Nicole Jordan (10 page)

For this particular event, Deverill easily managed to secure an invitation, since it was hosted by the Duke of Redcliffe. The duke’s only son, Viscount Thorne, was a close friend of Deverill’s, as well as a fellow Guardian. At the moment, Thorne was still on the Isle of Cyrene with his brand-new bride, Diana, no doubt enjoying the start of their blissful union.

A Venetian breakfast was misnamed, since it was actually an afternoon feast in the open air, and Deverill was only one of nearly four hundred guests in attendance. The duke had somehow arranged a perfect summer afternoon at his palatial estate in Wandsworth on the Thames River, and even Deverill was impressed by the spectacle that boasted myriad sounds and colors and scents.

Three huge marquees, erected on the rear lawn in view of the river, bustled with an army of servants preparing a banquet fit for royalty. An orchestra played to one side, while ladies dressed in pastel muslin and sarcenet, gentlemen in tailored coats and pantaloons, strolled though the gardens and wandered out under the trees, listening to the music, sipping refreshing fruit punches, and nibbling on ices.

And after the guests had feasted, the company turned to various games provided for their entertainment—bowling and cricket and Pall Mall, and for the more experienced competitors, an archery competition.

It didn’t surprise Deverill in the least to find Antonia participating in the contest, and he eagerly took up a position beneath an alder tree to watch.

She made a fetching sight. She wore a high-waisted, short-sleeved lavender gown of Swiss muslin that showed her tall, elegant figure to advantage, while her dark-flame hair had been tamed in a chignon beneath a low-crowned bonnet.

A half-dozen gentlemen and several ladies were competing with her, and a score of spectators had congregated beside the range to observe, Lord Heward included. Deverill also recognized a small, bespectacled, silver-haired lady as Antonia’s companion, Miss Mildred Tottle. Antonia’s close friend, Emily, Lady Sudbury, was there as well to cheer
her on.

Deverill remembered Antonia saying that archery was her chief talent and one of the few sports allowed women, and her incredible skill was apparent from her first shot. Arrow after arrow found the bull’s-eye a hundred yards away.

Deverill thought her performance amazing. What struck him most, however, was her fierce concentration and her quiet delight each time her aim struck true.

This, he knew, was the genuine Antonia Maitland displaying her true colors—her obvious joy in life, her enthusiasm, her competitive spirit. Deverill felt his jaw tighten. The devious, savage-tempered Lord Heward bloody well didn’t deserve her.

The competition really was no contest. Antonia won handily, to fond applause from the audience. As she accepted her prize of a silver cup, Deverill stepped forward, determined to make his point.

Seeing him approach, Antonia felt her stomach leap. She had been keenly aware of Deverill all afternoon, first because he was the center of female attention, which absurdly roused pangs of jealousy in her breast. Then because for the past half hour, he’d lounged a shoulder carelessly against a tree trunk as he watched her win the competition.

He wore a faint smile on his face now as he congratulated her on her impressive victory.

“I had plenty of time to practice during the year I was in mourning,” Antonia answered honestly, “since I could not go out in society.”

“Of course,” Deverill commented, “a straw target is not much sport. In former eras, the aim of archery was to defeat enemies in battle or to bring down live game. It would prove more challenging if you had to deal with an animate target.”

Antonia eyed him with puzzlement. “What are you suggesting?”

“I’m proposing a further test of your skill.”

“A test?”

Many of the guests had begun to stroll back to the tents, Antonia saw, but Lord Heward, Mildred Tottle, and Emily remained. All three of them turned to look at Deverill, Heward’s expression the least amicable.

“I’ll wager that you couldn’t hit the hat off a man’s head,” Deverill asserted. “Say, Lord Heward’s head?”

The baron’s countenance immediately darkened to a frown, but Antonia kept her tone light when she replied. “I expect I could, but I would never risk ruining his lordship’s expensive hat.”

Deverill’s amused glance skimmed over the baron’s stiff form. “In any case, I doubt his lordship would agree to be your target. He would think it too dangerous.”

Was he trying to make Heward appear a coward, Antonia wondered, or simply to get under the baron’s skin?

Either way, Heward went rigid. “Don’t be absurd, Deverill. I am not afraid. I simply don’t choose to make a spectacle of myself or Miss Maitland.”

“Or is it because you have so little faith in her abilities?”

Stiffening herself, Antonia came to her betrothed’s defense. “If you care to volunteer as the target, Mr. Deverill, I might consider shooting at you.”

A lazy smile touched Deverill’s lips. “I would be happy to oblige.”

Realizing it had been his goal all along to provoke her into accepting his dare, Antonia hesitated.

“Come now, Miss Maitland, where is your sense of adventure?” His smile was charming, his gaze wicked. “It should be easy for an Amazon princess to shoot a hat.”

That did it! Antonia rose to his bait; she couldn’t help herself. “Very well, I accept your challenge,” she declared, flashing him a taunting half smile of her own.

She heard the gasps and titters from the audience that still lingered. Beside her, Emily clapped a hand over her mouth to stop a chortle of shocked mirth.

Ignoring the reactions, Antonia handed her silver cup to her friend, then returned to the shooters’ table, where her bow rested.

Miss Tottle’s slender hands fluttered nervously in the air. “Should you, my dear? You might k-kill him.”

Perhaps she shouldn’t, Antonia reflected. It was foolish, mad even, but if Deverill was daring enough to risk his life at her hands, she wasn’t going to gainsay him.

“My dear,” Heward interjected, his tone sharp, “this is not wise.” Moving to stand beside her, Heward leaned close and lowered his voice. “I forbid you to make a spectacle of yourself in this demeaning manner.”

At his tone, Antonia sent him a chill smile, but Deverill drawled before she could reply. “Perhaps you
should
reconsider, Miss Maitland, since his lordship obviously doesn’t approve.”

He was prodding Heward even more than he was testing her mettle, Antonia knew, but her temper had been inflamed by Heward’s command. It was not his place to forbid her to do anything.

Pressing her own lips together, she began untying the ribbons of her bonnet. “You are not wearing a hat, Mr. Deverill, but I am willing to sacrifice mine this once. Come here, if you please.”

When he obliged, albeit warily, she reached up to perch her bonnet on top of his head.

The frilly confection looked absurd on him, and the appreciative gleam in Deverill’s eye told her he knew it. She had managed to get a little of her own back at him, Antonia was pleased to note.

Beside her, Heward stood stiffly, anger in every line of his body, but she ignored him and instead pointed at one of the alders that lined the bank of the Thames. “Pray, go stand in front of that tree. I don’t want my bonnet to go flying into the river. The trim can probably be saved if I hit the crown.”

She waited while Deverill did as she bid. Walking over to the tree some thirty yards away, he turned and casually leaned back against the trunk, crossing his arms over his broad chest, his stance one of supreme confidence. “Whenever you are ready, Miss Maitland.”

Antonia picked up her bow and nocked an arrow.

“Antonia?” Miss Tottle repeated weakly.

“Don’t worry. I won’t miss at this distance.”

She wouldn’t miss; she couldn’t. She couldn’t imagine hurting the beautiful, rugged, provoking devil who stood gazing steadily back at her with amusement and challenge and—she had to admit—complete trust.

Antonia inhaled a slow breath and raised the bow. It was not her own weapon, but the feel was similar, and the draw was nearly the same strength.

Deverill was right, though. Shooting at a live mark was far different from shooting a straw target. Her palms were damp, her nerves a little shaky. But she knew her fortitude would only lessen the longer she waited.

Her heart pounding, she took aim and let the arrow fly.

Four

The arrow struck true, spitting the crown precisely in the center.

“A pity,” Antonia mused, hiding her fervent relief. “I was rather partial to that bonnet.”

Deverill laughed outright. Stepping away, he pulled the arrow from the tree trunk and disentangled the disfigured bonnet, then returned both to her with a gallant bow. When he flashed her a hot, easy smile, Antonia caught the deadly glance Heward sent him. If looks were arrows, Deverill would have been instantly skewered.

Heward was still furious at her as well, she realized as she tied the ribbons around her throat and let the ruined bonnet hang down her back.

When she was done, his lordship took her elbow and turned her toward the manor house. “I will escort you home now, my dear.”

His grip was actually painful. Flinching, Antonia pulled her arm away. “I think not, my lord. If you wish to leave just now, I will have Lord and Lady Sudbury take me home.”

Lowering his voice, he said through gritted teeth, “I insist you oblige me in this, Antonia.”

She shook her head. It was wiser to let the baron’s temper cool, not to mention she had no desire to suffer a scolding from him, which he was clearly set on delivering just as soon as he could speak privately. “I’m certain Miss Tottle is not ready to abandon the festivities just yet.”

Heward stared at Antonia, a muscle working in his jaw as he struggled for self-control. “Very well,” he ground out finally, before spinning on his heel and stalking away.

She watched him go, fury seething from him. Then she noticed the shocked and disapproving glances from her audience.

Their censure, Antonia suspected, was not so much because she had accepted a bold dare and shot a hat off a man’s head, or even because she’d engaged in a lover’s quarrel in public, but because she had defied Lord Heward in a very unladylike manner and made him appear impotent.

Embarrassment singed Antonia’s cheeks. She regretted her behavior already. Heward was a proud man and would hate to seem weak—which probably had been Deverill’s purpose all along.

She glanced up at Deverill, who was watching her intently. Meeting his unsettling gaze, Antonia grimaced, vexed at both him and at herself. He had managed to goad her into a dispute with her betrothed, but she had allowed it. She had to admire Deverill’s methods, though, for they were quite effective.

“I must congratulate you,” she said sardonically. “It seems you won that round.”

From the wicked gleam in his eyes, he knew exactly what she meant. “But not the battle.”

“No, and you won’t, either.”

“We shall see.”

Attempting to shrug off his confident retort, Antonia returned to the tents with Emily and Mildred Tottle, but the afternoon was spoiled for her. And her remorse only grew as the day wore on. Even though the guests seemed mostly to have forgotten about the contretemps, Antonia could not. By the time the breakfast ended at six o’clock, she was more than eager to leave.

She and Mildred were driven home by Emily and her genial, handsome husband, Lord Sudbury. When Mildred professed a desire to retire upstairs and take a nap before dinner, Antonia had no objections. “Please go ahead. I would be poor company just now.”

Instead of settling in the drawing room as usual, Antonia found herself wandering out to the gardens at the rear of the estate. She had thought about shooting off her frustration at the archery range, but she didn’t want to be so pointedly reminded of the disagreeable incident this afternoon.

When she came to the secluded little gazebo that her father had built for her mother, Antonia climbed the two steps and settled on a wooden bench to her right. The gazebo was the perfect place to be alone with her thoughts. The elegant, white latticework and domed roof were overgrown with ivy and climbing roses, hiding her from view of the gardens and offering welcome tranquillity. Golden rays from the setting sun filtered through the greenery, warming the interior and scenting the air with the sweet perfume of summer blossoms.

Wrapping her arms around her updrawn legs, Antonia rested her forehead on her knees and gave free rein to her disturbing reflections.

She would have to apologize to Lord Heward, of course, for she’d behaved badly toward him. He didn’t deserve such thoughtless treatment from her. Heward had been nothing but kind and helpful to her in the year since her father’s untimely death.

And he was appropriately concerned for her reputation. Like Caesar’s wife, she had to be above reproach if she hoped to rise above her common origins, as her father had wished. It wasn’t only a title her father had sought for her; it was the full acceptance of the ton into their hallowed ranks. If she failed to achieve their sanction through her own reckless behavior, then everything her father had striven for would be for naught.