“Edward is terrifyingly good at this,” Lily murmured to Sophia.
“He is terrifyingly good at most things.” Sophia sipped her lemonade.
Wilfrey was good. Better than Lily had expected. His shots were methodical and consistent, his groupings tight, his form textbook perfect. He approached each arrow the way he approached everything: with careful preparation and measured execution.
“Lord Wilfrey is acquitting himself well,” Margaret observed. “Perhaps there is more to the man than ferns and soil composition.”
“He practices regularly,” Lily said. “He told me the concentration is similar to botanical illustration.”
“Of course he did.”
By the final round, three men remained: Hugo, Edward, and Wilfrey.
Edward shot first. His arrow struck the inner ring, one inch from the center. A murmur of appreciation rose from the ladies beneath the awning.
Wilfrey stepped onto the line. He drew, held, and released. The arrow buried itself in the target half an inch from Edward’s. The murmur became a smattering of applause. Miss Stapleton clapped with restrained enthusiasm. Lady Stapleton smiled.
Hugo stepped onto the line.
He nocked his arrow and raised the bow. The target sat at the far end of the field, its painted rings bright in the morning sun. The center circle was no larger than a man’s fist, and from this distance, it wavered in the heat rising from the grass.
He drew the string to his cheek. His breathing slowed. The world narrowed to the target, the string, the arrow, and the space between them.
He was going to miss.
Not miss. He was going to aim for the inner ring, just outside the center. Close enough to impress. Not close enough to win. Because Wilfrey needed to win. Wilfrey needed to stand at the center of the field and accept the congratulations of the assembled guests. Lily needed to go to him and smile, touch his arm and tell him he was wonderful. The house party would serve its purpose, and the plan would work.
He held his aim. The inner ring. Just outside the center.
His gaze drifted.
Lily stood at the edge of the awning with her lemonade forgotten in her hand, and she was not looking at him. She was looking at Wilfrey. Her eyes were fixed on the man who had just put an arrow half an inch from Edward’s, and her expression carried something that looked horribly, unmistakably like admiration.
The jealousy hit him like a fist to the sternum. It was not rational. It was not proportionate. It was a hot, blinding surge of possessiveness that obliterated every strategic thought in his head and replaced it with a single, primal imperative.
Win.
He adjusted his aim.
The center. Dead center. The bullseye.
He released.
The arrow sang through the air and buried itself in the target’s heart with a thud that echoed across the field. Dead center. Perfect.
Silence. Then applause, louder than before. Hugo lowered his bow and stared at the target and felt no satisfaction whatsoever, because he had just sabotaged his own plan for the oldest, stupidest, and most primitive reason a man had ever done anything.
Edward looked at him. One eyebrow lifted. Hugo did not meet his gaze.
Wilfrey set down his bow and crossed to Hugo with composed grace.
“Exceptional shot, Your Grace. The best I have seen.”
“Thank you, Wilfrey. You shot remarkably well.”
Wilfrey nodded and stepped aside. The other gentlemen offered their congratulations, and Hugo accepted them with the automatic charm of a man whose mouth could functionindependently of his mind, which was useful because his mind was fully occupied with the realization that he was an idiot of the highest order.
Lily approached. She wore the smile he had taught her, warm and measured, and her green eyes held a brightness that could have meant anything.
