Chapter Fourteen #2
“Perhaps marriage to a duke makes her happy.”
He winced as she slapped him on the arm. “I trust you’re jesting, colonel. A woman can make her own happiness rather than rely on a man to give it to her. Though I must admit that a man such as Whitcombe is impossible to ignore.”
Stephen tempered the flare of jealousy. “Because he’s a duke?”
“Partly,” she said. “With the title comes a degree of entitlement and arrogance that renders him impossible to disregard.”
“You speak as if you admire him.”
“I admire him for loving Eleanor—as I admire Hardwick for loving Beatrice.” She let out a sigh. “Your sex often forgets that sometimes, a woman simply wants to be loved.”
The undercurrent of pain in her voice pierced his heart, and he reached for her hand. A jolt of need rushed through him as their fingers came into contact. Then she colored and withdrew her hand.
“Forgive me, I spoke out of turn again. My brother’s always admonishing me for it.”
“He’s another man who cannot be ignored,” Stephen said.
“And there the similarity with Whitcombe and Hardwick ends. I doubt my brother capable of loving anyone, let alone the woman he eventually marries.” She gestured toward Lord Hardwick, who was staring at his wife with unabashed devotion.
“For an overprotective husband, I confess surprise that Hardwick gave her permission to come here,” Stephen said.
Lady Portia laughed. “I’m sure he thinks he gave permission. Lady Beatrice is the sort of wife whose duty to her husband can be summed up in a simple fashion.”
“Which is?”
“To make him believe that any and all decisions made are his.”
Stephen glanced at the sweet-faced countess with the elfin features and delicate porcelain skin. “She doesn’t look like a harridan.”
“Beatrice is an angel,” Lady Portia said. “But just because a woman is mild in looks, that doesn’t mean she lacks an iron will.”
“I’m beginning to wonder if all women have a will of iron,” he said.
“Perhaps we do.” She turned the bow over in her hands. “But we must conceal it in order to survive, at least when among those we cannot completely trust.”
“And what might it take for a man to earn your trust, Lady Portia?”
A faint bloom colored her cheeks. “Perhaps you already have.”
He reached for her hand again, anticipating the surge of desire as she curled her fingers around his. “Have I done aught to merit such a reward?”
“A woman can never wholly trust a man until he has given her his trust,” she said.
“We live in a man’s world, where the men have all the power—they rule over others, and we women are defined and dictated by the men who own us.
Men, therefore, have no need to trust, for in trusting another, they stand to lose more than a woman who has little ownership of her fate. ”
He lifted her hand to his lips, and her eyes flared with desire.
“Most men believe that women only desire gifts,” she continued.
“But the truth is that we all desire gifts. The mistake men make is that we want material gifts—jewelry, trinkets, pin money. Those are the gifts that are given with the expectation of something in return, such as our obedience, forgiveness, or bodies. The only gift given with no expectation of return, and therefore the only gift that truly comes from the soul, is trust.”
Her lips curved into a smile, and he fought the urge to claim them.
“I knew,” she whispered, “from that moment in the library that night, that I could trust you.”
“The moment in—”
He broke off as he recalled the ball—the night he’d taken sanctuary in Lord Thorpe’s library, besieged by the memories of the stench of battle…when an angel had come to him, taken his hand, and delivered him from the brink.
“Portia…”
Her eyes darkened at his use of her name, and she parted her lips. Might he taste them again, capture an illicit kiss while the party were occupied elsewhere?
He raised his eyebrows in a plea, and she again smiled.
“Ladies!” the duchess called out, and he jerked free, his cheeks warming with shame, as if he were a lovestruck adolescent caught ogling an angel.
“And gentlemen, of course,” the duchess added.
“Would you take your places? The first round of the competition is about to begin. Then afterward we’ll break for luncheon with the rest of the gentlemen. ”
Stephen turned to see the competitors lining up, facing the targets at the far end of the lawn. Lady Portia plucked a bow and quiver from the table and handed them to him. “Shall we?”
“If it pleases you,” he replied, with a smile.
They lined up with the rest of the party, ten competitors in total, with their hostess and Lady Hardwick watching.
“Are you not going to join us, Duchess?” Stephen asked.
“I lack the talent for it, colonel,” she replied.
“So do I, Your Grace,” Hardwick said. “You can take my place if you wish.”
“I’m afraid, Lord Hardwick, that my talent at archery is such that those standing behind me are in greater danger of being hit than the target. Besides, do you not want to claim victory for your wife?”
“Here, Augustus,” Lady Hardwick said, pulling out a handkerchief from her reticule. “Take my favor.”
He took it, pressed it to his lips, then slid it into his jacket pocket over his heart.
Such gallantry in most gentlemen was considered merely a gesture, but sincerity shone in Hardwick’s eyes. He adored his wife unreservedly.
What must it be like to adore such a woman—and be adored in return?
“Five arrows each,” their hostess said. “The four highest scores will compete in the afternoon. In the event of a tie for fourth place, you must each shoot one more arrow, until we have four clear winners.”
As it transpired, there was no tie. Lady Portia’s bow seemed to be a part of her, and her first four arrows hit the center of the target.
When, just before she let her fifth arrow fly, Lady Hardwick sneezed and dropped her teacup, which shattered on the terrace, Lady Portia flinched and shot wide.
Laughing at her folly, she offered her shawl to Lady Hardwick then admonished Lord Hardwick for not taking proper care of his wife while she sat outside in the cold.
When he apologized, she laughed again, her body shaking with mirth.
Then she turned her clear blue gaze on Stephen and his heart was lost.
“Lady Portia, I distracted you—you must take your final shot again,” Lady Hardwick said.
“Absolutely not, Beatrice. The proficient archer should be able to focus entirely on her quarry and conquer any distractions from around her.”
“It matters not, anyway,” the duchess said. “Lady Portia still scored higher than everyone save Colonel Reid.”
Miss Whitcombe approached and linked her arm with her sister-in-law’s. “How did you become so proficient with a bow, colonel?”
“My father taught me when I was a boy,” Stephen replied, smiling at the memory. “He used to tell me that a true marksman must master two skills.”
“Which are?”
“A steady hand and the ability to breathe.”
“I’d have thought a true aim would be the most important skill,” Miss Whitcombe said. “Is not the ability to see also important? We can all breathe, surely?”
“But you use your whole body to shoot, Olivia,” Lady Portia said.
“Of course, we need to see to aim in the right direction, but consider how we aim—we use our bodies to stand and hold the weapon. Most of us strive to hold the weapon still, but we will never manage such a feat. Our bodies are never completely still. We breathe in and out, and our hearts are always beating. We must therefore steady our breathing—adopt an attitude of calm, lift the bow into position, and let the arrow fly once the position is reached. Only then do we use our sight, and contrary to what most believe, the ability to see clearly can work against us.”
“I see!” Miss Whitcombe said, smiling. “Because while we strive to see more clearly, we hesitate, hold our breath, and our bodies grow tense, at which point the game is lost. Which explains why I missed the target each time.”
“As did Mrs. McIver,” the duchess said. “Archery is more difficult than it looks. Portia, you do us a disservice by making it look easy.”
Lady Portia smiled and nodded. “You’re very kind, Eleanor.
It’s not easy, but I’ve a keen interest in marksmanship.
Whilst the technique may be a little different, the skills required to fire a weapon are similar to those required to shoot an arrow.
Men call it a sport, but that’s because they consider the number of birds they can shoot out of the sky, or the number of gentlemen they can shoot at dawn or dusk, to be a mark of their virility.
But it’s more of an art form. I have yet to encounter an opponent who… ”
Her voice tailed off, and she colored.
“An opponent on the archery field, I trust, Portia,” the duchess said. “I trust you don’t make a habit of firing a pistol at others.”
Lady Portia glanced toward Stephen, a flicker of apprehension in her eyes, then she gestured toward the other ladies. “Who are my competitors to be this afternoon?”
“The colonel, of course,” the duchess said, then she gestured to Lady Trelawney and Countess Weston. “And Alice and Lavinia.”
“Not Lady Thorpe?” Stephen said, nodding toward a tall woman dressed in dark blue, cascades of rich brown hair tumbling about her shoulders. He’d half expected her to be wearing breeches, given her reputation for engaging in the pursuits of men and despising any activity attributed to ladies.
“Henrietta is a better with a sword than she is at marksmanship,” Lady Weston said.
“Whereas you’re better, Lav, at climbing up walls when nobody’s looking,” Lady Thorpe said.
She slapped Lady Weston on the back. “Take care, Ellie, lest your guests find themselves a diamond necklace or two lighter come the end of the week. But then, you’ve been known to act as her accomplice, have you not? ”