Chapter 18
“Gentlemen, take your positions.” Hugo stood at the head of the archery range with his sleeves rolled to his elbows and a longbow resting against his shoulder.
The morning sun sat high over Thornwaite Hall. The field beyond the south lawn had been transformed overnight into a competition ground with straw targets at increasing distances along the tree line and a row of chairs positioned beneath a canvas awning for the ladies.
The gentlemen assembled with the predictable mixture of bravado and nerves that accompanied any activity involving skill and an audience.
Sir Philip Hale hefted his bow with the enthusiasm of a man who had not held one since school and was choosing to regard this as irrelevant.
Mr. Dunfarrow assessed his string with careful, quiet focus.
Lord Pemberton examined his quiver as though the arrows might contain instructions he had overlooked.
Edward took his position beside Hugo and said nothing, because Edward had been a better archer than Hugo since they were twelve and saw no reason to announce it.
Wilfrey selected his bow from the rack with the methodical precision Hugo expected from a man who approached everything, including sport, as though it were a scientific expedition requiring documentation.
He evaluated the draw weight, examined the fletching on each arrow, and made a small notation in his ever-present leather notebook before tucking it back into his coat.
Hugo resisted the urge to ask whether he was recording the wind speed.
Across the field, the ladies settled beneath the awning.
Footmen circulated with glasses of lemonade and small plates of sandwiches.
Lady Hale fanned herself and remarked to Mrs. Thorne that she found archery terribly exciting, which Hugo suspected meant she found the prospect of watching men compete for her attention terribly exciting, regardless of the activity.
Lady Stapleton occupied the chair nearest the edge of the awning; her posture arranged with the elegant precision of a woman who understood that being seen was as important as seeing.
Miss Stapleton sat beside her in white muslin with her hands folded in her lap and her attention directed toward the archery range with an expression of mild, decorative interest that revealed nothing of what she was actually thinking.
Hugo’s gaze found Lily before he could stop it.
She stood at the edge of the awning beside Sophia and Lady Oldbarrow, a glass of lemonade untouched in her hand, her eyes fixed on the row of longbows with an expression he recognized.
It was the same look she wore when she encountered a book she wanted to read, or a conversation she wanted to join, or a world she wanted to enter but had been told was not meant for her.
Longing, carefully concealed.
She wanted to shoot.
The realization landed with a weight that surprised him. She stood there in the plum silk gown with her honey-gold curls loose at her temples and her shoulders straight and her chin lifted, and she was not watching the men.
She was watching the bows. The arrows. The targets.
She was calculating distance and drawing weight with those sharp green eyes, and the only thing stopping her from stepping onto the range and putting every one of these preening fools to shame was the invisible wall of propriety that penned her in like a fence around a wild horse.
He filed it away. He would come back to it.
Lily tore her gaze from the bows and redirected it toward the field where the gentlemen were arranging themselves along the shooting line with varying degrees of competence.
She did not look at Hugo. She looked at the targets, at the straw bales with their painted rings, and she thought about the summer she had spent with Aunt Margaret in Tuscany, where a retired soldier named Giovanni had taught her to shoot a short bow in a sunbaked field behind his farmhouse.
She had been good at it. Better than good. Giovanni had told her she had a natural eye, and she had spent three weeks putting arrows into targets while Margaret drank wine on the terrace and made pointed observations about the limitations of English girlhood.
That had been four years ago. She had not held a bow since.
She sipped her lemonade and pretended to be interested in the sandwiches.
Across the field, Lady Stapleton and her daughter rose from their chairs and crossed to the shooting line. Lady Stapleton placed her hand on Lord Wilfrey’s arm and leaned close, her voice pitched warm and conspiratorial, rehearsed to perfection.
“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. The ton would talk.”
“The ton always 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.
“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 function independently 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.
“Congratulations, Your Grace. That was an impressive shot.”
“Thank you, my betrothed.” The words came out steadily. Practiced. Empty.
She held his gaze for a beat. Then she turned and walked across the field to where Wilfrey stood alone, his bow resting against his hip, his expression carrying the quiet dignity of a man who had come second and would not complain about it.
Hugo watched her touch Wilfrey’s arm. He watched her tilt her head and say something that made Wilfrey’s shoulders relax and his mouth curve into a small, grateful smile.
He watched her do everything he had taught her, every gesture and every technique and every carefully calibrated response, deployed with flawless precision on the man she had chosen over him.
Hugo turned and walked off the field.
He did not stop when Edward called his name.
He did not stop when a footman offered him a glass of lemonade.
He crossed the south lawn, rounded the corner of the east wing, and kept walking until the noise of the party faded and the only sound was his own breathing and the crunch of gravel beneath his boots.
He stopped at the garden wall. He set his palms flat against the warm stone and bowed his head and breathed.
He had hit the bullseye because he could not bear to let another man win in front of the woman he wanted.
He had walked off the field because he could not bear to watch her comfort the man who lost.
And the worst part, the absolute, unforgivable worst part, was that he had no right to feel any of it.
He had built this arrangement. He had designed the lessons.
He had selected the gowns, planned the house party, and invited Wilfrey into his home with the explicit purpose of delivering Lily into his arms.
And now the machine was working, and he wanted to tear it apart with his bare hands.
Hugo pressed his forehead against the stone and closed his eyes.
He stayed there until the anger cooled to something he could carry. Then he straightened, adjusted his cravat, and walked back toward the house with the expression of a man who had simply needed a moment of air.
No one questioned it.
No one except Edward, who watched him return with the quiet, knowing gaze of a man who had warned him and would not say I told you so.
Not yet anyway.