magazine before an excited feminine voice came within earshot, a voice that squeaked happily along as its owner came closer to where Julia sat.
“Of course I couldn’t believe Papa would actually dare to invite him. He so hates to push, you know, and Trathen is a duke, after all.”
Julia lifted her head at the mention of Aidan, curious. She cocked her head, straining to hear that one voice amid the eddy of feminine conversation in the room. It wasn’t all that difficult. Lady Felicia Vale had a voice that carried.
“But Mama absolutely insisted Papa issue the invitation,” the girl went on, causing Julia to hunker down beneath her enormous hat, hoping not to be identified as the girl came closer to where she sat. “The duke, she said, had displayed great interest in making my acquaintance. Of course, I thought Mama was exaggerating, as she so often does, you know. But you could have knocked me over with a feather when the reply from the duke’s secretary came this morning!”
Julia made a sound of exasperation, then instantly bit her lip, for she didn’t want to be noticed.
“I almost fainted when Mama read his reply aloud,” Felicia went on. “I was so overcome! Even now, my heart flutters and trembles, Cora, to know that I shall meet my hero at last.”
Julia rolled her eyes. Really, the man was hopeless. She’d already warned him about Felicia. What on earth was he doing, consenting to spend time with that girl? Did he have no sense?
“You’re not teasing me?” Felicia’s companion asked, sounding understandably skeptical. “Trathen is truly sitting in your papa’s box tomorrow night?”
“Well, not precisely,” the girl was forced to concede. “He has deigned to call upon us at intermission.”
That information eased Julia’s exasperation with Aidan a little at the knowledge that he hadn’t committed to an entire evening in the girl’s company. He had that much sense, at least.
“But I,” Felicia went on, a surprisingly steely hint entering her voice, “have every intention of seeing that he remains for the remainder of the evening.”
An image of Aidan trying to escape as Felicia Vale clutched his coattails popped into her head, and Julia had to smother her shout of laughter by covering her mouth with her hand. She simply must finagle Paul’s box for the evening so she could observe the encounter through opera glasses. That, she thought, with silent laughter, would be a far more entertaining performance than anything on the Covent Garden stage.
Aidan, as everyone in society knew, was a smashing good tennis player. He’d been captain of the Oxford team, twice made the quarterfinals at Wimbledon, and had defeated the Earl of Danbury in the St. Ives Tournament. At the time, Paul had good-naturedly vowed revenge as they’d shaken hands over the net, but it was two years later, three days after issuing his latest challenge to play, that he got that revenge by defeating Aidan in straight sets.
“Yes!” Paul cried as the ball, untouched by Aidan’s lunging attempt at a volley, bounced off the grass of the court just inside the chalk line, and went out of bounds.
Aidan, carried by momentum, was unable to recover his footing. He stumbled a few steps and went down hard onto his knees, watching in chagrin as the ball bounced away along the turf of the Hyde Park Tennis Club. When it stopped, he turned and looked at his friend, who was grinning at him over the top of the net like a boy on Christmas morning.
“I warned you I’d been practicing my serve.”
Aidan knew Paul’s serve, good as it had become, wasn’t the only reason he’d just been trounced. Thoughts of Paul’s devilish cousin hadn’t helped his game.
He rubbed his wrist across his forehead to dab away the sweat, and stood up. He walked to the net, shifted his racquet to his left hand, and stuck out his right for the customary handshake. “Congratulations, my friend. Well played.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever
“Of course I couldn’t believe Papa would actually dare to invite him. He so hates to push, you know, and Trathen is a duke, after all.”
Julia lifted her head at the mention of Aidan, curious. She cocked her head, straining to hear that one voice amid the eddy of feminine conversation in the room. It wasn’t all that difficult. Lady Felicia Vale had a voice that carried.
“But Mama absolutely insisted Papa issue the invitation,” the girl went on, causing Julia to hunker down beneath her enormous hat, hoping not to be identified as the girl came closer to where she sat. “The duke, she said, had displayed great interest in making my acquaintance. Of course, I thought Mama was exaggerating, as she so often does, you know. But you could have knocked me over with a feather when the reply from the duke’s secretary came this morning!”
Julia made a sound of exasperation, then instantly bit her lip, for she didn’t want to be noticed.
“I almost fainted when Mama read his reply aloud,” Felicia went on. “I was so overcome! Even now, my heart flutters and trembles, Cora, to know that I shall meet my hero at last.”
Julia rolled her eyes. Really, the man was hopeless. She’d already warned him about Felicia. What on earth was he doing, consenting to spend time with that girl? Did he have no sense?
“You’re not teasing me?” Felicia’s companion asked, sounding understandably skeptical. “Trathen is truly sitting in your papa’s box tomorrow night?”
“Well, not precisely,” the girl was forced to concede. “He has deigned to call upon us at intermission.”
That information eased Julia’s exasperation with Aidan a little at the knowledge that he hadn’t committed to an entire evening in the girl’s company. He had that much sense, at least.
“But I,” Felicia went on, a surprisingly steely hint entering her voice, “have every intention of seeing that he remains for the remainder of the evening.”
An image of Aidan trying to escape as Felicia Vale clutched his coattails popped into her head, and Julia had to smother her shout of laughter by covering her mouth with her hand. She simply must finagle Paul’s box for the evening so she could observe the encounter through opera glasses. That, she thought, with silent laughter, would be a far more entertaining performance than anything on the Covent Garden stage.
Aidan, as everyone in society knew, was a smashing good tennis player. He’d been captain of the Oxford team, twice made the quarterfinals at Wimbledon, and had defeated the Earl of Danbury in the St. Ives Tournament. At the time, Paul had good-naturedly vowed revenge as they’d shaken hands over the net, but it was two years later, three days after issuing his latest challenge to play, that he got that revenge by defeating Aidan in straight sets.
“Yes!” Paul cried as the ball, untouched by Aidan’s lunging attempt at a volley, bounced off the grass of the court just inside the chalk line, and went out of bounds.
Aidan, carried by momentum, was unable to recover his footing. He stumbled a few steps and went down hard onto his knees, watching in chagrin as the ball bounced away along the turf of the Hyde Park Tennis Club. When it stopped, he turned and looked at his friend, who was grinning at him over the top of the net like a boy on Christmas morning.
“I warned you I’d been practicing my serve.”
Aidan knew Paul’s serve, good as it had become, wasn’t the only reason he’d just been trounced. Thoughts of Paul’s devilish cousin hadn’t helped his game.
He rubbed his wrist across his forehead to dab away the sweat, and stood up. He walked to the net, shifted his racquet to his left hand, and stuck out his right for the customary handshake. “Congratulations, my friend. Well played.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever
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