“Lord Wilfrey, we are rooting for you. Beatrice has been looking forward to watching you compete.”
Miss Stapleton offered a smile that was soft and encouraging and precisely calibrated to make a man feel as though he were the only person on the field. “Good luck, Lord Wilfrey.”
Wilfrey colored at the tips of his ears. “You are very kind, Miss Stapleton.”
The Stapletons withdrew to their seats. Lily watched them go and noted the seamless choreography of it, the way Lady Stapleton had positioned her daughter at Wilfrey’s side as though it was the most natural thing in the world, a passing gesture of goodwill that was, in fact, a strategic placement as deliberate as any move on a chessboard.
She set down her lemonade and walked to the shooting line.
Wilfrey turned when he saw her approach. His expression shifted from the pleasant embarrassment the Stapletons had left behind to something warmer, more focused. He straightened.
“Lady Lily.”
“Lord Wilfrey.” She offered him a smile that carried genuine warmth without romantic longing, the smile of a woman who respected a man and wished him well without wishing for anything more. “I wanted to wish you luck. I understand you are quite skilled.”
“I practice when I can. The concentration required is not unlike botanical illustration. Steady hands, careful aim.” He paused. “Will you be watching?”
“I will.”
“Then I shall endeavor to be worthy of the audience.”
It was the most gallant thing he had ever said to her, and she recognized it for what it was: a man who was trying. Not with the effortless charm Hugo deployed like a weapon, but with the careful, deliberate effort of a man who had to think about each word before he spoke it.
She appreciated the effort. She did not feel the flicker of heat that Hugo’s proximity ignited in her blood, the quickening of her pulse, the catch in her breath. She felt something milder. Respect.
It would be enough. She had decided it would be enough.
“I look forward to it.”
She left Wilfrey and crossed to where Hugo stood at the shooting line, testing the draw on his bow. He looked up as she approached, and the flicker of surprise in his eyes told her he had watched her conversation with Wilfrey from across the field.
“My betrothed.” She kept her voice light, pitched for the ears of the guests nearby. “I could hardly wish Lord Wilfrey luck without wishing the same to my own fiancé.”
“I should hope not. Thetonwould talk.”
“Thetonalways talks.”
“True. But I prefer they talk about how devoted you are rather than how neglectful.” His amber eyes held hers, and the teasing warmth in them carried an undertow she chose not to examine. “Any parting wisdom for me?”
“Aim well, Your Grace.”
“For you, Lady Lily, I shall aim for nothing less than perfection.”
She held his gaze a beat longer than she intended. Then she returned to the awning. Sophia caught her eye and raised a brow. Lily shook her head and reached for her lemonade.
The competition began.
The first rounds eliminated the expected casualties. Sir Philip’s arrows flew with more enthusiasm than accuracy, and he retired with good humor after embedding one in the ground three feet short of the target.
“That man should not be trusted with a butter knife, let alone a longbow.”
“Aunt Margaret, he is standing ten paces away.”
“Then he is well out of range, based on that performance.”
Mr. Dunfarrow acquitted himself respectably before bowing out in the third round. Lord Ashton’s last arrow struck the outer ring, and he shrugged with the philosophical acceptance of a man who had never expected to win anything and was rarely disappointed.
Edward shot with quiet, lethal precision and advanced through each round without comment, his arrows grouping tightly near the center of the target. Hugo matched him shot for shot, his form clean, his release smooth, and the familiar rhythm of nock, draw, anchor, release settled over him like a second skin.
