“I think you will like it this way,” she said primly. “And if you don’t, you can tell Lord Northwick all about it, and then you will know for certain that his layout is superior.”

George snorted.

Billie ignored him.

“The wickets,” Andrew reminded everyone.

“George and I will do it,” Billie said, grabbing them from Andrew’s proffered hand.

George looked at her with some indulgence. “Oh we will, will we?”

“Lord Kennard,” she said through clenched teeth, “will you be so kind as to help me set out the wickets?”

He glanced down at her injured ankle. “What, you mean because you cannot walk?”

She gave him an over-sweet smile. “Because I delight in your company.”

He almost laughed.

“Andrew can’t do it,” she went on, “and no one else knows where they go.”

“If we played in the shape of a cross,” Lady Alexandra said to Mr. Berbrooke, “any one of us could set the wickets out.”

Mr. Berbrooke nodded.

“We would start at the nave,” Lady Alexandra instructed, “then move on to the transept and then the altar.”

Mr. Berbrooke looked down at his mallet and frowned. “Doesn’t seem like a very churchy game.”

“It could be,” Lady Alexandra replied.

“But we don’t want it to be,” Billie said sharply.

George grabbed her arm. “The wickets,” he said, pulling her away before the two ladies came to blows.

“I really don’t like that woman,” she grumbled once they were out of earshot.

“Really?” George murmured. “I would never have known.”

“Just help me with the wickets,” she said, turning toward a large oak at the edge of the clearing. “Follow me.”

He watched her for a few steps. She was still limping, but it was different somehow. More awkward. “Did you hurt yourself again?”

“Hmmm? Oh, that.” She let out an irritated snort. “It was the sidesaddle.”

“I beg your pardon?”

She shrugged. “I can’t put my bad foot in a stirrup. So I had to ride sidesaddle.”

“And you needed to ride because . . .”

She looked at him as if he were an idiot. Which he was fairly certain he was not.

“Billie,” he said, grabbing her by the wrist so they were both yanked to a halt, “what was so important that you had to ride with an injured ankle?”

“The barley,” she said plainly.

He must have misheard. “What?”

“Someone had to make sure it was being planted properly,” she said, deftly pulling her hand free.

He was going to kill her. Or rather he would, except that she would probably end up doing it herself first. He took a breath, then asked, as patiently as he could, “Isn’t that the job of your steward?”

Her brows pulled together. “I don’t know what you think I do all day when I’m not flitting away at house parties, but I am an extremely busy person.” Something changed in her expression; something George could not quite name, and then she said, “I am a useful person.”