“Never say you have allowed the Marquess of Dorset’sarrowtopokeyou, Tiny,” Charity said.
Good God.Her cheeks, already hot, were positively aflame.
“Charity!” she exclaimed at her outrageous friend. “Of course I have not.”
“Pity,” Charity said, her eyes narrowing in a considering fashion, as if she did not entirely believe Clementine. “His reputation suggests he would make the experience quite enjoyable.”
Yes, it did. And that was precisely why she intended to keep both Dorset and hisarrowfar, far away from her, her heart, and her…other regions.
“Lady Charity, did you injure yourself upon one of the arrows?” Miss Julia demanded, her voice booming over the landscape. “You always were a dreadful hand at archery. Have you not practiced since leaving my academy?”
Charity sighed, giving her friends a private, much-aggrieved roll of her eyes. “How unkind of her to take note of my poor archery skills. It is merely that the notion of launching a sharp missile at a stationary object seems utterly futile. Am I meant to be entertained by such nonsensical sport? Am I meant to be bloodthirsty? I have no desire to land my dinner by such means, and this is hardly a bygone century. Forgive me if I fail to understand the allure.”
“Lady Charity,” Miss Julia called again. “Are you injured?”
“I am well, Miss—er, Lady Fangfoss,” Charity responded at last, plastering an attempt at a pleasant smile on her face that was more grimace than anything.
“Just so,” Miss Julia said. “Carry on with archery, the four of you. Clementine is an excellent shot, but I fail to see if the rest of you have improved.”
Clementine wondered if that meant Lady Fangfoss would mind if she rested on her laurels.
“Let us see some more of your excellent archery skills, Lady Clementine,” their hostess said, as if she had heard Clementine’s own thoughts.
Blast.
“If Miss Julia could hear you using an epithet, she would be scandalized,” Charity said, keeping her voice low, mischief dancing in her eyes.
“Did I say that aloud as well?” she asked, scandalizing herself. Where had her mind gone?
“I dinnae doubt you are too preoccupied with thoughts of Lord Dorset’s arrow,” Raina teased.
Melanie chuckled. “Is it his arrow which concerns our friend or his bow?”
Clementine’s cheeks were scorching, even beneath the sensible brim of her hat, she was certain. “And to think I considered you all my dearest friends.”
“Ye love us like sisters,” Raina said, winking. “Ye cannae fool us.”
Clementine sighed. “Of course I do, and you are all as vexing as sisters.”
“Ladies,” Miss Julia sang from her chair. “I do not see arrows flying. Where is Cupid when one is truly in need of his aid?”
Melanie grimaced. Charity chuckled impishly. Raina shook her head. Clementine reclaimed her bow, determined to impress their hostess and cast all thoughts of the Marquess of Dorset from her mind.
For good.
* * *
Dorset washell-bent upon driving the memory of Lady Clementine’s soft lips beneath his from his mind. Banishing all recognition of her—purging her from his thoughts altogether—was his aim. However, as he indulged in a game of billiards with fellow house party guest Viscount Wilton, he could not deny that the maddening lady in question was as stubborn in her domination of his mind as she was in every other aspect of life.
Curse the meddlesome female.
One bee up her skirts, one case of himself being in the wrong place at the decidedly wrong time, and look at where he had landed. Betrothed to the baggage.
Temporarily, he reminded himself.
“I say, Dorset. You are markedly Friday-faced for a chap who is winning this particular game of billiards,” Wilton observed, his ever-present frown sterner and harsher than ever.
The viscount was a frigid fellow, though pleasant enough to engage in a friendly diversion.
