The Competition
Beatrice leaned toward the windows, watching the houses grow farther apart as the carriage wheels hummed over the road, leaving Mayfair behind.
“Where exactly are we going?”
Gideon sat opposite her, one arm resting casually along the back of the seat, beside two long leather cases.
“Riverside House.”
“That sounds like a country estate.”
“It is,” he said. “Though technically still within London.”
“There will be open land for this… competition?”
Gideon’s mouth curved slightly. “Indeed. Mrs. Arabella Shaw holds a contest there every spring. Have you ever entered one?”
Beatrice shook her head. “There was a competition in Bellwater once.” She needn’t explain that Bellwater was the village nearest Dasborough Park; Gideon and Dash had spent enough evenings in its pub to know it well.
“But the gentleman organizing it informed me it was for men only. And not for ‘nobs’ as he so eloquently put it. So.”
Gideon snorted. “That sounds like a man who feared losing.”
“I agree.” Beatrice smiled. “And this Mrs. Shaw, she does this every year? Why haven’t I heard of her before?”
“Her husband made his fortune in industry. And although some of us have welcomed her company—and Mr. Shaw’s, when he’s around—there are many who have not.”
“Because they lack standing.”
“That’s part of it.” Gideon’s mouth curled, a wry, somewhat amused expression overtaking his features. “But at this point, I’d say it’s more because she refuses to follow their rules.”
Beatrice couldn’t quite keep her eyebrows from shooting up in pleasant surprise.
This Mrs. Shaw sounded like the type of woman she could respect—though she would reserve judgement until she had actually met her for herself, of course.
It was unwise to put all of one’s faith in another’s opinion alone, after all.
When she looked back up at him, another question half-risen to her tongue, she found Gideon already watching her. Though his posture was relaxed, that mild amusement still there, his gaze was intent. She could only look into his eyes for a few seconds before having to direct her gaze elsewhere.
“How does it work?” she asked once she managed to find her voice again. “The competition?”
But just then, the carriage slowed to pass through a twin set of massive iron gates.
“You’re about to find out.”
Before them stretched lawns so wide they rivaled Hyde Park. White canvas pavilions lined the edge of the lawn. Ladies in bright gowns drifted between them like moving flowers. Laughter carried on the spring air.
Farther beyond, Beatrice caught a glimpse of the Thames glimmering through a line of trees. And at the center of it all—
Targets.
Rows of them.
Dozens of gentlemen stood nearby with bows. A few women did as well.
“Oh my.” Beatrice could barely keep her mouth from dropping open.
Gideon glanced at her. “Still want to do our lessons in your ballroom today?”
“No,” Beatrice said. “Definitely not.”
Coming to a halt beneath a large awning, they might as well have been visiting any aristocratic country estate.
Footmen appeared at once to open the door, assisting Beatrice down.
Gideon followed, but not without gathering the two cases.
Hers, brown and rough from years of use, and the other polished and elegant.
“Are you any good?” Beatrice asked.
“I hold my own.”
His answer came as something of a surprise.
“You never did any shooting at Dasborough Park.” It came out as almost an accusation.
“Didn’t I?”
Beatrice didn’t get a chance to question that before a woman stepped forward, her hands outstretched.
“My darling Hawkins,” she said warmly. “You are late.”
She was breathtaking. Not youthful, but with the sort of beauty that had simply grown more assured with time. Her dark hair was arranged in an elegant twist, and the deep green silk of her gown set off eyes that were clear and bright.
She smiled with unmistakable delight when her darling Hawkins bowed over her hand.
“Fashionably so, of course.” Gideon’s voice was just as warm. Beatrice rolled her lips together to keep from frowning.
But then the woman’s gaze shifted to Beatrice.
“And you have brought me a mystery.”
“Arabella, may I present Lady Beatrice Beckman. Lady Beatrice, this is Mrs. Arabella Shaw.”
The woman’s eyes lit with recognition. “Dash’s sister.”
Beatrice smiled politely. “I hope that is not my sole distinction.”
“We’ll see soon enough, won’t we?” Mrs. Shaw laughed. “But you’d best move along if you’re planning on entering.” She gestured inside. “The ballroom is open to the terrace. You may sign up for an entry slot at the table near the door.”
Gideon thanked her, and a few minutes later, the two of them were standing at an elegant but official-looking table.
“Easy enough, wouldn’t you agree?” Gideon handed over the pencil, having just put his name in one of the vacant time slots. Almost all of them were already filled in.
Beatrice glanced at the line of other guests standing nearby and just outside. A few seemed to stare at her curiously.
Gideon leaned slightly closer. “Unless…” His breath warmed her cheek. “You are afraid?”
Beatrice scoffed. “You’d prefer that, wouldn’t you?” Then she took the pencil and added her name in the last open slot. Just beneath his.
Gideon Rothmore.
Beatrice Beckman.
A brief perusal of the names above theirs showed not as many women as there were men, but more than Beatrice would have expected.
“I hope you don’t mind losing,” Beatrice teased.
“I’m counting on it, actually.” He handed over her case and then, touching her elbow, led her outside. He kept his hand there until they arrived at the line where contestants were taking some practice shots.
Thwak. Thwak. Thwak. It was a comforting sound. Beatrice took a moment to watch while a folly of shots landed solidly, near the bullseye, but none of them hit center.
Thwak. That one did.
“Incidentally,” Gideon said, gesturing toward the far target and its shooter, “the reigning champion is Lord Longstaffe.”
Lord Longstaffe?
Beatrice followed the motion—and stilled.
Down the line, the viscount met her eyes and dipped his chin in polite acknowledgment. No censure. No amusement. Certainly no hint of grievance. And no bandage—only a dark, thin line at his jaw that spoke more of inconvenience than injury.
Thank heaven.
She offered a carefully apologetic smile and inclined her head.
“Wonderful,” she murmured to herself.
Gideon’s mouth curved, though there was something measured beneath it now. “You could look at it another way.”
“Oh?” she asked, arching a brow.
“A gentleman who has already proven himself disposed to generosity of spirit,” he said lightly. “Should you require it.”
Beatrice let out a soft breath through her nose. “I should rather not require it.”
“No,” Gideon agreed. “I did not think you would.”
That—more than anything—settled something in her.
Her gaze returned to the targets. To the clean, distant circles. To the quiet expectation of the line.
Last night had been… untidy.
This would not be.
“I might have preferred a warning,” she said, though without any real heat.
Gideon’s glance flicked toward her. “I would have provided it, if warning was required.”
Beatrice considered that.
Then, almost despite herself, her fingers itched—not with irritation this time, but anticipation.
“Perhaps,” she conceded, before turning back to the line. “Does it matter where I set up?”
“It doesn’t, but—” He was interrupted by a voice shouting from behind them.
“Hold, if you please! Archers collect their arrows. The first round begins in exactly five minutes.”
The master of ceremonies continued with a series of instructions before calling out the names of the first contestants. With a light nudge from Gideon, Beatrice stepped back from the shooting line.
The next few minutes passed in quiet preparation.
Beatrice slipped the bow from its leather case and ran her fingers along the polished curve of the wood, checking for the slightest irregularity out of habit rather than necessity.
The string was secured with practiced ease, the tension settling into that familiar, perfect resistance she knew by feel alone.
From the arrow case she selected three shafts, examining each one quickly—the fletching smooth, the heads true, the weight balanced just as she preferred.
Around them, other archers stretched their shoulders and tested their grip. Beatrice did the same, pulling the bowstring to her cheek and holding it there. She exhaled.
The tension hummed softly through the bow, steady and reassuring beneath her fingertips.
Perhaps she should have felt nervous not to have taken a practice shot.
But she knew this bow. She knew these arrows.
“Each archer shoots three arrows per round. The highest scores advance,” Gideon said quietly as they both prepared.
“And the distance?”
“Begins at thirty yards.”
Beatrice nodded slowly. “That seems reasonable.”
“It increases.”
“I would hope so,” she said with more confidence than she felt. Not that she doubted her abilities, but she was unaccustomed to people watching her.
Along the far side of the lawn, tiered spectator stands had been erected, and those benches were filled with fashionable onlookers who watched the archers with lively interest.
Gideon’s gaze drifted toward the line of contestants preparing to shoot.
“Once we reach the final rounds, the distance doubles.”
The first arrow flew, and a ripple of polite applause followed.
Something fluttered low in her stomach. Not fear… but something not far from it.
“Nervous?” Gideon asked.
“I don’t know why.” Her voice wavered, just slightly.
“A natural response,” he said. He stepped in closer—not quite touching. “Breathe.”
She drew in a breath, then let it go.
“Draw on the exhale.”
She blinked. “I know that.”
“I know you do.” His hands settled lightly against the center of her back. “Nerves can make even the best archer forget.”
Beatrice opened her mouth to object—then noticed the tension in her neck.
Gideon’s hands slid upward, squeezing her shoulders.
“Relax,” he murmured.
The difference was immediate.
“There,” he said softly. “Better.”
She rolled one shoulder experimentally.
“And your grip,” he added, nodding toward the bow. “Loosen your fingers. Then don’t forget to let the bow fall when you release.”
Beatrice flexed her hand slightly around the grip.
“You make it sound as though I have never held a bow before.”
Gideon shook his head faintly.
“No.” His voice gentled just slightly. “I am reminding you of the things you already know.”
“And if I miss?”
“You will not.”
His certainty was infuriating and reassuring at the same time.
She glanced sideways at him. “You are remarkably confident.”
“I’ve seen you shoot.”
That simple answer… It was exactly what she needed.
More contestants stepped forward one by one, bows rising, strings snapping as arrows flew toward the distant targets. And as she watched, Beatrice felt waves of strange anticipation rise and fall within her—little bursts of nervous energy followed by something steadier.
Perhaps it was simply the rhythm of the competition.
Or perhaps it was having Gideon beside her.
“Next up: Baron Hawkins.”
He stepped forward, and his absence was unexpectedly noticeable—like stepping out of sunlight into the shade. Beatrice drew a small breath, annoyed with herself for noticing at all.
But then Gideon glanced back over his shoulder.
And winked.
Then he strode toward the shooting line and, not in any hurry, removed his jacket. It was not the first time she had seen him in shirtsleeves. Of course, he’d done the same for their practice sessions in the ballroom.
And yet—
Out here, among a dozen other gentlemen who had done the same, the comparison proved… illuminating.
Gideon’s shoulders were broad—perhaps not quite so massive as Lord Longstaffe’s, but nearly—and he carried himself with an ease the others lacked.
He rolled his sleeves once. Then again. Beatrice couldn’t help but study his forearms.
Pale, with the perfect dusting of hairs. And his hands…
Elegant, certainly. But also strong. Capable.
Beatrice licked her lips, but then jerked her attention to his bow as Gideon took his stance at the line.
The lawn quieted slightly.
His form was perfect—feet planted, one shoulder angled toward the target. Nothing forced. Nothing hurried.
When he nocked the arrow, Beatrice inhaled. Then Gideon drew the bowstring back…
For a moment everything seemed to narrow to that single line of tension—the bow, the arrow, Gideon’s steady posture.
The string snapped softly, and Beatrice’s breath left her as the arrow struck the target with a solid thunk.
Not even an inch off-center.
A murmur of approval drifted through the crowd.
Gideon did not react, but simply drew another arrow.
The second shot landed even closer. And the third—dead center.
Beatrice exhaled slowly.
“Well,” she murmured under her breath. That was… not bad at all.
Gideon turned, and his gaze found her immediately.
“Well?” he asked.
“Longstaffe is champion, you say,” she accused.
“Yes.”
“Is that because you didn’t enter last year?”
She saw his answer in his not-so-innocent shrug.
Then he gestured toward the line. “Your turn, my lady.”
And Beatrice suddenly felt every pair of eyes shift toward her.
She took up her bow.
Stepped forward. And, relaxing her shoulders, Beatrice took her place on the line.