There were few moments, Anthony decided, quite so delicious as the utter and complete besting of one’s wife. It depended upon the wife, of course, but as he had chosen to wed a woman of superb intellect and wit, his moments, he was sure, 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 had 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.

The day after that

“Kaaaaaaaaaaate!”

Kate looked up from her book.