She turned, meeting his suddenly serious expression with a suspicious one of her own. “You must forgive my directness, but as I’m sure you are aware of the reputation of the Devine men, and seeing as how the chaperones are taking tea with your sister at the castle presently…d-do you mean to seduce me?”
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He took a step closer, leaving only enough space for the tube of arrows between them, the bow being held at his side. A cool gust of wind sifted through them, sending his clean soapy scent and a hint of leather in her direction.
“I—I mean, we are rather separated from the rest of the group,” she said, trembling a bit.
He tilted his head in an assessing manner, examining her with such a charming grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, she fought the urge to smile back and bask in his attention.
Good Lord, why will he not say something?
He leaned forward a touch, as if about to indulge her of a wicked secret. “Do you want me to?”
She threw a hand to her throat. “Of course not!”
“I thought I should inquire. You looked almost hopeful,” he said, his eyes sparkling with mischief.
“I certainly did not!” She swallowed, secretly worrying that she had looked pitifully expectant. “You must have mistaken my concern for personal security for anticipation. Your reputation is rather tarnished.”
Nodding like he’d made up his mind about just what sort of woman she was, he said, “Guilty by association, is it? Tell me what you’ve heard and I shall venture to enlighten you. Really, Miss Haywood, I’ve no ulterior motives where you are concerned.”
“Humph. I’ve a mind to think it’s all part of the Devine plan—to appear innocent and lure your victims in.”
“If I were going to seduce you,” he said quietly, “would I increase your odds of deflecting my advances by arming you with weapons?”
Blushing, she gave a short, soft laugh. “Well…no,” she said, her embarrassment so strong her skin felt prickly.
Why in the world did she think, even for a second, this man would want to seduce her? A little nobody with little money, a small dowry, and even less in good looks. Of that she could have no doubt—Priscilla constantly reminded her that her curves bordered on too generous, her thick red hair too, well, red. Oh dear, what an idiot he must think her. She rummaged around her thoughts, looking for a way to change the subject. “I’m wondering…”
“Hmm?” He looked so handsome, gazing down at her expectantly.
The wind stirred the thick black locks curling around his collar, and his eyes matched the color of the sky today. She knew it was her imagination again, or some trick of his, but he had the appearance of…well, he almost looked as if…as if he enjoyed her company.
She smiled tightly, reminding herself not to fall again for his effortless charm. “At my interview, you said you’d stay away, and now here you are, standing in front of me.” And shamefully too near, she added to herself.
“Indeed, but that was before…” He paused to shake a lock of black hair out of his eyes with a toss of his head. “You see…I couldn’t resist.”
“Resist what?”
“You.”
She supposed he meant only to tease her again, but his intent gaze and the intimate timbre of his voice flushed her traitorous body with heat. Swallowing hard, she realized her protective wall was cracking under his onslaught of subtle flirtation.
However did this man manage to both infuriate and charm her with only his presence? One minute she steadfastly assumed she could ignore him and the next she warmed to his gentle teasing.
He continued to stare down at her, his body blocking out the rest of the world. The wind dislodged a lock of her hair and the breeze took it, tickling her cheek. She reached up to rub the curl away at the same time he did, only he got there first. Her fingertips brushed the back of his hand. To an onlooker, it would appear he was caressing her cheek, and she was encouraging him. She let her hand drop away thinking he’d do the same, and he did, but not before tucking the coil behind her ear.
His heavy-lidded gaze dropped to her mouth. She wouldn’t fall for that ploy again. Reflexively, she licked her lips, then fixed her attention on his shirt, which did little to calm her nerves. A slit between button holes offered her a peek of his golden skin. She nearly gulped.
“Shall we begin the lesson?” she asked, somehow finding the courage to look up at him again.
He nodded slowly, his pensive expression pulling into a scowl. Finally, he tore his fixed stare away from her lips and threw a glance at the stand holding the bull’s-eye across the way.
“This one’s only fifteen meters away,” he said, sounding a bit cross. “Turn around.”
She blinked a few times, not quite sure she understood him. Making a circle in the air with her finger, she looked at him askance.
“That’s right, turn around.”
With her pale muslin dress fluttering in the breeze, she did as he commanded, presenting her back to him. He stepped in close behind her, the folds of her dress billowing in and around his legs. Instantly, the heat emanating from his body spread across her back.
“First, one must find a proper stance.” His deep, cultured voice sounded just above her left ear. She tried to ignore the tiny ripples of shivers running down her neck to her shoulders. “Your initial instinct was to turn in and face your target, but this will only cause you to shoot low.”
“Then how is it I should stand?” she asked, her voice shaky.
“Were you not observing the other ladies?” He stood so close to her back, she felt every word he wrapped his lips around.
“No. I did not.”
“Too busy watching my brother?”
She closed her eyes, her neck bent slightly to the side, secretly allowing his breath to feather across her skin as he spoke. Lord, she’d lost her fortitude.
“If I had been listening to his lordship,” she murmured, “I gather I would have known how to stand. Besides, you of all people know I have no interest in Lord Tristan.”
“Hmm,” he said quietly. “Which makes it all the more likely he’ll choose you.”
Her eyes flew open at his words, but before she could ask him what he meant, he slid one booted foot in between her feet.
She gasped. “Your Grace?”
“Please cease the formality and address me by my Christian name.”
“Thank you, but no. I’m not falling for that again.”
“At least in private, then.”
She shook her head.
“I insist.”
“It wouldn’t be proper.”
“Neither is climbing out a window with your skirts hitched up to your waist. Come now, let us be friends. I daresay, I’ve seen more of your body in the last couple of days than any ma—”
“Stop,” she said curtly, her face flushed with heat. “That’s enough. Fine. I acquiesce. Gabriel it is.” Friends, he says. Why did that irk her so?
“And may I call you by your given name?”
“No,” she said flatly. The deep sound of his answering laughter rumbled behind her. She smiled freely, guessing he wouldn’t be able to see.
Placing a warm hand on the swell of her hip, he gently nudged her feet apart. “Slide your left foot back a bit,” he said, a smile in his voice.
She complied. Then her breath caught as his knee brushed the back of her thigh.
“Once you’ve mastered this stance, you can choose from countless others.” His tone changed.
Although it was a tone of simple instruction, the air dripped with sensuality—like he was no longer speaking of archery but of some dark, sinful delight of which she could only imagine.
“Are you paying attention?” he asked.
“Mmm-hmm,” she managed softly.
“I ask because you’ve closed your eyes again.”
“Wh-What?” She blinked herself out of a stupor and straightened her spine.
“Is the wasp sting sti
ll bothering you? You should have tried my key.”
“It wasn’t necessary.” The last thing she wanted to discuss with him was the state of her bottom. “I’ve fully recovered.”
“Good.” He cleared his throat. “Practice each position over and over. Compare the results of your release. And with time you will discover which one is more pleasurable for you.”
“What are we talking about?”
“Your stance.” Without retreating from his wicked nearness, he reached around her, offering her the bow. “Take it,” he said, his breath feathering her earlobe.
She grasped the bow, holding it tightly between her thumb and index finger.
“Relax your grip,” he said softly. “Take the arrow. Raise it…draw…hold.”
The man was positively on fire. The presence of his body heat was distracting her thoughts. As her hands shook, she regretted appearing so visibly apprehensive. As attentive as his brother was to the other ladies, she had never seen him take the liberty of standing so sinfully near. Truly, if she were to take a step back, she’d be pressed up tight against him. The thought secretly thrilled her.
“This is why you jerked the shot,” he said, removing his hand from her hip to settle it over her drawing hand. “Relax.”
“Calming myself at this point is out of the question. You are standing too close,” she finished quickly, as if running out of air.
After a brief hesitation that felt like an eternity, he took one step back. But it wasn’t nearly enough. Her heart still palpitated and she felt undeniably overheated.
“Look at your target. Concentrate on keeping your eyes open,” he said while manipulating her fingers underneath his into the correct position. “Allow the string to slip off your fingers without moving your hands.” He finally stepped fully away from her, allowing a rush of cool air to race up her back.
Madelyn held her position, allowing time to regain her senses. “I’ll miss, I know it. I’m simply too clumsy for this sport,” she said after a few steadying breaths.
“Nonsense. When you’re ready, release.”
Taking a deep breath, she aimed the shot.
“Eyes open,” the duke playfully reminded her.
“Yes, yes, my eyes are open.” She deliberately widened them for emphasis.
There was a flicking sound—not a twang, as she’d heard earlier—and her arrow flew through the air, hitting the outermost ring. It wasn’t a bull’s-eye, but she hit the target. Not the lawn or a bush or an ill-fated gardener’s bottom, but an actual target. Astonished, she whirled around to face him.
“Well done,” the duke said warmly, giving her shoulder a gentle pat.
“I can’t believe I did it,” she said, beaming up at him.
He smiled at her enthusiasm, the skin around the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Of course you did. I instructed you.”
She rolled her eyes. “I know for you it must seem a rather insignificant triumph, but for me…” She sighed, satisfied.
For the next quarter of an hour she continued to practice and Gabriel continued to instruct. He grinned and patted her shoulder when she did well—after she stopped jumping up and down in celebration, of course—and offered her further coaching when she did poorly. He continued to stand close enough to brush up against her every now and again, but she soon became used to it and often found herself seeking the shield of his broad chest when a chilly gust raced across the lawn.
All too soon they ran out of arrows and agreed to retrieve them together.
“My stepmother wouldn’t believe it if she witnessed it with her own eyes.”
“Come now, Miss Haywood. Surely you discredit yourself.”
The statement came from Lord Tristan, who emerged from the trees with a swagger, his pastel entourage following in his wake. With dark auburn locks, long straight nose, and a strong, squared jaw, there was no denying Lord Tristan was handsome—in a romantic sense. But Madelyn thought his cool blue eyes exemplified an adolescent shallowness. Mayhap in about five years his mind would catch up to his outward appearance. Except for the blue eyes, he looked very little like Gabriel—he of the dark and brooding.
It struck Madelyn that maybe it was why she found Gabriel so charming. He didn’t have the appearance of a man who smiled warmly or often. But when he did, it seemed to knock the breath straight out of her. It transformed his entire face. Truly, if he’d frequent London ballrooms and quit sulking so often, she rather thought all the ladies would be flocking at his feet, instead of scurrying from his scowl.
“The ladies are distressing,” Tristan said, straightening his hat, “that you might be changing your mind about this whole not-taking-a-bride thing.”
“Don’t agonize, Tristan. Seeing as how your hands were so delightfully full while tutoring, I chose to lighten your task and assist Miss Haywood myself.”
“Why would I agonize? It’s not as if you’re a challenge to me.”
“And a challenge would trouble you?”
“Of course. I would feel horrible when you embarrassed yourself trying to prove you were a better shot.”
Madelyn watched the exchange between brothers with avid interest. She wasn’t sure how it started, but the spark of competition flared between them seemingly out of nowhere.
“All right, then,” Lord Tristan said, pointing east. “The apple tree next to the Rose Pavilion.”
And what a sad little apple tree it was. Madelyn squinted, barely making out a single red apple hanging high on an otherwise naked branch. Poor thing stood separated from the rest of the orchard, which was enclosed with walls for protection from the wind and the rain.
“About forty meters away,” Lord Tristan informed the group. “First one to hit that lone apple gets to escort Miss Haywood back to the castle.”
The duke inclined his head, accepting the challenge. He swept his hand forward, indicating his brother go first.
Madelyn wasn’t sure how she felt about being someone’s prize, but she wasn’t about to let it go to her head. After all, she surmised, surely they weren’t fighting over her. That would be preposterous.
Lord Tristan stepped forward, giving himself ample room. He held out his empty hand, waiting a moment before Harriet murmured “Oh!” and flounced over to him, handing him his bow and an arrow.
“Thank you, Miss Beauchamp,” he said without turning to look at her. Taking up his stance with great ostentation, he drew back, held, aimed, and released.
Madelyn was certain his lordship would win as she watched his arrow. A series of rapid whacking sounds rent the air as it slapped through a scattering of leaves on the branch just below the apple, then flew to the ground, jabbing into the dirt. Lord Tristan’s throat convulsed in apparent vexation.
Silence enveloped them. Madelyn pursed her lips and glanced around the group.
Belinda Fairbourne stepped forward. “’Tis a shame the sun went behind the clouds, my lord. A distraction, for sure.”
“And that bird chirping above our heads is quite irksome,” her sister Bernadette added, pointing above her head. “Don’t you agree, ladies?”
Overly sincere choruses of “Yes” and “Indeed” followed the query.
Lord Tristan turned, white plume bobbing, and grinned at them quite like he wholeheartedly agreed.
A chuckle bubbled up inside Madelyn, but she managed to contain it. Her laughing eyes met Gabriel’s as he took the bow out of her hand, his lingering touch skimming across her knuckles.
He slid an arrow out of the quiver, then handed Harriet the tube. She took it, looking mightily pleased, leaning in close. Gabriel nodded his thanks distractedly, then strode over to stand next to his brother.
Without any of Lord Tristan’s pompous flair, he set his arrow, drew back and held. Madelyn stared, transfixed, at his bare forearms. The muscles flexed and tightened as he aimed his shot.
A whizzing sound rent the air as his arrow cut through the sky, ripping through the wind and slicing into the apple. The fruit dropped
to the ground. Gabriel’s arrow had split it in two.
“Satisfied?” he asked, turning to his brother.
Lord Tristan removed his hat, swooping down for a low bow. “I am humbled,” he said, straightening and returning his plumed hat atop his head.
Gabriel nodded, slapping his brother on the back. Lord Tristan then took the bow from him and sauntered away, a Fairbourne twin on each arm, Harriet in the lead and Laura and Julienne on the ends, cooing in conciliation.
Gabriel held out his arm to Madelyn. “My prize?”
She placed her hand on his arm. “I’m not so sure I’m fit to be anyone’s prize.”
“Come now, Miss Haywood. Tell me you’re not the sort to fish for a compliment.”
Her face flushed with heat. She wasn’t sure why she’d made the comment, but baiting him for praise wasn’t one of them. “No, of course not,” she replied, forcing a small laugh.
“Good,” he said, sliding a glance at her. “Because a beautiful woman should never plead for flattery.”
Taken aback, she glanced at his handsome profile. He was frowning, looking ahead as they walked on. Beautiful? Just the other day he claimed she wasn’t even pretty.
They entered the copse of trees, Lord Tristan and the other girls already far ahead. “I’m quite impressed by your accuracy,” she said with sincerity.
“Truth be told,” he replied, still looking forward, “I’m surprised he missed. He’s quite a good shot, really.”
“It’s the feather. Perhaps it threw him off balance.”
To her surprise, he threw back his head for a short bark of laughter. “You could be right, love.”
They emerged from the trees, making their way across the lawn, Lord Tristan and the others far ahead. Madelyn turned toward the castle but was jerked to the left as the duke veered in the opposite direction.
Her brows drew together in a frown. “Are we not to return to the castle?”
He nodded. “Are you not forgetting someone?”
Her mind drew a blank, then suddenly she gasped. “Charlotte!”
Together they approached the sun canopy, startling a daydreaming Charlotte. Gabriel bent low, offering her friend his other arm with a smile and a “Shall we?”
At the Bride Hunt Ball Page 9