She stood in the center of the field, the mallet firmly in her grip. She’d already flung it halfway down the lawn once, narrowly missing Annabelle’s head. Wood had taken the opportunity to instruct her, standing behind her as he guided her next stroke.
Adam clenched his jaw and gripped the handle of his mallet in a tight fist. Jealousy was not a feeling he often encountered. In life, he remained blissfully removed from the troublesome emotion. Women were instruments of pleasure—a diversion—and certainly not worth fits of passion, or feelings of possession.
Except Olivia.
She was something else entirely, a witty, intelligent, prideful creature of her own creation. And she belonged to him.
No, not her, he corrected. Her virtue.
It was his, unequivocally, and he’d do well to set Wood on his guard. Perhaps he’d talk to the man this evening, set some clear boundaries: Don’t talk to Olivia, ever. Don’t touch her. And do not, for any conceivable reason, glance her way.
Wood stepped back as Olivia prepared for her next swing. She drew her mallet back and released, sending it flying halfway down the lawn. It seemed to hover in the air for several seconds before it finally came to rest at James’s feet. “Well done, Olivia,” he said, his eyes never leaving the paper in front of him.
“Oh!” She gasped, hands cupped over her mouth.
Wood stepped forward. “Here, take my mallet. Yours seems rather light.”
“Not nearly as light as her skirts.” He glanced at Wood. “Or haven’t you read the newssheets?”
A collective gasp escaped the party of onlookers, and Adam immediately regretted his words.
Olivia straightened, her eyes wide, her cheeks flushed scarlet. Instantly, guilt and shame weighed like an anvil on his chest.
He expected her to lash back at him, call him out for his cruelty. She didn’t. She was as silent as the tomb—which was far worse. He’d much prefer a public tongue lashing to her stunned, horrified silence.
When she said nothing, he took a step toward her. “Olivia—”
Before her name had even left his mouth, she’d turned on her heel and fled toward the house. Good God, what had he done?
He glanced around. No one would look him directly in the eye—and of course they shouldn’t. He was a cad, the very worst of men to humiliate a lady in front of everyone. She could have retorted, said something biting in return—God knew she had plenty to charge him with—but she hadn’t. She’d straightened her spine, and endured his slight with the grace and dignity of a queen.
Releasing a breath, he dropped his mallet and strode after her. She was already far ahead of him when she darted to the side and around the house. He followed, careful to keep his distance lest she see him and run.
She finally lowered herself onto a stone bench surrounded by fragrant pink rose bushes. Gingerly, she pulled a note from her bodice and unfolded it carefully. She stared at it for long moments before a faint sob escaped her lips. Crumpling it, she threw it to the ground.
Was it a note from Wood?
That option didn’t sit well with him. Stepping forward, he brought himself into full view. She jumped to her feet when she saw him, wiping away tears with the palm of her hand. Her eyes were red and swollen, and it killed him to know that he was the cause. “What more could you possibly want?”
“I…” He was always so sure of his own course, but for once in his life, he was uncertain how to proceed. He swallowed. “I came to apologize for my remark.”
She narrowed her eyes, fists clenched into tight balls at her sides. “You’re an insensitive worm, Adam Rycroft. How could you humiliate me like that, in front of everyone?”
His mind reached for an excuse, a reason why he’d been so cutting. In the end, he settled on the truth. “I wanted to hurt you.”
She lunged at him then, a feral growl escaping from her otherwise ladylike lips. Self-preservation forced him to step back, but it wasn’t enough. Her dainty fist connected with his jaw—hard—causing his head to snap back. Pain bloomed where she’d struck him.
Perhaps honesty hadn’t been the best strategy, after all.
Before he could comment on her unnatural strength, or ask where she’d learned such a violent maneuver, she asked, “What have I done—recently—to deserve such contempt from you?”
His rubbed his jaw, frowning. “Two years ago, you chose Whitmore over me. Now, I fear you will choose Wood.”
The words were heartfelt and genuine, but he wondered at the wisdom of sharing them. Like no other woman, she had the power to destroy him. With one look, one word, she could shatter him all over again. He waited, breath held, for her to reply.