At the Bride Hunt Ball Page 8

  She let forth a mild curse, then, without further warning, pushed off from the wall with her other foot. Apparently, Miss Haywood was giving herself ample room in preparation to jump the rest of the way down. He had only half of a second to react, bracing his legs wide apart.

  She jumped directly into him, her back colliding with his chest. His arms reflexively wrapped around her middle as the two of them flew backward onto the lawn, his body cushioning her fall.

  Letting out a shriek, she spun within his hold, but remained sprawled atop him—her thighs straddling his hips, her breasts pressed tightly to his chest, her nose an inch above his own.

  “Good Lord! What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “Apparently, I’m saving you from a broken ankle…to the detriment of my health,” he said with a grunt, unable to ignore how well she cradled the mold of his body. Reflexively, he slid his hands up and then back down the span of her back. She squirmed, unknowingly nestling him farther within her thighs. His breath hitched.

  “Are you all right?” she asked with sincere concern.

  One corner of his mouth lifted into a grin as he realized she was, as of yet, utterly oblivious to their erotic position. Unable to trust himself, Gabriel reluctantly loosened his hold, then released it, dropping his hands to his sides. “I’m fine, I believe. You?”

  She nodded. Surprising him, her gaze warmed, traveling down to his mouth. An urge ignited within him to lift his chin and take possession of her mouth, her lips. But he suspected he wouldn’t be able to stop there.

  “May I ask what you were trying to do?” he asked instead, the tone of his voice just above a throaty growl.

  “The…ah…archery lesson,” she said softly. “It’s starting. I—I was late and my stepmother must have accidentally locked me in my room.”

  He glanced at the dangling sheet. “You must have really wanted to go.”

  His comment brought her gaze back up to connect with his. Pressing his lips together, he fought valiantly to keep from laughing. But in the end he couldn’t keep a low chuckle from rumbling in his chest. The movement of his mirth made her entire upper body bounce up and down.

  Her face burned red with a feverish blush as she only then noticed their wicked position. “Unhand me!”

  “Miss Haywood, if you paid any attention at all,” he said, a smile softening his words, “you would have noticed long ago that there is nothing keeping you from getting off of me.”

  She glanced down, realizing with a visual start that his arms, indeed, remained at his sides. She rolled away, scrambling up to stand.

  “Aren’t you going to thank me?” Gabriel asked, raising up to lean back on his elbows. Something shifted inside him, his heart felt lighter and he realized he no longer sounded like himself. By God, he was actually teasing the woman. Again.

  Patting at her hair, she raised her chin to a haughty angle. “For what?”

  “Saving you.”

  “I’d sooner marry your brother.”

  “Promises, promises,” he mumbled.

  With a loud sigh she presented her back to him and marched away.

  “You’ve forgotten something,” Gabriel called out.

  She turned back like an angry whip. “What have I forgotten?” Not waiting for his answer, her eyes flew to the hedge where he had thrown her pelisse. She collected it, then stomped off again.

  “That’s not what you’ve forgotten,” he said, crossing his ankles and smiling like a scoundrel.

  She stopped, turning to face him with an annoyed glance. “Yes?” she asked, clearly vexed. “Are you going to tell me or is this some sort of game and I should guess?”

  He cleared his throat, blinking slowly. “Your skirt.”

  After a small gasp, she looked down at the knot of fabric pinned to her waist and her exposed stocking-enclosed calves. Hurriedly, she released the pins, allowing the skirts to fall into the proper place.

  For a moment Gabriel regretted pointing out her predicament so boldly. Good Lord, if she started to cry, he didn’t know what the hell he’d do. But then she looked at him, and instead of embarrassment, irritation, or a pout—real or practiced—her mouth wobbled with a suppressed bubble of laughter. Any other woman would have burst into tears or swooned with mortification.

  “Well, thank you,” she mumbled. Presenting her back to him, she walked on stiffly, swinging her coat at her side as she tried to pretend nothing out of the ordinary had just happened.

  Gabriel let out an airy whistle as he observed the sway of her hips while she made her way up a far hill to join the assembled group of women. The memory of the unexpected spark of heat forming between their bodies as she lay sprawled atop him would surely plague him for the remainder of the day and into the depths of the night. But it was nothing he couldn’t manage to restrain. His willpower was strong.

  Frustrated, he looked away from the sight of her, choosing instead to focus on the knotted sheets swaying in the breeze. Plenty of women had “thrown” themselves at him for years. Some he had welcomed with open arms—others, the naive innocents, he gently declined. But no woman had ever dropped out of a window into his arms, knocking the very air from his lungs and forcing him to acknowledge an attraction he’d rather ignore. He’d never seen anything like Miss Haywood in his life. He’d never felt so unprepared.

  He shook his head. Foolish woman, nearly got herself killed. And all for an archery lesson? It didn’t make any sense. She told him herself she had no interest in marrying into his family, then she went and risked her life—her bones at the very least—to make certain she got to attend a function with Tristan? Simply illogical. Perhaps he was wrong to believe in her disinterest. He rubbed his chin in thought. Perhaps he would keep a closer eye on Miss Haywood. Starting right now.

  He stood and brushed himself off. Glancing over his shoulder, he caught one more glance of her retreating form before she crested a hill and slipped out of his line of vision. Illogical and dangerously intriguing. He must keep his distance, he told himself, and yet find a way to observe her every move at the same time. He could do it. All he needed was determination, discipline, and…a lot of brandy.

  Chapter 6

  “Arming oneself with bow and arrow when one’s rivals are poised so temptingly across the lawn is not the wisest of exercises,” Charlotte announced. Sulking, she dropped down in one of the chairs beneath a sun canopy.

  Returning from the refreshment table, Madelyn handed her friend a glass of lemonade. “That is, if you chose to wear your spectacles. Without them, I wager you’d miss your intended female competitors and tragically pierce the heart of his lordship instead.”

  Charlotte accepted the drink with a distracted thank-you. Her envious gaze was fastened at a point across the lawn where Harriet Beauchamp was currently standing on tiptoe, whispering into Lord Tristan’s ear.

  He wore the flamboyant costume of his Archery Society: a dark green frock coat and cape, white shirt, cravat and breeches, and a rounded hat adorned with a plump white ostrich plume. He was dressed to impress, Madelyn surmised, and from the numerous admiring glances—with the exception of herself—he was doing a smashing job.

  Bernadette Fairbourne, her cupid’s bow mouth pursed in an insistent pout, waited impatiently for his assistance, while her sister Belinda stood with arms crossed over her chest, glaring at Harriet, who shot answering daggers out of her eyes. Madelyn was instantly reminded of a picture in a book she once saw of a pack of lionesses, snarling at one another over the carcass of a felled gazelle.

  Laura Ellis and Julienne Campbell huddled together some distance behind them, giggling into their gloved hands while sneaking glances at the duke—the same man Madelyn had landed on an hour ago. Presenting a handsome picture, he sat upon a marvelous black stallion on a far hill, watching them all for the past fifteen minutes as his horse stamped impatiently at the soft ground.

  “Look how they all hover around him!” Charlotte cried out, effectively pulling Madelyn’s attention b
ack to Lord Tristan. “They’ve not a stitch of modesty between them. So flirty, so brazen. Can you believe it, Maddie?”

  “Frankly, yes,” Madelyn responded matter-of-factly. “And I dare say, he’s rather enjoying their artful maneuvering…” Her voice trailed away when, out of the corner of her eye, she saw the duke urge his mount into a trot. Her heartbeat skittered as he turned toward the sun canopy. She’d managed to avoid him earlier while she and Charlotte attempted to try their luck aiming for the targets, and now fretted that he was coming over to speak with her.

  “I mean really, how do they expect the man to breathe?” Charlotte cut in, fairly slamming her glass atop the table. “Upon my word, his lordship must be annoyed beyond repair!”

  “I rather believe he’s in his element,” Madelyn remarked with a wry smile. “Just look how he smiles, all lopsided and lazy. He drifts from lady to lady like a bee amid a cloud of honeysuckle.” Making a stab at subtlety, she pretended to look at a copse of trees to her right. The duke had disappeared.

  “You’re right,” Charlotte said dismally. “Lord Tristan has been more than attentive to everyone’s archery form but mine.”

  “Yes, I noticed that as well. But you must consider he responds well to their boldness. You, dear, have no reason to feel lacking. Your sense of discretion is charming—a credit the right man will undoubtedly appreciate. They have only their shamelessness to recommend them.”

  Charlotte sighed, her face an image of pure dejection. “I mustn’t blame them,” she said, still staring across the lawn. “’Tis not their fault but my own. I fear I cannot help the fact that he finds me so very, very dull.”

  “Nonsense,” Madelyn answered, hating the fact her friend was already falling into the depths of self-pity, and this only their fifth day at Wolverest. “If you whimpered at his heels for attention like a neglected hound, Lord Tristan would be fawning over you as well. The Devine men simply prefer forward women. That you should like such a man fairly rattles my sensibilities.”

  The jangle of a harness and movement in the corner of her eye turned Madelyn’s head. The duke’s horse was being led to the stable by a groomsman, the duke now nowhere to be seen. And just why should I care to notice? Looking down, she adjusted the laces of her protective gloves with sharp tugs. “I say, I don’t know where His Grace went off to, but if he plans on coming anywhere near me, I’ll shoot him in the foot…providing I have my bow and arrow in hand.”

  “I find that exceedingly improbable, even at close range.”

  Madelyn turned to see the Duke of Wolverest, shockingly minus his coat. He leaned his back against the thick trunk of a nearby oak tree, his discarded coat resting on a low branch. Sunlight filtered through the leaves above, rendering his tousled, raven-black hair dappled in shades of light and shadow. His white shirtsleeves were rolled up to just above his elbows, and his tanned hands rested on his lean hips. He looked windblown and alluringly refreshed, like he only just returned from a vigorous ride.

  Reluctantly, Madelyn acknowledged the surge of anticipation that made her pulse quicken, her breath catch from being the focus of his attention. She was attracted to this handsome, sleek, virile man—had suspected so ever since their first encounter. She’d be an idiot not to admit so to herself. But that didn’t mean she should act upon her attraction. Surely he couldn’t be the only man in England who could make her flesh grow peculiarly warm under his gaze. Besides, he was a Devine. A name famously associated with shattered hearts for as long as she could remember. It was even reputed his own dear mother died of a broken heart.

  Her gaze pulled to his snug black breeches as he bent one knee to rest his booted foot against the tree trunk. She wondered how much he had heard of her and Charlotte’s conversation.

  “How long have you been standing there?”

  “Just.” He crossed his lean-muscled arms over his chest. “Miss Greene, if I may offer you a little advice…”

  Wide-eyed, Charlotte turned in her seat at the sound of the duke addressing her, so caught up was she in studying Lord Tristan’s interaction with the other ladies. “Y-Yes?” she fairly squeaked.

  “Timidity is beneath his detection. If you want to gain his notice, you’ll have to step up to the challenge.”

  She nodded, her lashes fluttering in apparent astonishment at his casualness. “Ah…thank you.”

  He inclined his head, his intent blue gaze swinging back to Madelyn.

  As she returned his stare, she wondered why he chose to grace them with his noble presence after claiming he’d do otherwise in the orangery. Perhaps he joined their party to plague her with further mortification. Surely he must be aware that his presence here only reminded her of their encounter in the topiary garden the hour before.

  “You were saying?” he prompted.

  “Was I saying anything?” she rushed out, worrying if she’d spoken her thoughts out loud.

  “As I remember, you were threatening to impale my foot,” he stated, a spark of humor in his eyes.

  “Oh. It was an empty threat, Your Grace. You needn’t worry.”

  He laughed, flashing her a peek at straight white teeth. “I assure you, love, an arrow shot by your hand would never find its mark.”

  She straightened. “Is that so?”

  He nodded his head slowly, smiling like a scoundrel as he reeled her in effortlessly. “You jerked the shot and your positioning is poor.”

  It wasn’t at all surprising someone noticed her clumsy performance. But it was surprising that he noticed. “You were watching me?” she asked. “All these women here and you managed to stay focused on my poor archery poise? I must say, I find you quite talented.”

  He grinned. “Ladies have said as much in the past.” Clearly he was left unscathed by her sarcasm.

  “Yes, but were any of them true ladies,” she muttered under her breath.

  “Pardon?”

  She blinked like an owl. “What?”

  “I believe you said something.”

  “Hmm?” She smiled brightly.

  He shot her a narrowed glance, his eyes vividly blue and vividly disbelieving.

  She cleared her throat. “We were discussing my shortcomings…” A topic she was well acquainted with.

  “You close your eyes just before release,” he said. “A dangerous flaw, to say the least.”

  Somehow, hearing him say she was flawed hurt. It was certainly a different reaction than when Priscilla or her aunt pointed it out. “And you are an expert?”

  “I am a second-generation member of the Toxophilite Society.”

  The name of the archery society that the Prince Regent himself belonged to did little to impress Madelyn. She supposed the club was probably only created as an excuse to socialize and drink spirits to worrisome excess.

  “And I belong to the Company of Scottish Archers,” he added.

  He just had to throw that in. Fine. So he might know what he was talking about.

  He studied her for a moment, then pushed off the tree. “Would you care for a demonstration?”

  She shrugged.

  “That is, if you think your sensibilities shan’t be rattled,” he challenged with a playful grin.

  So, he had been listening to their conversation…“Surely I can handle your tutoring, Your Grace.”

  “I doubt that,” he murmured. Striding over to the canopy, he ducked under it and offered her his arm. “Miss Greene, if you’ll excuse us?”

  Charlotte nodded quickly. Madelyn wondered if her friend’s eyeballs would ever return to normal size.

  Hesitantly, Madelyn placed her hand on the duke’s arm, instantly feeling the heat of his skin, even through the thickness of her glove. He escorted her toward Lord Tristan and his giggling gaggle of females and paused at one of the tables to retrieve a bow and the quiver full of arrows.

  “Brother? Whatever inspired you to join us?” Lord Tristan approached, the white plume in his hat bobbing with each step. “Is the dear Miss Haywood in need of assist
ance?”

  “Nice hat,” the duke said over his shoulder, walking with Madelyn past the small crowd.

  “Er…thank you,” Lord Tristan returned, his tone clearly questioning his brother’s sincerity.

  Madelyn still on his arm, the duke spun on his heel, apparently remembering protocol. “Ladies,” he said in general greeting to the group at large before bowing his head briefly.

  A ruffling of fabric ensued as five young women sank into deep curtsies accompanied by a chorus of “Your Graces.”

  Turning, he directed Madelyn at a brisk pace down the row, past the last remaining target post, and through a copious group of birch trees.

  Just where was he taking her? she wondered. All the targets were set on the very part of the lawn which they were walking away from. Surely he didn’t mean to instruct her somewhere private. That would be exceedingly improper.

  She glanced over her shoulder with concern. “Must we be so very far away?”

  He looked down at her with an are-you-kidding-me expression. “The farther away you are from living beings, the safer I feel. I wouldn’t want any unnecessary injuries dampening the festive mood.”

  She gasped, offended. “Don’t be silly. I’m not that bad.”

  “I’m never silly. And yes you are.”

  “That’s preposterous! Charlotte nearly speared the gardener…and he was twenty meters to the right!”

  “Yes, but you must consider the fact Miss Greene failed to bring her spectacles. Had she wore them, I’m quite certain she’d have hit the bull’s-eye every time.”

  “How did you know she wore spectacles?”

  “Her interview.”

  “Oh.” It was all she could mutter at the moment, her mind now busy with thoughts of the other girls’ interviews. Had theirs been cut short as hers was? Had Rosalind been sent away as well? Did he fancy any of them for himself? That last unforeseen thought jolted her out her musings as quickly as if someone pinched her.

  Looking about, she saw they had stopped just on the other side of the clump of birches. To her left, about fifteen meters away, sat another target completely blocked from view from the other guests by the collage of trees.