years older than she was…it was a bit more of a gap than Annabel had thought. Rosseter’s face was ageless, though, so perhaps it didn’t matter. After all, men didn’t age the way women did.
‘No one’s ever caught him,’ Griselda said. Rosseter had stopped and was exchanging greetings with one of the royal dukes, Clarence. ‘But you seem to have taken him effortlessly, my dear. A true triumph.’
‘Thank you,’ Annabel murmured. Rosseter seemed to be truly engaged in talking to His Royal Highness. He wasn’t even glancing her way in apology. Annabel felt a prickle of annoyance. He knew perfectly well that she was awaiting his proposal. Was it too much to ask that he actually do that particular deed, rather than chatter nonsense with a fat overgrown lummox of an English prince?
As she watched, Rosseter turned to the boy following him and murmured something, and the boy started hurrying toward them with the lemonade.
Annabel turned to Griselda, but Griselda spoke before she even opened her mouth.
‘I absolutely agree. Absolutely. Clarence is no reason to delay a proposal of marriage. Rosseter needs to be taught a lesson.’
Annabel knew precisely the man to do it. She had just happened to notice that the Scottish earl had shown up again and was standing off to her right, watching an exhibition of tumbling.
‘Perhaps you should –’ Lady Griselda began, but Annabel ignored her. She didn’t need to leave her chair. Instead she looked directly at Ardmore, allowing a little smile to play around her mouth.
His rumpled dark red hair and sculpted shoulders made him look like a medieval knight. In fact, she wouldn’t mind seeing him pull back an arrow at the archery…
Not for Ardmore, the drifting, sophisticated walk of Rosseter. Ardmore walked through the crowd directly toward her, not even taking his eyes from hers.
‘Do you remember what I said about him?’ Griselda squeaked next to her. ‘That is not a man to toy with!’
Annabel wrenched her eyes away and smiled at her chaperone. ‘I’m not going to toy with him, Griselda. He’s a countryman, and I think he can be a friend. I’m simply going to ask him to accompany me to the archery stand.’
‘Ah, archery.’ Griselda watched Ardmore walking toward them. ‘I do like a man with a broad set of shoulders.’
Annabel noticed from the corner of her eye that Rosseter had seen who was approaching. Undoubtedly, he would now conclude his conversation with the duke. Without thinking about it, she rose and walked toward Ardmore. He truly was a complete opposite of her chosen husband. Every inch of him was Scots, from those sturdy, muscled legs to his strong chin and angled cheekbones. She had no problem imagining him as an ancient Pict, painted blue and wearing just a –
No. She snapped her imagination back where it belonged. The man walking toward her was a Scottish earl in exactly the same cast as her father. In fact, if it turned out that he had a set of racehorses into which he poured every penny in the house, the similarity would be complete.
His smile was all in his eyes. ‘I have been watching a demonstration of jousting. I begin to imagine myself in a suit of armour,’ he said, those eyes glinting with laughter.
‘And here I was imagining you a Pict,’ she said, putting her hand on his arm and walking away from Rosseter as if he didn’t exist.
One eyebrow shot up. ‘One of my naked and bloodthirsty ancestors?’
‘And mine,’ she said sedately.
‘In that case, why don’t we try our skill at the bow and arrow?’ he asked, playing directly into her hands.
She glanced back over her shoulder and found Rosseter bowing unhurriedly before Griselda, doubtless apologising for sending the lemonade by servant rather than his own hand. She turned slightly so that Rosseter could see her face and smiled up at Ardmore.
His eyebrow went up again. It was a good thing that she would never even consider marrying him, because that eyebrow could be really annoying in the long run. There was nothing about Rosseter that was irritating, thank goodness.
If Ardmore had any brains at all, he’d know precisely what she was doing and as her countryman, he should be supportive. Helpful, even.
Sure enough: ‘Do you want me to walk more slowly so that he can catch up?’ Ardmore asked. There was laughter glinting in his voice. Apparently he had decided to be helpful.
‘No,’ she said tranquilly. ‘I think an exhibition of archery should do it.’
‘I see what you mean,’ he said. ‘Englishmen are distressingly slight in their frames, aren’t they? Weedy, almost. But you needn’t worry about your children,’ he added. ‘After all, you have a Pict or two in your background. Most likely the boys won’t get too weedy.’
‘My children will not be weedy! At any rate, women dislike being towered over, you know.’
‘I’ve never noticed that,’ he said, and she thought with annoyance of all those Scottish women who had built up his confidence to these unprecedented heights.
They stopped at the archery tent. A breeze flapped the silk roof, carrying with it a smell of April flowers. There was a pile of bows in the corner. The attendant took one look at Ardmore and handed him one that appeared to have been made out of half a sapling.
Ardmore squinted at the targets, posts with circles painted on them. They were adorned with silk flags, the better to look antique, one had to suppose, and positioned at farther and farther distances.
Then he stripped off his jacket. He was wearing a shirt of thin linen. Annabel had to admit that it wasn’t threadworn and actually appeared to be quite lovely material; perhaps it was woven on his estate. He stretched the bow back experimentally. Great muscles rippled on his back, clearly visible through the clinging linen. He turned to the attendant, taking a handful of arrows. He handed all but one to her and gave her a lazy smile. ‘In case you haven’t noticed, your chosen one is approaching. He seems to have found himself an escort.’
Annabel looked about. ‘Oh, that’s my chaperone, Lady Griselda. You met her last night when we were first introduced.’
‘I told you I can’t remember anyone’s name.’ Then he blinked. ‘Did you say Lady Griselda?’
She nodded.
He turned. Griselda was chattering with Rosseter, and looking far too pretty and young to be a widow. In fact, if Annabel hadn’t loved her so much, she would have been jealous of her perfect ringlets and lush figure. She looked precisely like what she was: a merry, gossip-loving, adorable lady. A perfect –
Annabel glanced up at the medieval knight next to her, who was all but standing with his mouth open.
‘The Earl of Mayne’s sister?’ he asked.
Griselda and Rosseter moved into a patch of sunlight. Her hair gleamed like the proverbial gold.
‘Do you know Mayne?’ she asked.
‘I met him last night,’ Ardmore muttered. He turned about and drew the bow back again, but
