William hit the center of the target twice in a row.
Now it was down to Phoebe. If she made this shot, the match would have extra arrows. If she didn’t, the match would be over. William would have won, and Phoebe would have to sing for the party tonight.
George noticed Phoebe was looking at Thornwick. George whipped his head around in time to see the duke frown and shake his head.
George looked back at Phoebe. “You can do it, Phee!” he shouted.
She kept her eyes closed for a long time before letting this arrow fly.
George prayed.
It was straight and true.Thwap. Right in the center.
William had two points. Phoebe had two. A draw. To break it, they would now shoot two arrows each, starting with William.
Thornwick held up his hand. “A moment!” he called out. “I must give my betrothed encouragement!” He lowered his voice. “A husband’s privilege, wouldn’t you say, George?”
Thornwick walked to Phoebe. He held her elbow as he spoke to her. He seemed very intent. And Phoebe. What was Phoebe doing? She was looking up at Thornwick, listening to him, as she had once listened to George. And was that a little nod from her? George could not read her face.
Thornwick walked back to the group of spectators, and George had no difficulty readinghisface. The blond duke looked smug. But he always looked smug, didn’t he?
William hit the center of the target with his first arrow and missed it with his second.
“I wish you good luck, my lady,” he said in a voice loud enough to be heard by the watchers, “and I look forward to torturing these good people tonight with my drinking songs.”
There was a chorus of boos from the crowd.
Phoebe notched her arrow. George was ready this time and watched Thornwick, not Phoebe. Again, Thornwick shook his head and frowned.
George glanced at Phoebe. She was looking at Thornwick. Her face was red. He thought he could see the crease between her eyebrows. Then she closed her eyes for the longest period of time yet. She adjusted her aim. A second or two. Then she adjusted again.
Twang! Thwap!An arrow vibrated in the center of the target. George could tell it was a winner but he held back his cheer.
The footman whose job it was to remove arrows from the targets came at a run.
“Your Graces, lords and ladies, the arrowhead has gone clear through the target to the other side. And it is in the center.” The footman began the process of shifting the target Lady Grace had been using earlier and moving the damaged one away as the group huzzahed and clapped.
“Hold!” Thornwick stalked toward Phoebe very quickly. He seized her elbow with one hand and began pulling her toward the forest that edged the lawn, not thirty yards away. Phoebe was stumbling, unable to keep up with his long legs and rapid pace. She had the bow and her next arrow in her hand.
George had visions of her falling, the arrow going into her face, her eye. He started after them.
Again, the Duchess of Abingdon’s strong grip on his forearm.
“Don’t, Lord Danforth,” she hissed. “You’ve interfered in Phoebe’s life long enough.”
Alice took his other hand and whispered in his ear. “Maybe she’ll wake up to what an arsehole he is.”
“The match is on hold, I suppose. Let’s have our lemonade,” William said, grinning as he walked back to the others. But the grin looked false. Surely, he knew Thornwick wanted Phoebe to lose intentionally.
The party, except for George and the Duchess of Abingdon, retreated to the shade of a tree where the cold lemonade waited in glasses on trays held by footmen.
Once Thornwick and Phoebe disappeared into the forest, Lady Abingdon released George’s arm.
“Stay. Good boy.”
Was she aware she had just addressed him as if he were one of her husband’s hunting dogs?
He bowed. “Your Grace.” He had other names for her on the tip of his tongue, but he was working very hard not to give voice to those. After all, this was Phoebe’s mother.
