Mr. Pettibone tasted his tea with the quiet appreciation of a connoisseur and set the demitasse back on its saucer.  “It is always such a treat for me when you come to visit, dear lady.  I save my best blends for these very special occasions.  Rarely is one able to find an associate who shares one’s taste for the finer things in life.”

The woman’s smile curved into the rim of her cup as she casually crossed her long, elegant legs.  “Associate?  You mean competitor, don’t you, sir?”

“Only once a year, my lady; once a year.  Would you care for a bit of cake?”  He gently rang a small silver bell on the tray before him.  “And even at this most exciting time of the season, I can scarcely think of you as a competitor, Eleanor.  It’s not as if you have a snowball’s chance in hell of winning—as usual.”

Mrs. French laughed, the gauzy, ribboned veils on her hat swirling easily in the breeze.  “You’re being unusually catty this year, Harcourt.  I’m glad to see it.  It means you must be just a tiny bit worried.”

He gazed with frank admiration into the glass-green eyes before him.  Summer-flushed skin, perfect bearing, and cinnamon-brown hair that burned bronze in the sunlight.  How astonishing that the only woman who gave him such a thrill was the woman who always proved nearly—nearly—his equal.  “I love the way your Southern accent deepens when you need to use your femininity as a weapon, my dear.  Especially when it’s all you have.”

“Now, Mr. Pettibone, don’t treat me like one of your naïve little schoolgirls.  We both know that I wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t heard about—oh, here are the cakes.”

They leaned back in the wide wicker chairs to allow the serving of their treat.  The girl who brought the delicacies was dark-haired and ruddy-cheeked, her small waistline cinched below a bust so bountiful it hovered precariously low over the silver tray.

“Deanna is one of my most gifted pupils.  She’s finishing near the top of her graduating class.  Deanna, this is Mrs. Eleanor French.  I believe you’ve heard of her.  She runs the finishing school just across the lake.”

The girl inclined her head ever so slightly.  “My pleasure, Mrs. French.”

Mr. Pettibone waved distractedly at a marauding bee intent on tasting his tea.  “Would you be so kind, Deanna, as to show Mrs. French your wares before pouring us a little more of that excellent brew?  And then you may excuse yourself.”

Deanna calmly opened the buttons of her starched white blouse and pulled it from the confines of her belt, allowing her unfettered bosom the pleasure of the warm afternoon sun as she carefully refilled their cups.

“Why, Mr. Pettibone,” Mrs. French murmured admiringly.  “I’ve seen the girl on your grounds before—but I never knew she was so lovely.”  Reaching out, she cupped one of the young woman’s breasts, feeling the weight and texture as she jiggled it in her hand.  “Quite delectable, my dear.  Oh, I’m so glad you invited me for tea, darlin’ Harcourt.  If your other selections are anything like this one, we should have one wicked little contest indeed!”