Run,’ Mrs Phillips yelled.
Picking up her skirts, she dashed for the other end of the pitch, where Stanford waited for the ball’s return. ‘Well done,’ he said at her arrival in the crease. His voice dropped to a low sensual murmur. ‘It is rare to find a woman who runs like a gazelle as you do. Such a pleasure to watch.’ His eyes gleamed wickedly and dropped to her heaving bosom.
Rogue. He was trying to put her off.
Fitzwilliam fumbled his throw. She grinned at Stanford. ‘Then watch from behind.’ She started running and passed a red-faced Mrs Phillips in the middle. ‘Good Lord, another two,’ the other woman panted.
At the other end, Rosa turned. Still no sign of Fitzwilliam with the ball, but Stanford had moved up to cover the gap and the other men were running in.
Should she run again? She started forwards. Her partner shook her head and Rosa stayed where she was. Glad of it, too, when the ball came whizzing back to Stanford, who spun around ready to throw them out.
‘Well played,’ he called to her with that cheeky smile.
The other men must have thought so, too, because they had rearranged themselves to cover off the left side of the field.
They were in for a surprise. This time, Stanford didn’t seem nearly as intimidating, despite that rakish grin as he ran a couple of steps before he let the ball fly. She kept her face deliberately blank as the ball came at her, much faster this time. He was showing a little respect. At the last possible moment, she altered the angle of her bat and fired the ball into the sea.
Groans of despair from the men and cheers from the women. Lady Smythe was on her feet, clapping. Not the actions of an impartial umpire at all.
Three runs. A panting Rosa stood in the crease at Lord Stanford’s end of the pitch with Mrs Phillips readying her bat.
‘Aren’t you full of surprises?’ Stanford said, tossing the ball in the air and giving her a jaunty smile.
‘As are you,’ she said. ‘That last ball had an odd sort of curve.’
He grinned. ‘Spotted it, did you?’
‘I almost didn’t hit it.’
‘I wonder what your partner will make of it.’
The beet-faced Mrs Phillips wielded her bat more like a battledore. Rosa inwardly groaned.
He leaned closer. ‘I’ll go easy on her for a kiss.’
Startled, she recoiled.
He laughed. ‘All’s fair,’ he said with a wicked lift of his brow.
His smile was infectious. Disarming. Playful. She grinned back. ‘Eat your heart out, Stanford.’
He leaned closer. ‘I am. For you.’ He tossed the ball in the air and strode off to take up his position.
Heart racing, Rosa stared after him. A softness filled her chest. Sweet and tender. She liked him, she realised with shock. He was funny and teasing when he was not playing the sardonic rake. Something in him reached out to her. And it shouldn’t. Because he was the worst sort of man.
She forced herself to focus on the game, to watch her team member, to ready herself for the ball.