“Eleanor, how else will you develop new strengths if you don’t allow yourself weaknesses?”
Oh, Eleanor…
“I will develop the strengths that I need to develop.” She had learned to iron passably well, had she not? “Diablo is not one I need in my repertoire. Nor are lawn bowls or tennis or croquet. Once this season is over and Lady Wharton returns to the country, I will no longer be attending events such as this, and the pursuit would be meaningless.”
His smile dropped and his posture lost its verve. That she had no need for tennis affected him oddly. He gathered his bearing and scanned the rest of the green. “Perhaps shooting?” He gestured toward the farthest spot from them. “That is not a useless skill.”
“It is a skill I have no need of. I’ve never fired a gun. There is no reason for me to do so now.” In front of him, or anyone else.
A crease formed between his eyebrows. “You live alone and you walk through London at god-awful hours in the morning.”
“My flat is in a secure building, with a porter who doesn’t let anyone in unless he’s sure of who they are.” She scowled. “Except you, last night, apparently. But how many dukes are likely to pose a threat? That would be like getting hit by lightning twice.”
He winced. “Even so, you walk through London alone.”
“With a heavy typecase with which I could knock someone flat, should I choose to.” She’d never felt the need. She walked tall and proud, at least she had until recently, and that confidence had been enough to keep ne’er-do-wells away.
Peter huffed. “You still need to know how to protect yourself. We can address the question of whether you need to own a gun at a later date.”
“Idon’t.”
This time when he took her arm, it was to hold her fast. When he tugged in the direction of the targets, she tripped along. “There are other reasons for knowing how to shoot,” he said. “Hunting, for example.”
“The likelihood of me hunting seems very, very low. Deer are rarely a problem in London and it’s hardly a hobby for women of my station.”
“Sometimes things change,” he grunted. When they were fifteen yards away from the target, he picked up a gun from the shooting rest and handed it to her.
She held it with the fewest fingers required to keep it from falling and going off. “I told you, I don’t know how to shoot a gun. There is no prospect of me hitting that target. In fact, there’s a much larger chance of me hitting a person, and then I will be unemployed and imprisoned.”
She attempted to return the gun. He declined to accept it. “Unless you can bend the laws of physics, you will not shoot anyone. Simply keep it pointed over there and don’t touch the trigger until you’re ready to fire.”
“Lady Wharton needs me.”
He looked over his shoulder to where Agatha was deep in conversation. “She gave me permission to enjoy your company for at least the next forty minutes.” He put his hands behind his back like a child, refusing to take the gun.
Stress was gathering at the base of her throat. Her muscles tensed and it was all she could do not to flee back the way they’d come. “I do not want todothis. Especially not in frontof a crowd of people who will see just how incompetent at it I am.”
He looked at her differently now. His empathy made her think she’d gotten through to him. He took the gun from her, letting it fall by his side. He turned the way they’d come and scanned the green. She hoped he was not looking for another diversion to impose upon her. “Can I trust you not to run if I leave you for a moment?” he asked. “Do you have the courage to remain in one spot?”
She narrowed her eyes, his insult rasping her pride. “I will wait here for two minutes.”
As Peter strode toward two men who were loitering at the edge of the field, Eleanor couldn’t drag her eyes from the fine figure he cut. His jacket flapped in the wind, and as it did so, it revealed long and muscular legs. He had one hand in his pocket and was sauntering with all the confidence a man of his status should.
It did funny, annoying things to her stomach. The same funny, annoying things it had done last night. When he returned, she experienced the pleasure of his walking toward her, and warmth stirred between her thighs. Goddamn, he was exquisite. Infuriating and arrogant, but exquisite.
“It’s sorted,” he said as he reached her.
“What’s sorted?” She cursed quietly as he picked up the gun and put it into her hands, ignoring her protests.
He took her by her shoulders, staring deeply at her in a way that, oddly, steadied her nerves. “I promise there will be no one paying attention to you. May I show you how to hold it properly, at least? Because the way you’re doing so is not it, and I can’t imagine that the most curious person I have ever met could resist learning this one little thing.”
Blast. He really did know how to steer her. She’d seen photographs of men holding rifles and could imagine the feel and sound of them. But, if she held one herself, her understanding would be more thorough.
“Fine.” They moved farther from the rest of the party. He was half a step behind her, and she shivered at the sense of him at her shoulder. Mats had been set up in front of each target. She chose the center one and set her feet firmly.
“Here.” He guided her arm until it was perpendicular to the target.
His touch made the insides of her ears itch, so she shook him off, put the butt of the rifle against her shoulder, and held the barrel with her other hand.
