by Anna Bennett
No. She resolved to attend the contest, if for no other reason than to make him aware of her ire. Not only had he failed to return to her in the garden last night as promised, but he’d also tried to wriggle out of his offer to take her for a drive in his curricle. She did not wish to give him the impression that all was forgiven—because it was not.
She hopped out of bed and pretended to be as excited about the competition as Lily and Sophie were, donning one of her smart new day gowns and allowing Mary to style her hair in a bouquet of curls that cascaded over one shoulder. After all, it never hurt to look one’s best when trying to make a gentleman regret his actions.
By the time everyone assembled in the grand foyer and prepared to leave, Fiona couldn’t help but be swept up in anticipation of the outing.
She’d attended an archery contest on a previous occasion—at an estate neighboring her father’s. The contestants and guests had mingled and enjoyed refreshments served beneath large white tents that had been erected for the event. Footmen were engaged to retrieve the arrows from the target after each round. The fields were neatly mowed, and chairs lined the perimeter so that spectators could view the competition in comfort.
But today’s archery contest was turning out to be altogether different.
Everyone set out in high spirits, but the tall grass, damp with dew, proved too daunting for Mama, Lady Callahan, and Gray’s grandmother. All three older ladies complained that their half boots were no match for the slippery lawn and had barely walked a stone’s throw before they announced their intention to return to the house and sip hot tea by the fire. Lord Dunlope, Mr. Kirby’s father, gallantly offered to escort them and was not eager to return himself.
In the end, all that remained of their party were four gentlemen—Gray, Mr. Kirby, Lord Pentham, and his brother, Lord Carter, and three ladies—Lily, Sophie, and Fiona.
Traipsing through the long grass in her silk gown felt like slogging through mud, and by the time Fiona spied the archery target on a hill in the distance her slippers were soaked, her hem was soiled, and she was huffing as though she’d run all the way there.
Gray and Mr. Kirby walked ahead, leading the way and carrying the bows and quivers of arrows, while Lord Pentham and his brother flanked the women and carried a couple of quilts and baskets containing wine, bread, and fruit.
“At last.” Lily held a hand level with her bonnet and squinted into the distance. “Someone, please tell me that target isn’t a mirage.”
Lord Pentham swiped the sleeve of his jacket across his brow. “Almost there. Would you ladies like to rest a moment before the final leg of our journey?” He set down his basket and braced his hands on his knees, anticipating—and no doubt hoping for—an answer in the affirmative.
“I, for one, am not stopping,” Fiona replied. “If I did, I fear I wouldn’t be able to move again until sometime tomorrow. Onward.”
Sophie eyed the hill with trepidation but valiantly marched alongside Fiona as the sun beat down on them.
By the time they arrived at the top, Gray had already paced off the distance from the target and laid out a pair of bows and two dozen arrows.
Vexingly, he didn’t appear winded in the least. “Who wants to go first?” he asked without preamble.
Lord Carter chuckled. “I won’t speak for anyone else, but I’m going to need a glass of ale before any further exertions.”
Most everyone voiced their agreement, but Fiona stepped forward. “I’m ready.”
Lily leaned close to her ear. “Are you sure that’s wise? When was the last time you used a bow?”
“A few years ago.”
Her sister clucked her tongue in dismay. “Miss Haywinkle’s?”
Fiona shrugged. “Perhaps.” All the girls at school had received archery instruction so that they could comport themselves admirably in just this sort of situation. Two weeks of lessons had culminated in a competition, in which Fiona placed dead last. Even the youngest student—who was half her age—had easily bested her and spent the rest of the term taunting her.
“This should be interesting.” Lily hoisted the quilts and walked toward a lone tree several yards off. “Sophie, help me spread these in that spot of shade. Trust me, we’re going to want to be far away once this contest begins.”
“That’s probably wise,” Fiona said to no one in particular. For her, this competition wasn’t about winning. It was about showing Gray that she wouldn’t be easily manipulated or deterred. She wasn’t exactly sure how she would accomplish her goal, but perhaps if she was holding a lethal weapon he’d be inclined to take her more seriously.
She scooped a bow off the ground with one hand and plucked an arrow from a quiver with the other. “I suggest you stand back, Lord Ravenport. I will not be responsible for your wounds if my arrow takes an unexpected turn.”
* * *
Even though every instinct Gray possessed screamed for him to give Fiona a wide berth, he stepped closer to her—so that he could speak without being overheard. “About last night,” he began. “I want to apologize.”
“For making me promise to remain on a bench and then abandoning me?” She refused to meet his gaze and instead fumbled with the bow.
“When I returned, Pentham was sitting beside you, and I thought it best not to approach.”
“So you turned around and went back to bed?” she asked dryly.
“I waited.” And watched, to be certain that Pentham behaved like a gentleman. Gray had never known him to be anything but honorable. However, he wasn’t taking chances where Fiona was concerned. “When I saw that he was about to leave you, I hurried back to the terrace to pretend I’d strolled outside to smoke a cigar. Then he asked to join me, and I couldn’t think of a way to refuse without being rude—or, worse, raising his suspicion. It would have looked very bad if he’d encountered both of us in the garden.”
“Agreed. It would have been quite the scandal,” she said, not bothering to hide her sarcasm. “Who knows? You might have had to marry me.” She uttered a curse at the arrow that slipped from her hands and he bent to retrieve it for her, but she snatched it out of his hands.
“Fiona,” he said gently. “You’re angry with me.”
“My, but your powers of observation are keen.”
He glanced over his shoulder at the rest of their party. The other men had followed Fiona’s sister and their friend Sophie to the shade, where they poured drinks and sliced apples and wedges of cheese. Satisfied that they were too preoccupied to eavesdrop, he continued. “I deserve your ire, but I also deserve the chance to explain.”
“Please do,” she said, her smile too sweet. “Did you smoke a whole box of cigars last night? Or perhaps you sailed to the West Indies to fetch another case?” She angled one shoulder toward the target and squinted as if gauging the distance.
“Pentham began telling me a story and wanted to continue it over a drink of brandy. I couldn’t politely decline.” In truth, Pentham had shared some details about his father and Gray’s. Both their fathers had a proclivity for drinking to excess, and Pentham’s had died as a result of overindulgence. “By the time I returned to the garden in the wee hours of the morning, you were gone.”
“Forgive me. I thought it best not to sleep there,” she said dryly.
“I didn’t expect you to wait for me.” Although he had hoped. “I only wanted to be sure that—”
Good God. She was holding the bow upside down. “Here, allow me to help you,” he said.
“I don’t require your help,” she said. “I learned how to use a bow at Miss Haywinkle’s.”
Gray blinked. “Did you say Haywinkle’s?”
“Miss Haywinkle’s School for Girls.” She frowned at the bow. “Although our equipment was slightly different.”
He offered her a leather armguard, which she waved away. Gray might have admired her stubbornness if he weren’t afraid she’d maim someone—especially herself. Her tongue poked out of the corner of her mouth as she threa
ded an arrow on the string and tried to level it. But the tip drooped toward the ground as though it were mocking her. Gray caught it out of the air.
“Blast,” she said, grabbing it back.
“The point is,” he said sincerely, “I wanted to return to you.” He’d dreamed of her all night. Imagined what might have happened if they’d spent the night in the garden. Had visions of removing her gown and seeing how her skin looked soaked in moonlight.
“But you were too busy smoking, drinking, and swapping stories with Lord Pentham,” she said. “I believe I understand the way of things.”
“I would have rather been with you,” he said earnestly. “But I also wanted to protect you from scandal. I hope you’ll let me make things up to you.” When she didn’t reply, he said, “Did you find it?”
Her gaze snapped toward his, and her expression turned wary. “Find what?”
“Your earring. The one that belonged to your mother.”
“No.” She looked away.
“Then I will help you look for it when we return to the house.” And maybe start to make amends.
“Please do not bother,” she said quickly. “In any event, I am otherwise engaged this afternoon. You may recall asking your friend Lord Pentham to parade me around in your curricle so that you would be spared the trouble.”
“I may have suggested it,” Gray admitted. And he was already regretting it. He’d casually mentioned the idea to Pentham before they left town—and the marquess certainly hadn’t wasted any time in extending an invitation to Fiona. “But that was before…”
“Before what?” she demanded. She let the bow drop to her side and looked into his eyes. As though his answer mattered very much.
He lowered his voice. “Before you showed me your sketch. Before I kissed you. Before I started to—”
“How are the preparations coming along?” Kirby called out as he sauntered toward them, damn it all.
“Meet me tonight,” Gray said impulsively. “I’ll slip you a note at dinner with the time and place.”
She opened her mouth as if she’d refuse, then smiled. “Only if you let me sketch you.”
Oh hell no. Her pencil revealed far too much. “Fiona, I don’t think—”
With a shrug, she faced the target, raised her bow, and pulled back the string.
“Very well,” Gray whispered urgently. “Just meet me tonight.”
Fiona released the string and smiled as the tip of her arrow planted itself in the ground approximately three paces in front of her. But it didn’t matter. She turned toward him, positively triumphant. “Do not make the mistake of disappointing me twice, Lord Ravenport.” With that, she thrust the bow at him and marched toward her friends, who were relaxing in the shade.
Kirby sidled up to Gray and tilted his head to mimic the awkward angle in which the arrow protruded from the lawn. “It would appear you’ve won the first round, my friend.”
It might have appeared that way, but Gray knew the truth.
Fiona had hit her target—with chillingly frightening precision.
And while he was obviously the loser of this battle, he was already anticipating the moment when he’d be alone with her again.
Chapter 13
On Having a Row
Heretofore, I had not realized it possible for a man to simultaneously be the source of fierce attraction and extreme infuriation. Though I consider myself to be a levelheaded sort, I confess I briefly contemplated sneaking into Lord R.’s bedchamber while he was at breakfast in order to crumble a scone between his sheets or shred all his neckcloths or drop the ends of a rotting onion in his boots—anything to vex him as he had vexed me.
I am happy to report that I refrained in the end, and my restraint was duly rewarded.
Lord R. has agreed to allow me to sketch him, which will require us to meet several times over the course of the next few days … starting tonight.
All of which leads me to believe that having the occasional row might not be a bad thing, especially if the gentleman realizes the error of his ways and attempts to make amends—in the form of kisses, caresses, and more.…
All through dinner, Gray kept an eye on Pentham as he conversed with Fiona. Nothing the marquess said or did was untoward, but the way he looked at her—like he was completely and utterly smitten—gave Gray the irrational urge to throttle him.
He couldn’t blame Pentham for having taken Fiona for a drive across the countryside that afternoon. It had been Gray’s idea after all. But he didn’t care for the way they’d stumbled into the house afterward, laughing and breathless. Her hair had been charmingly windblown, her cheeks flushed, like she was … happy. Damn it all to hell.
Gray wasn’t jealous. Lord knew he had no right to her, no claim. Pentham and Fiona were perfect for each other. And that was the plan, all along—to introduce Fiona to someone else. Someone who might divert her attention from Gray.
But that didn’t mean he wanted to watch her fall in love with another man right under his damned nose.
“Is everything all right, my dear boy?” Gray’s grandmother reached across the corner of the table and patted his forearm. “You’re unusually quiet this evening.”
“I’m fine.” But she’d always had an uncanny knack for reading him. He swiveled his neck, looking around the dining room at the rotted fireplace mantel, the stained wood floor, and the cracks in the plaster ceiling. “I was making a mental list of the improvements needed in here.”
She shot him a sympathetic smile. “As long as the wine and conversation are flowing, your guests will scarcely notice the imperfections.”
“But I do. Tell me how the room used to look, when you were a young girl. Was there a crystal chandelier? Silver sconces? Intricate molding?”
Her watery eyes turned wistful. “I suppose there were. I remember Christmases with evergreen boughs strewn across the table and mistletoe hanging over the doorway. The scents of pinecones mingled with roasted partridges, mincemeat pies, and suet pudding. My father—your great-grandfather—sat where you are now, entertaining everyone with fantastical tales. Hours after dinner ended, we’d still be gathered round, laughing and chatting. No one wanted to leave.”
Gray twisted the stem of his wineglass, sober. “It will be that way again, Grandmother. I promise.”
“Worry less about the house,” she said softly. “Devote your attention to your guests. Are the Hartley sisters enjoying themselves?”
Gray shrugged. “The younger one, Lily, won the archery competition today.”
“And what of Fiona?”
“She’s finding ways to pass the time,” he said—a little more bitterly than he’d intended.
“You should take her to the river,” his grandmother said. “It’s beautiful there. Row her about in the boat.”
Gray didn’t have the heart to tell her that the boat was probably as seaworthy as a sieve and the pier was missing half of its slats. “I will think about it,” he said.
“Sometimes you think too much,” she teased.
Gray grunted. The note in his pocket, which he intended to give to Fiona after dinner, was proof to the contrary, but he adored his grandmother too much to contradict her. “You are right—as always.”
“I wasn’t right when it came to Helena,” she whispered. “I thought she was worthy of you, but I was wrong.”
“The state of this place would scare anyone off,” Gray replied.
“It doesn’t scare Miss Fiona Hartley.”
Gray smiled wryly and patted his grandmother’s thin hand. “Give it a few more days.”
* * *
For the second night in a row, Fiona was sneaking out of her bed. Taking care not to disturb Lily, who snored softly beside her, she slipped from beneath the covers and shrugged on her robe. She picked up her sketchbook and a pencil and tiptoed out of the room.
The note that Gray had subtly handed her in the drawing room after dinner was not the romantic missive she’d craved—but they’d already
established that he was not a poet. The slip of paper had contained exactly four words: One o’clock. The library.
She skulked through the dark corridor and down the staircase, hoping she didn’t lose her way. Gray’s grandmother, the countess, had briefly pointed out the library during a tour of the house, but she hadn’t even opened the door before ushering the group to the next room, leaving Fiona curious.
When she arrived, a faint light glowed from beneath the door. She entered tentatively, gasping at the sight of two-story bookshelves on two walls and floor-to-ceiling windows on a third. No curtains impeded the view of the starry sky, and moonlight spilled across the center of the room cluttered with boxes, sheet-covered furniture, ladders, and tools.
Gray sat on a large white lump, which she assumed was a sofa, his elbows propped on his knees. He was still dressed in his dinner jacket, trousers, and boots, looking heartbreakingly handsome.
So much so that Fiona wished she were wearing something more elegant than her nightgown and robe. Her hair hung down her back in a simple braid and her feet were bare—but she hadn’t dared to change or even stop to put on her slippers for fear of waking Lily.
He stood when she entered and blinked at the sight of her, then rushed over to close the door. “Did you encounter anyone on your way here?”
“No. My sister is sleeping soundly, as is everyone else.”
“Good.” He dragged a hand down his face. “I shouldn’t have asked you to come, but I wanted … no, I needed to explain.”
“Tell me anything you wish,” she said. “I’m listening.”
Propping his hands on his hips, he glanced around at the ghost-shaped furniture. “Let me find someplace comfortable for you to sit.”
“Anywhere will do.”
He lifted the corner of one sheet and produced several pillows and cushions, which he stuffed under one arm. “This room isn’t fit for entertaining. Hell, it’s barely habitable. But I knew we wouldn’t be disturbed here.”
“It’s lovely—and large enough to host a ball.”