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The afternoon sun had already begun to dip when the referee declared that the final roll would determine the match.

“Let us end this on a good note!” the old man declared, looking both tired and enthusiastic. He might not have been playing but sweat beaded on his brow.

When it was time to select a player for each team, Rosamund stepped forward without thinking. Thomas smiled at her, as if saying, “We will support you,” and she appreciated it. She was new to the game, but she gained a passion for it. Meanwhile, on the other side, a volunteer stepped forward at about the same time. The Duke leaped forward and both he and Rosamund reached for the wooden ball. She reached for it first, her gloved hands touching its surface and before either could avoid it, his own closed over hers before she could lift it.

It was like the world stopped.

Rosamund’s whole body froze even as her hands were trapped by his own over the ball. He did not pull back, as if just as startled as she was. The heat of his skin went through her thin glove.

Then, she dared to look up at him.

Westbourne was looking down at her at that same moment. The arrogant amusement he wore throughout the game was gone. There were no hints of the rakish charm he used on the other young women.

Rosamund felt numb and truly alive at the same time. It was as if she could hear every sound and feel every sensation but also did not have any command over her senses. With him, she felt both safe and defenseless.

No!

Rosamund tried to move through her temporary paralysis, but it took some effort. In her mind, all that she had learned from the villagers continued to ring in her head. She managed to slip her hands away from the wooden ball, while his own closed in empty air. He straightened himself then, his jaw clenched hard.

A few yards away from then, Rosamund saw Thomas watching them. His friendly smile had faded a little. Concern and doubt seemed to have taken over his face. His eyes seemed to flicker from Rosamund to the Duke, and back again, as if wondering, thinking, and drawing conclusions.

Seeing the scene in the eyes of Thomas had Rosamund steadying herself and focusing on the game that she was supposed to win.

“I believe that it is Lady Rosamund’s turn,” Thomas said quietly, the cheerfulness in his voice gone, although he still seemed determined to boost Rosamund’s morale.

The Duke handed the ball to Rosamund. This time, she did not look at him. She focused on the weight of the ball, and what she was planning to do with it. It did not make sense to delay any longer, as she threw the ball with as much strength as she could muster.

Three pins.

Rosamund groaned. Surely, the Duke would do better than her. He was more skilled and experienced. Therefore, she gave up on the idea that her team would win the game. She looked at Thomas and their other team members apologetically, but they only gave her encouraging smiles.

When the Duke’s turn came, he no longer wore the cocksure smile had earlier. He was more subdued, wrapping his hands around the ball. He rolled it without looking, his swing weaker than usual. Then the pins fell. One. Two. Three. One more wobbled a little, but that was all.

Rosamund gaped at the result. It was not the win they hoped for, but it was not a loss, either. The game ended with a draw.

The other players straggled away from the site and strolled to other parts of the village fete. The evening deepened and activities wound down. Families left with full baskets and joyful hearts.

Rosamund wrapped her shawl around her shoulders, shivering a little. Thomas walked toward her, his hat in his hands, giving her a gentle smile.

“It has been a wonderful day, Lady Rosamund,” Thomas said softly. “It is great to see the village come alive. Of course, part of what makes it wonderful is the fact that you are here.”

“Thank you, Mr. Wycliffe,” Rosamund said, smiling at him. It was so easy to talk to Thomas, much easier than interacting with a certain someone. “You have been such a kind companion today.”

Thomas stepped closer. “The lanes are now growing dark, especially the ones leading to Rosewood cottage. Allow me to walk you home, Lady Rosamund. We can take some of the footbridge paths we used to follow when we were children.”

Before Rosamund could answer, a dark shadow fell over her.

“That will not be necessary, Wycliffe,” the Duke declared, his voice loud and clear in the growing darkness. “I shall escort Lady Rosamund to Rosewood Cottage.”

“Your Grace, I beg your pardon,” Rosamund protested, “I believe I should be able to choose my own escort.”

Westbourne turned to meet her eyes. His eyes flashed and his jaw clenched, but he was quiet for a moment. His gaze flicked from Rosamund to Thomas, his face trying to mask a fury that shook Rosamund to her very core.

What was wrong with the Duke? What was wrong with her?

His eyes flickered a little, as if realizing something. Then, his expression softened a little.

“My apologies, Lady Rosamund and Mr. Wycliffe,” the Duke said, his tone more dignified, as was always expected of him. “Lady Rosamund is correct. She is an independent and excellent woman. She is capable of choosing the person who will accompany her home.”