Not that he’d pay her any mind, of course. He likely hadn’t given their kiss last night a second thought. He’d kissed dozens of ladies, all of them fashionable and beautiful. Why, he’d probably laughed himself silly over her clumsy kiss as soon as she’d left the billiards room last night.
He paused on the edge of the gathering, his gaze roaming over the crowd. When he caught sight of her, his lips curled in a wicked smile and he came toward her at once, pausing only to nod at his companions as he crossed the courtyard. “Good morning, Miss Thorne.”
“Your Grace.” She gave him a brisk nod, but already she could feel her cheeks warming.
Those breeches . . . dear God, they were positively scandalous.
“You’re awake rather early for a lady who was so late getting off to her bed last night.” His gaze swept over her, taking her in from the tips of her boots to the top of her head. “Er, Miss Thorne, are you aware that your hat is a bit dented?”
“Yes. Perfectly aware, Your Grace.” No doubt he thought her poor little hat very amusing, but she wouldn’t let such a silly thing as a flattened hat spoil her chance to join the shooting party.
He didn’t laugh at her, though, but only gave her a grave nod, his dark eyes roaming over her face. “I thought you might bear me a grudge after our game last night.”
“Not at all, Your Grace. I told you, I’m not a sore loser.”
“No, but I don’t believe you enjoy losing tome, Miss Thorne.”
No, dash it, she didn’t, but she’d bite her lip bloody before she’d admit it. “Nonsense, Your Grace. You think yourself much more important than you are.”
He grinned. “Very well, then. It’s kind of you to come see the shooting party off.”
“See you off? No, indeed. I’m here to shoot, of course.”
“Shoot?” He’d taken her arm to follow the rest of the party down the pathway to the stables, but now he came to an abrupt halt, his good humor vanishing in an instant. “You can’t mean to say you intend to join the shooting party?”
“Certainly, I do.” For pity’s sake, what was so shocking in that? Ladies occasionally joined the fox hunt without civilization collapsing in on itself. Why should shooting be any different?
“No, Miss Thorne. It’s out of the question. I forbid it.”
“Youforbid it?” She’d never been fond of the word “forbid,” and to hear it fall from his too-handsome lips was like a spark dropping into a pan of gunpowder. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but you have no authority to forbid me anything at all. I will do as I please.”
She would have marched on by him, but he caught her elbow, his brows lowering in a scowl. “The devil you will.” He marched her over to Basingstoke, who was conferring with his gamekeeper. “Basingstoke? We have a problem.”
“For God’s sake, Montford, we haven’t even left the stable yard yet. How can we have a problem already?”
“We won’t be leaving the stable yard at all if we don’t tend to this first.”
“A moment, Blount, if you would.” Basingstoke turned to them with a sigh. “Yes? What is it, Montford?”
“Miss Thorne is under the impression she’s accompanying the shooting party today. Kindly tell her she isn’t, and we can be on our way.”
Prue’s hands curled into fists. “Howdareyou presume to think you can order me about, you arrogant, presumptuous—”
Basingstoke held up a hand, and she trailed off into silence. A good thing, too, because the next word about to fall from her lips was “arse.”
“I don’t see why Miss Thorne can’t join us. She regularly shoots with her father at home, and knows the rigors involved. She’s a crack shot, too, Montford. You should see—”
“No, I shouldn’t see, and I won’t, because she isn’t coming with us.” Montford crossed his arms over his chest, his dark green frock coat pulling tight at his wide shoulders.
And here it came again, the word “arse,” burbling up in her throat, clawing its way into her mouth—
“What’s your objection, Montford?”
“She’s not . . . she can’t . . .” For an instant, Montford seemed not to recall why he objected so strenuously, but then he turned a baleful glare on her and pointed a finger at her skirts. “She doesn’t have the proper clothing. Look at her! She’ll slow us all down with those heavy skirts, her hems catching on every tree and shrub! She’ll scare the grouse away with all those yards of wool dragging after her.”
Why, the nerve of the man, using a lady’s riding habit against her! “I do beg your pardon, Your Grace. Would you prefer I wear breeches, instead?”
“Now you mention it, Miss Thorne, I would quite like to see—”
