style="font-size:15px;"> Matthew stood behind her. Close behind her. Suddenly, it was hard to breathe...his scent and his heat enveloped her as he lifted her arm to demonstrate how she should aim at the target.
‘Close your left eye.’ His voice in her ear, the rumble of his words vibrating through his chest, through her muslin dress and reverberating through her body, deep into her core. She sucked in a breath, willing her hand not to shake. ‘Steady now.’ He covered her white-knuckled hand where she gripped the pistol, his fingers gentle; reassuring. ‘Relax.’
It was easy for him to say, nigh on impossible to do. She tried to breathe more evenly; tried to relax her arm and fingers.
‘Aim for the centre of the sack. Gently now. Squeeze.’ His breath tickled her ear, causing a ripple of gooseflesh down her neck. Her arm jerked as she pulled the trigger.
Bang! Smoke puffed from the pistol and Eleanor stifled her scream as the recoil vibrated up her arm. She had braced herself for the noise, but had not realised the power of the kick of such a small weapon. She swallowed hard; turned to Timothy, who held the powder flask and spare balls; began to reload.
‘I will do better this time,’ she announced, to no one in particular, and took her stance as Matthew had showed her.
Matthew moved behind her.
‘No. I will do this myself.’
She took aim, squeezed—striving to keep the movement smooth—and fired again.
‘Yes!’
Matthew’s triumphant shout bounced from the surrounding garden walls and Eleanor prised open her eyes, which she had screwed shut—quite without intent—at the moment she fired. A ragged, black-rimmed hole had appeared in the sack. Not in the centre, but at least she had hit the target.
‘Well done,’ Matthew said. ‘Try again.’
She glowed with his praise. Donald had never praised her. He had always found fault.
She practised until the sack was in shreds and her right arm trembled with fatigue.
‘That is enough for today,’ Matthew said, gesturing to Timothy to clear everything away. ‘You must be worn out. Let us go inside.’
Aunt Lucy was nowhere to be seen when they returned to the drawing room. A maid followed them in, bearing a tray laden with a jug of lemonade and a plate of sandwiches.
‘Cook said as you would welcome some refreshments, milady.’
‘Thank you, Nell, that is most thoughtful. Where is Lady Rothley?’
‘She’s gone up for a nap, milady. Would you like me to sit in with you?’
‘No, that won’t be necessary, thank you, but leave the door open on your way out, will you?’
Eleanor sat on the sofa, a glass of lemonade in her hand, whilst Matthew propped one arm along the marble mantelpiece.
‘Thank you for teaching me,’ Eleanor said.
Matthew sipped at his lemonade. The sweet yet sharp drink reinforced his bittersweet thoughts throughout this long day. What would the future hold for Eleanor? He knew his own future—the days would be filled with running his business. But what of hers? Would she wed? He tamped down the pain such a thought evoked. Maybe she never would marry. She certainly seemed content with her independent life.
‘Why have you never wed?’
He hadn’t meant to ask the question quite so bluntly, but he did not regret asking it. A memory stirred. Lady Rothley...talk of a betrothal. Or a near betrothal. He racked his brain, trying to recall her exact words, as Eleanor stared pensively into her glass, as though it might provide answers.
‘I almost did,’ she said eventually. ‘Three years ago, just before my father died. I was on the brink of getting betrothed, when I found out...’ She paused. ‘I was fortunate I discovered his true nature before all the settlements had been agreed. I withdrew my acceptance of his offer.’ She looked up, eyes glittering defiance. ‘I have never regretted it.’
‘And what was his true nature?’ He could guess what was coming.
‘Avaricious!’
‘He was after your wealth.’
‘He was. He was quite the expert at hiding his true intentions, though. He intended to live a life of luxury in London whilst I remained at Ashby, running the estate to fund his pleasures.’
Bitterness surfaced, breaking through that outer shell of confidence she customarily hid behind. No wonder she was so uncertain of her own allure as a woman.
Before he could probe further, she continued, ‘It is the reason Ruth never liked me.’
‘Ruth?’ What did Ruth have to do with it?
‘Donald was her brother.’
‘Her brother?’ Whatever he had expected, this was not it. ‘Why have you never told me?’
Her brows snapped together. ‘Why on earth should I tell you? It’s in the past. All finished with.’
‘But...could it not be him trying to kill you? Revenge is a motive.’
‘No!’ Eleanor jumped up from the sofa and crossed the room to the window. She stood rigidly, her arms wrapped around her waist. Matthew set his glass down and followed her.
‘He is dead,’ she said. ‘He was a soldier. He had planned to leave the army but, when I refused to marry him, he had no choice but to return to the military life. He was killed in battle. At Talavera.’
‘I am sorry,’ Matthew said.
She turned to face him. ‘It is in the past, as I said.’
Matthew cleared his throat. He must say this without a single tremor in his voice to betray him.
‘You will find someone worthy of you, I am certain.’
Only the slightest flare of her nostrils revealed her emotions. ‘I am sure I will,’ she said, her voice flat as she stepped to one side and glided past him to gain the centre of the room. ‘Thank you once again for obtaining the pistol and teaching me to shoot.’
Her dismissal of him was plain. It was for the best. He must concentrate on finding proof against her cousin.
‘It was my pleasure. Are you engaged this evening?’
‘No. We were to have gone to the theatre but, after such an eventful night and day, we have decided to stay at home.’
‘In that case, I shall see you tomorrow. I hope you will feel safer now, with your pistol and with Alastair staying in the house.’
Her pursed lips stretched into a semblance of a smile. ‘I shall indeed. Goodbye, Mr Damerel.’
