by Heather Snow
His breath caught at her loveliness. She was a queen, he thought, with high cheekbones and a narrow chin. Her full mouth entranced him and her skin fairly shimmered, though her complexion was darker than your average English rose. A knight of old could have done far worse in a maiden.
Then she seemed to remember herself. She dropped the bouquet onto the seat behind her and the fake smile returned. “Congratulations, my lord,” she said, her sensual tone turning imperious. “ ’Twas quite a spectacle, though I must own to being surprised by your victory.”
Any heat he’d felt moved swiftly to his head. “Surprised?” he choked.
She nodded. “Shocked, actually. Your form is quite deplorable,” she remarked. She glanced down, pointedly. “Were I you, I would focus on my footwork. You can’t just stand there all day and expect to overpower your opponent with brute force. You must be fleet of foot.”
“Fleet of foot…,” Geoffrey repeated. His lower back howled.
“Precisely,” she returned, looking earnest. “Lord Holbrook is a much more graceful swordsman. Had it not been for that bit of trickery at the end, you surely would have been defeated.”
Trickery? Trickery? Did he say “queen”? More like “fishwife.” Why, if they weren’t surrounded by a crowd of people, he’d— “How would you know?” Geoffrey sputtered, remembering her scribblings. “You hardly observed the match.” Her hands were empty, so he looked behind her. On the chair, peeking out from beneath the discarded bouquet, he saw a corner of paper. He reached around her and snatched it up. What had she been writing?
She gasped, grasping for the paper but missing. “That’s private!”
He ignored her, opened the page and looked. Then looked again. It resembled the mathematical equations he’d suffered over as a boy at Harrow, with long and short lines and addition, subtraction and equals symbols. Yet there were also little arrows and letters instead of numbers.
“What is this?” he asked, intrigued.
“It’s none of your business,” she said and held her hand out.
He didn’t give it back. She firmed her lips and narrowed her eyes. In answer, he raised a brow.
She sighed. “I was working out a reaction,” she said.
“A reaction?” He looked again at the paper, then back at her.
She glared, and the most darling little V appeared between her chestnut brows. “I was trying to combine a biological reaction with a chemical one to prove a theory of mine,” she said. She snapped her fingers and opened her hand again in a demand that he return her paper. “You wouldn’t understand.”
This time, Geoffrey firmed his lips. No, he wouldn’t understand, but he most decidedly didn’t care for being told that by a slip of a woman. Any more than he liked her criticizing his footwork when she had no idea of the pain he was in. Besides, he’d wager she’d never even lifted a sword in her life.
He handed the paper back to her. “Probably trying to concoct some sort of love potion to snare unwilling suitors,” he grumbled, turning his back on her.
Geoffrey heard her gasp as he stalked away and smiled.
Point, him.
Geoffrey had calmed considerably by the time he rode out for the second competition. Having a horse beneath him always had that effect, though it felt odd being seated on a mount other than Grin.
Geoffrey’s ire started to rise as he turned toward Liliana, however. Damned woman. Ever since she’d dropped into his arms last night, he’d been tied in knots. On one hand, desire gripped him. On the other, the need to turn her over his knee until she admitted it was the same for her rode him. On the third hand, if he had a third hand, lay the question of who she was. Why had he never seen her out in society? But more important, why was he so conflicted over this rude, irritating girl? Hell, that was like five hands. He’d have to be Kali to decipher his response to Liliana Claremont.
For her part, she stood politely but without enthusiasm, a lavender ribbon in her hand. She looked bored. No wonder he’d never seen her out in society. The woman had the manners of a horse. She probably bit, too.
He halted his mount in front of her and bowed his head. “M’lady?”
She stepped forward, and he was struck by how tall she stood compared to the women around her. Liliana didn’t look to be intimidated by his horse, either. While some women approached their champions’ mounts warily, Liliana held her hand out beneath his mount’s nose and cooed something to him. The horse whinnied and nuzzled her. She smiled, delighted. Geoffrey was sure the damned horse smiled back.
Well, of course the horse would like her. She smelled of apples. And lemon verbena, he remembered, and with that sensual memory came every detail of her innocent, passionate kisses. He remembered how perfectly she’d fit in his arms, how natural it had been to lower his lips to hers. How right. Geoffrey’s groin tightened painfully.
Oblivious, she stroked the horse’s nose, then tied a frilly bow around its bridle. “Good luck,” she said in a way that made Geoffrey think she was wishing the horse luck rather than him.
Brilliant. Now he was jealous of a nag.
He whipped the reins and turned toward the field. The green grass lay dotted with rounded barrels and semitreacherous wooden jumps. The course included tight turns and tricky maneuvers. Geoffrey could only imagine the blunt it would take to repair the lawn after a dozen horses tore through it. Perhaps he should cut Mother off.
His horse nickered as they lined up at the start. Geoffrey reviewed the course, mentally strategizing. The design had skewed the race once again toward Geoffrey’s skill, which was why he’d refused to ride Grin. A seasoned battle horse, Grin would have ridden rings around these civilian mounts. Besides, Grin would have been mortified to have ribbons braided into his tail.
Holbrook sidled up next to him on his own mount. “Victory not all it’s purported to be?” he asked, laughter edging his voice.
Geoffrey grunted. Damn. He’d hoped his and Liliana’s interchange hadn’t been overheard. “Women.”
Holbrook did laugh then. Geoffrey smiled as well. He liked the young viscount and hoped to convince Holbrook to work with him on presenting some measures to Parliament.
“Perhaps she’ll be more impressed with your horsemanship,” Holbrook offered.
Geoffrey glanced at Liliana, who was again scribbling on her paper.
Somehow, he doubted it.
The trumpet blared and they were off.
Geoffrey’s horse got off to a slow start, but he didn’t worry over it. They’d make it up when it came to the turning obstacles. Geoffrey’s lower back twinged as he flew over the jumps, landing hard, but he hardly cared. On the back of a horse was the only place he felt at home.
Coming out of the jumps, he turned his horse sharply, heading straight for the barrels. He was still a bit behind, but as he deftly skirted them, first left, then right, then left, left, right, he whipped his mount around well ahead of the pack.
Exhilaration rushed through Geoffrey and he gave the horse his head, leaning forward. They flew back to the finish, several strides before any other pair.
The crowd cheered.
Most of the crowd, anyway. Geoffrey sought out Liliana, who again stood docile but at least smiling.
A servant ran out and handed Geoffrey a bouquet. The pretty purple flowers mocked him. Perhaps he should have sent for straight thistles this time.
Still, he was determined to present the bouquet with all politeness and head back to the tent.
He rode over to Liliana, who immediately stepped up and stroked his horse’s face. “Well done,” she murmured to the animal. Her husky voice floated up to Geoffrey, and for a moment he wished it were he she stroked.
She looked up at him then. “And well done to you, my lord,” she said. “You are a superb horseman.”
Geoffrey waited for the insult, but it didn’t come. He smiled, the pleasure of her compliment warming him. He handed down the bouquet with much more grace than he’d intended to moments before. “
Thank you, Miss Claremont.”
“You’re welcome.” She smiled, taking the flowers. She discarded them on her chair without even glancing at them. “Of course, I fully expected you to win this competition. Don’t you think it’s rather unsportsmanlike to expect other men to compete with a decorated cavalryman?” Her smile stayed in place, wide violet eyes blinking up at him in seeming innocence.
Geoffrey’s ears burned. She must be more angry with him over last night than he’d thought. By God, he’d been a fool to attach himself to this contrary chit for the rest of the day and evening.
“I daresay none of the other men want to win,” he answered down his nose. “They fear their maidens will be as solicitous as you.” He wheeled his horse around and headed back toward the tent.
As rejoinders went, it was pretty weak. But what he truly wanted to say to Miss Claremont wasn’t fit for public consumption.
Geoffrey gritted his teeth.
Point, her.
Chapter Seven
L
iliana congratulated herself as Stratford trotted away. It was all she could do not to laugh aloud. Her plan was working brilliantly! She’d seen murder in Stratford’s eyes. Even if he had planned to keep her under surveillance, he certainly wouldn’t willingly put himself in her company after today. “Are you mad, gel?” Aunt Eliza’s harsh whisper came from behind. “What on earth did you say to put Stratford in such a foul disposition?”
Liliana turned in surprise. Aunt had made her way through the crowd and now stood before her. Though Aunt Eliza’s face appeared calm on the surface, her eyes flashed.
Liliana thought fast. She didn’t want to completely alienate her aunt, who could, after all, make the rest of her stay quite difficult.
“A new stratagem, Aunt,” Liliana whispered. “A theory.”
Her aunt blinked, lips firming. “Not one of your theories.”
“Think about it,” Liliana coaxed, making things up as she went. “I have nothing in the way of fortune or connection—”
“You’re niece to a marquess,” Aunt Eliza huffed.
“By marriage,” Liliana acceded, her tone hushed and conspiratorial. “But other women here are much more highly born. Once Stratford thinks upon it, he’ll see we’re not well matched.”
“So you plan to prove that to him quickly to save him the trouble?” Aunt asked, incredulous.
Amongst other things, yes. “Of course not,” Liliana assured her. “My plan is to prick him a bit, make certain that I’m the girl he can’t forget.” Liliana hoped she sounded reasonable to Aunt. To herself she sounded like a twit. “It’s the only chance I’ve got to distinguish myself from the rest.”
“Foolishness.” Aunt shook her head in disgust. “Only my brother could sire such a headstrong, imprudent girl,” she muttered. She raised herself to her full height, well beneath Liliana’s nose. “I command you to stop this nonsensical behavior and apologize to the earl.”
Anger rose in Liliana’s chest. She’d listened to Aunt Eliza criticize her father most of her life. Besides, she would not apologize for being herself. Well, certainly she’d overplayed it. She wasn’t typically rude, but she did, nearly always, speak her mind. Stratford’s footwork had been deplorable, and holding a horse race when one is clearly more experienced than others was quite unfair. She’d said nothing that wasn’t true.
“I shall not,” Liliana said. “A gentleman such as Stratford has dozens of girls bowing and scraping to him, trying to win his hand. I believe he’s the sort of man who likes a challenge.”
The moment the words left her mouth, Liliana frowned. They made more sense than she’d expected, and she had the strangest feeling they might be true. Heavens. What if her incendiary words had done the equivalent of throwing down a gauntlet? No! That would be disastrous.
Aunt opened her mouth in rebuttal, but Liliana stayed her. “Nevertheless, Aunt, I shall take some bit of your advice,” she appeased. After all, the damage had surely been done. “I shall treat Stratford with the utmost respect and solicitude for the rest of the afternoon.”
Aunt gave her a disgusted look, then retreated into the crowd.
Liliana removed the bouquet from her chair and dropped it atop the other one on the grass beside her. She sat, troubled. Perhaps Stratford did like a challenge, but he couldn’t possibly want her and her sharp tongue anymore, if he ever did.
Her eyes sought Stratford. The third event had been set up. Targets were affixed to old barrels several yards out. Archery perhaps?
She spotted Stratford off to her right, standing with the other gentlemen. They looked to be checking pistols. A shooting competition, then.
Well, at least she wouldn’t be subjected to another display of masculine grace and form. Goodness, it had been near impossible to keep her eyes from Stratford all afternoon. Yes, his footwork had not been up to snuff for a swordsman, but as a man—he was quite the specimen. He exuded strength and purpose. Even now, she noted the concentrated intensity with which he cleaned his weapon. If he turned that intensity upon a woman in the bedroom…
Liliana felt herself blush and snatched up her equation. She couldn’t explain this awful attraction, so she did what she always did. Focused her mind on cold science. Yet this time, it didn’t suffice. After scratching through three mistakes in her formula, she set the paper down.
Stratford was such a contradiction. At first, she’d been certain he was on to her. Yet then he’d surprised her with the thoughtful bouquet of globe thistle. When he’d presented her with it, he’d seemed like a true suitor, anxious for her praise. And he’d deserved it. Not only had he fought well, but she’d seen the pain in his eyes. He’d struggled through and come out the victor. She’d felt rotten insulting him so.
Had he truly just been trying to impress her? A warm sensation flowed through her before she squelched it. It hardly mattered if he had.
Still, it wouldn’t hurt to act the proper lady for the rest of the afternoon. If Aunt had noticed her slights, others had as well. That wouldn’t do. Should Stratford win the last event, she’d compliment him. Not effusively, mind you. Just more…nicely. She’d draw no more attention to herself. And then, if it turned out he wasn’t onto her after all, she could slip back into obscurity and complete her search.
The murmuring of the crowd quieted as the men lined up. Liliana sat up straight and fixed her eyes on the field. She would watch this match with interest.
Several feet separated each contestant from his neighbors. Servants stood behind with horns of gunpowder and extra ammunition. Stratford stood nearest to the crowd, giving Liliana a perfect view.
The trumpets sounded and each man raised an arm. Balls shot from twelve pistols with a deafening boom. The yellow-dressed girl gave a little shriek. Liliana rolled her eyes.
She watched Stratford as he meticulously reloaded, pouring his powder precisely. He was close enough that she could see the ripple of muscle on his forearm below his rolled-up sleeve as he took careful aim and pulled the trigger. Another shot exploded from the muzzle.
Again she watched his precision, a trait that she, as a chemist, truly appreciated. Oh yes, concentrated intensity. Her blush returned and she looked away.
After five shots, the men lay down their arms, and servants darted out to retrieve the targets. The targets were taken to a table near the tent, where a panel of judges pored over them before once again declaring Stratford the winner.
This time, Liliana stood and clapped with everyone else. She smiled prettily, waiting to congratulate him.
But the man who stalked toward her with a bouquet held haphazardly upside down in one hand and a target in the other was no sweet suitor. He was fourteen stone of cross male, and he looked to be spoiling for a fight.
“Congratulations—,” Liliana began, but Stratford tossed the bouquet toward her. Not hard, but clearly without care. She caught the lovely bunch of yellow roses and tucked them in the crook of her arm, as if he’d handed them to her gently.
She took a quick step back when the target was thrust into her face.
Five shots clustered very near the bull’s-eye.
Liliana cleared her throat. “Well done, my lord.”
Stratford lowered the target and glared. “Is that all you have to say?”
“Well, yes, I—”
“Because I can assure you, Miss Claremont, most of my shooting experience has been from the back of a moving horse,” Stratford claimed. “With a rifle, not a pistol.”
Liliana didn’t know what to say, so she nodded.
“So my victory meets your ideals of sportsmanship?”