“Must you always be so precise?” Brandon asked.
George did not look at him. He had to be perfect; it was part of his role. He was expected to be better than everyone else, and so he intended to meet such expectations. He rather thought that he did it well, but of course there were those that still found a way to take issue with that.
“I am managing my temper,” he explained. “When I concentrate, it helps.”
“You never needed to before.”
That earned Brandon a glance. Brandon raised his hands in mock surrender, grinning.
“I merely observe. You used to drink when you were annoyed. Now you shoot.”
“Do not start.”
“I am serious,” Brandon continued lightly. “You glare less at creditors, you refuse to touch the dowry you are entitled to, and now you scowl at targets as though they have personally offended you.”
“You know why I will not use her money.”
“I know,” Brandon said more quietly. “You are proud. And stubborn.”
“And responsible.”
“And apparently affected,” Brandon added, nodding toward the picnic. “You have glanced in that direction six times.”
George turned despite himself. He had not noticed it, but thinking back it was true that each time another gentleman took his turn, he looked in the direction of the ladies. He wondered if Lady Cassandra was watching him shoot, and if she was,he wondered whether or not she was even the slightest bit impressed.
She sat among the others, her attention fixed on the shooting with barely concealed interest. She laughed at something Anthea said, then looked toward the targets, toward him.
He looked away at once.
“You see?” Brandon asked. “I know what is happening to you. Deny it if you wish, but we both know the truth.”
“You keep telling yourself that,” George said as he picked up the bow again. “Focus on your own aim, too, while you are at it.”
“I am,” Brandon said easily. “And it is not my aim that has gone strange.”
George drew the string back hard this time, releasing with more force than necessary. The arrow struck, and the tension in his chest eased, if only briefly. For a moment, with the bow in his hands and the field stretched before him, he could pretend that he was still in control.
But even as the men continued to shoot, even as Brandon’s laughter cut through the air, George was uncomfortably aware of one truth. No amount of distance, discipline, or deliberate separation could fully stop him from watching her, and that knowledge unsettled him far more than Brandon’s teasing ever could.
The game came to an end, and George found his sister where he expected her to be, at the edge of the lawn, half watching the picnic, half pretending she was not. She sat with a book open in her lap, though her eyes followed the movement of the guests more than the page.
“You are avoiding the sun,” he said.
“You are avoiding everyone,” she replied.
“It is an occupational necessity. If I am to maintain my composure, I require time away from people that aggravate me.”
“Then why have you come to me?”
“Because you do not count.”
He sat beside her, wondering how long it would be before they were joined by everyone else. His time alone with his sister had grown more infrequent over the years, and it would only be more so when they married, and though he knew it had to be done there was a part of him that would miss her terribly.
“You were shooting very aggressively,” Philippa commented, closing her book.
“So I have been told.”
She studied him for a moment, expression thoughtful rather than teasing.
