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were more delicious than most.
    He savored this over tea in his office, sighing with pleasure as he gazed upon the black mallet, which lay across his desk like a prized trophy. It looked gorgeous, gleaming in the morning light—or at least gleaming where it wasn’t scuffed and battered from decades of rough play.
    No matter. Anthony loved every last dent and scratch. Perhaps it was childish, infantile even, but he adored it.
    Mostly he adored that he had it in his possession, but he was still rather fond of it. When he was able to forget that he had brilliantly snatched it from under Kate’s nose, he actually recalled that it marked something else—
    The day he’d fallen in love.
    Not that he’d realized it at the time. Nor had Kate, he imagined, but he was certain that that was the day they had been fated to be together—the day of the infamous Pall Mall match.
    She left him with the pink mallet. She had sent his ball into the lake.
    God, what a woman.
    It had been a most excellent fifteen years.
    He smiled contentedly, then let his gaze drop to the black mallet again. Every year they replayed the match. All of the original players—Anthony, Kate, his brother Colin, his sister Daphne and her husband Simon, and Kate’s sister Edwina—they all trooped dutifully to Aubrey Hall each spring and took up their places on the ever-shifting course. Some agreed to attend with zeal and some with mere amusement, but they were all there, every year.
    And this year—
    Anthony chortled with glee. He had the mallet and Kate did not.
    Life was good. Life was very very good.
     
    “Kaaaaaaaaaaate!”
    Kate looked up from her book.
    “Kaaaaaaaaaaate!”
    She tried to gauge his distance. After fifteen years of hearing her name bellowed in much the same fashion, she’d become quite proficient at calculating the time between the first roar and her husband’s appearance.
    It was not as straightforward a calculation as it might seem. There was her location to consider—was she upstairs or down, visible from the doorway, et cetera, et cetera.
    Then one had to add in the children. Were they at home? Possibly in his way? They would slow him down, certainly, perhaps even by a full minute, and—
    “ You! ”
    Kate blinked with surprise. Anthony was in the doorway, panting with exertion and glaring at her with a surprising degree of venom.
    “Where is it?” he demanded.
    Well, perhaps not so surprising.
    She blinked impassively. “Would you like to sit down?” she inquired. “You look somewhat overexerted.”
    “Kate . . .”
    “You’re not as young as you used to be,” she said with a sigh.
    “Kate . . .” The volume was rising.
    “I can ring for tea,” she said sweetly.
    “It was locked,” he growled. “My office was locked.”
    “Was it?” she murmured.
    “I have the only key.”
    “Do you?”
    His eyes widened. “What have you done?”
    She flipped a page, even though she wasn’t looking at the print. “When?”
    “What do you mean, when?”
    “I mean . . .” She paused, because this was not a moment to let pass without proper internal celebration. “When. This morning? Or last month?”
    It took him a moment. No more than a second or two, but it was just long enough for Kate to watch his expression slide from confusion to suspicion to outrage.
    It was glorious. Enchanting. Delicious. She’d have cackled with it, but that would only encourage another month of double-double-toil-and-trouble jokes, and she’d only just got him to cease.
    “You made a key to my office?”
    “I am your wife,” she said, glancing at her fingernails. “There should be no secrets between us, don’t you think?”
    “You made a key?”
    “You wouldn’t wish for me to keep secrets, would you?”
    His fingers gripped the door frame until his knuckles turned white. “Stop looking like you’re enjoying this,” he ground out.
    “Ah, but that would be a lie, and it’s a sin to lie to one’s husband.”
    Strange