nonchalance of an irritated Englishman. Ardmore seemed to be in an excellent mood. He flexed the bow again; Annabel was quite certain now that he was only doing so to show off his muscles, and not for her benefit either.
If Griselda stretched her blue eyes any wider, they’d likely fall out of her head.
‘Shall we have a friendly match?’ Ardmore said to Rosseter.
‘I have no interest in sports,’ Rosseter said evenly. Characteristically, there was no disdain in his tone or anything that a man might take insult from.
‘In that case, how about a match between countrymen?’ Ardmore said to Annabel.
Griselda laughed. Rosseter shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He said nothing, but she felt his disapproval.
‘All right,’ Annabel said. She turned to the attendant and gave him a melting smile. The boy scrabbled about and handed her a bow. It was ash, with a pretty curve, but good for nothing. Annabel took a closer look at the bows. ‘I’ll try that yew,’ she said.
It had a sweet curve. She pulled back the string experimentally. Luckily, the small sleeves of her dress didn’t impede her arms in any way.
Ardmore was grinning now, obviously as aware of Rosseter’s disapproval as she was. And Griselda was laughing. Then Ardmore drew back his great bow again, muscles flexing through his shirt.
Annabel looked away and met Rosseter’s eyes. She read approval in his face: Rosseter thought she was avoiding a display of gross masculinity by looking to him rather than Ardmore.
She picked up her bow and Rosseter put a gloved hand on hers. ‘You needn’t do this,’ he said.
‘I enjoy archery,’ she said noncommittally, turning so that his hand slid away. The boy handed her a clutch of arrows.
Rosseter lowered his voice. ‘There’s no need to put the Scot in his place. Leave him to his grotesque posturing; Lady Griselda seems to enjoy it.’
She glanced over and, sure enough, Griselda’s dimples were in full play. She was handing him arrows and Ardmore was plunking them into the target, one after another.
‘Kind of her,’ Rosseter remarked. ‘I’m sure they won’t even notice if we go for a stroll.’ He put his hand on her bow this time.
‘That would be impolite,’ she said, matching his expressionless tone perfectly.
‘Ah,’ he said.
She took that as assent, not that she needed it. Ardmore turned around and said, ‘Now, then, Miss Essex, what’s our challenge?’
She walked over to him, eyeing the targets. ‘Three arrows each. You’re for that far one, and I’ll take the one with the red flag, in the middle.’
‘Go for the blue one; it’s closer,’ he said generously.
Annabel glanced up and saw that he thought to win. A smile touched her lips. ‘The centre of the target, of course, is that black dot,’ she told him.
‘I’m aware of that.’
‘Good,’ she said sweetly. ‘I just wanted to make sure, given that you seemed to have some trouble hitting it during your practice run.’
A slow grin spread over his face. ‘But there must be a forfeit if this is to be a proper competition, Miss Essex.’
Rosseter intervened. ‘Of course there will be no forfeit. That would give it the coarse air of a public exhibition.’
‘But you see,’ Ardmore said, ‘we Scots are quite coarse.’
Annabel frowned at him. Rosseter clearly wasn’t entranced with her nationality, and she didn’t wish to remind him of it.
‘The forfeit is a request,’ Ardmore said. ‘A favour that can be demanded at any time and must be paid without question.’
‘Miss Annabel has no need whatsoever to ask you for a favour,’ Rosseter said, and now she could hear a thin disdain behind his well-bred tones.
‘One never knows,’ Ardmore said, selecting an arrow. ‘She has already made several requests of me, and of course I am always glad to help a countrywoman.’
Annabel fitted her own bow. Griselda was giggling and helping Ardmore draw on the archer’s glove handed to him. Naturally Rosseter just stood to the side as she drew on her own glove.
Suddenly there was a spray of those high, arching trumpets that Lady Mitford liked so much. ‘A contest!’ shouted the trumpeter. ‘An archery contest commences at once!’
Rosseter’s thin nostrils flared as he stepped back. Annabel realised that he was really angry now. In fact, if she didn’t back out of the contest, he might simply stroll away in his elegant striped morning coat and dismiss the idea of marrying her. That was likely how he had remained single all these years.
In a moment they had an audience, a circle of women in fluttering dresses of white and pink, a sprinkling of gentlemen with admiring eyes. Ardmore drew back his bow and let it fly. Annabel suddenly realised that drawing back her bow would make her breasts push forward in an unseemly manner. She glanced at Rosseter. He was still there, waiting for her to make a decision. Didn’t it bode well for their marriage that the two of them had no need to exchange a word to know precisely what the other was thinking?
She moved forward to take her shot.
‘It appears you didn’t quite hit the target,’ she said to the Scot, allowing just a trace of regret to deepen her voice.
He squinted at it. ‘It looks good to me.’
‘Hmmm.’ She drew back her bow and paused for a moment, looking for that black spot in the centre of her target. Then she let fly and the arrow flew like a bird to its nest. She smiled and glanced up at her opponent. He wasn’t looking at her target, but at her, and he looked a bit distracted. She glanced down. She had felt her gown strain over her chest when she drew back; after all, such light muslin wasn’t designed for sport.
Rosseter was still there, his mouth thin with distaste. Apparently he had decided to give her a second chance.
The attendant hurried over to the targets, his yellow tights flashing in the sun. He stooped next to her target and then rose. ‘Miss Essex wins!’ he cried.
‘Second,’ Ardmore said, drawing back his bow again.
It was a good shot; Annabel had to give him that. But he was holding his elbow just a fraction of an inch too high in the air. Sure enough, to her eyes the arrow was slightly off target, although he turned to her with a smile that suggested he thought it was square.
‘I have heard that spectacles can be quite helpful as one grows older,’ she said to him sweetly. She drew back her arrow and let it fly immediately. Truly, she had chosen a target that was too easy.
There was quite a cheer when the attendant announced the winner of that round.
But when she looked at Ardmore and thought to see him showing the strain of competition, or even a flash of competitive
