“It’s not Mr. North.” She rolled her plump bottom lip between her teeth, which was distracting. “I have to say that?—”
“Let the best archer win!” Havisham flourished a handkerchief and left the field while the referees entered.
“We’ll talk later,” Angeline said.
The giggles and chatter from the crowd behind Royston made it difficult to focus, but there wasn’t a gust of wind and the air was crystal clear. Perfect conditions.
“Good luck, Miss Haywood.”
Another sad smile. “Good luck, Lord Wharton.”
“After you.” He stretched out an arm towards the target.
“Please start. I need to warm up my fingers. They need time.”
“Fine.” He wished he could help her feel better.
Other competitors lined up in front of the row of targets. He nocked the arrow, took aim, and released the string.
The arrow hit the centre of the target with a hiss renting the air. A round of applause rose from the audience, with Lady Redvers clapping quite loudly.
“Miss.” Royston stepped aside to give Angeline room.
Before nocking the arrow, she angled towards her mother who replied with a slight nod. Angeline lifted the bow and set her shoulders in an elegant position.
And that was pretty much the last thing he understood about what she was doing. Her movements became a blur of activity. She shot three arrows, one after the other. Two hit the centre, knocking off his arrow. The third missed the centre by half an inch, but her precision was still impressive.
“I say!” He let out a whistle. “That was— Angeline.”
She put her bow back on the rail and stormed off of the field.
“Miss Haywood?” Havisham said. “Why are you leaving? You hit the mark three times.”
“Angeline, wait.” Royston put his bow back on the rail and chased her.
She was fast even when walking.
“Angeline.” He overtook her and stopped in front of her.
She was a storm bottled in a pretty gown, and he had no idea why she was so upset.
“What happened? Why did you leave? You didn’t give me the chance to reply to your great shots.” He meant it as a joke, but a moment of anxiety made his words sound strained and pretentious.
“I’m sorry…” She gazed everywhere but him. “I didn’t mean to leave like that.”
“You seem furious. Was it something I did?”
She didn’t reply.
“Should I apologise? Well, just in case. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”
Her angry expression softened. “Oh, no. It wasn’t you.”
He offered her his arm. “Care for a walk? We can talk if you like.”
She slid her hand tentatively over his as if worried he might yell at her.
They promenaded along the path among romping children and stalls of food and flowers.
