Libby felt her brows climb toward her hair. “I’ve never known anyone who had an archnemesis before.”

“Yes, you have.” Mabena flashed her a smile. “Those two ladies in London always out to steal each other’s suitors. Lady Rose, wasn’t it? And Lady Elvira?”

That seemed a different sort of rivalry. It was all catty words and simpering smiles and insults veiled as compliments. “Oh, my lady, what a lovely gown! It suits you so much better than the one you wore last night.” Not shouts and posturing that looked like it could turn into a fistfight at any moment.

Males were such interesting creatures. No matter the species, they bore remarkably similar behaviors. Puffing out their chests, squawking, locking horns to determine who was stronger or faster or better, claiming territory—or females.

Somehow she hadn’t imagined that Oliver Tremayne—it was a bit difficult to keep the mister in place in her thoughts when the Moons continually forgot it—would be one of two dominant alpha males vying for supremacy. He hadn’t seemed the type when he was strolling with her through the Gardens, blushing over his grandmother’s words, or peering into her very soul. Obviously she had a bit more studying to do before she could fully understand him.

It was a study she wouldn’t mind, she had to admit—silently to herself. During her time in London she’d never found the sport of man watching to be particularly engaging, but perhaps that had something to do with pomaded hair and tuxedos—unnatural plumage, to be sure.

This . . . this was entirely different. The ten men on the beach seemed somehow closer to nature and therefore their own true states. She could see muscles straining under soft clothes, grace in their movements that had nothing to do with choreographed dances. And, as she observed in another moment, the very bonds between them. These were men who interacted without pretense. Their friendship was true and their rivalries comfortable.

And Oliver Tremayne was one of them. A beloved one, whose directions were obeyed almost before he finished speaking.

Mabena stopped them right in the heart of a knot of onlookers, all of whom were watching, shouting, and making noises about the need for tea as they clapped chilled hands together. She wasn’t the only one, it seemed, who’d expected the June morning to be a bit warmer than it was. The group made room for them without any comment other than cheerful, casual greetings. No one gave her curious looks. No one seemed surprised, as she’d been, by Mabena’s loose hairstyle or flowing attire.

The rowers, at a signal she hadn’t seen or heard, climbed into their boats—gigs, Mabena had called them. The onlookers all started cheering and whooping and calling out to the two teams, so Libby clapped along with them.