by Raine Miller
She threw up her hand to shield herself when a pheasant flew out from the underbrush right in front of her. The start made her heart pound. She hoped the men wouldn’t venture in this direction for the hunt. Surely this little glade was far enough away from the birding going on that she wouldn’t be bothered. It abutted a ring of sycamore which melted into light forest beyond it and was one of Georgina’s favorite places to shoot her bow. But what if all the birds had fled to this quieter sanctuary and the hunters decided to follow? It would not be safe here in the glade if they did.
Georgina shrugged and continued further on the path, rationalizing that Mr. Alberts would remember she had arranged to come here and could warn the shooters off if they decided to come this way.
A flash of gold flickered in movement directly ahead at her ultimate destination of target shooting. She heard the whoosh of an arrow splitting the air. Georgina realized that she was not alone, and for the second time, started, freezing in step. She felt every thump of her heart, clamoring deep inside her chest, and hated the fact that every stray sound or movement made her jump like a mouse. Now. Would she be like this for the rest of her life?
Someone had preceded her to this clearing. Georgina slowed and moved forward cautiously, staying quiet and out of sight.
It was a man. And he was using her bow to shoot at the target Mr. Alberts had set out for her. Or attempting to try at least. The lack of hits could attest that the man was a terrible shot.
Drawing closer, Georgina was able to discern exactly who had horned in on her sport. Jeremy Greymont. There in his dark-gold jacket, a bright-green neck-cloth, his hair a bit tousled, standing out as a tall twist of contrasting light against the dun of the landscape. Georgina stilled herself so she could observe him in action. Watching Mr. Greymont sight up the bow, with possibly the worst form she’d ever seen, was amusing. So much so, it distracted her from questioning why he was even here at all. He should be off shooting with the other men, shouldn’t he?
“That’s not how you sight a bow,” she announced in a loud voice.
He snapped his head around, the blue of his eyes catching the light.
“You’re holding it wrong.” Georgina could see him flushed red in the face as she came forward.
“Am I?”
“Yes, you are. An English longbow should be held in tight to the shoulder, with your stance perpendicular, and a bracer employed to steady the bow arm.”
“I’ve had no proper instruction.” He dropped his head in greeting. “Miss Georgina, I deduce that you must have requested this equipment be made ready for your exercise today, and here I have intruded upon your arranged activity.” He gave a sheepish grin. “Forgive me. The thing is, I’ve always admired archery, but for myself never took it up or got taught the standard form…” He trailed off, his voice faltering a bit, the following silence awkward.
Georgina stayed quiet and took in the scene.
Mr. Greymont must have felt compelled to cover the silence because after a moment he went right back to justifying exactly why he was here and not off shooting at birds with the men. “My shotgun jammed. I thought to give up birding for the day, and upon my return came upon the glade here, saw the bow and target, and couldn’t help being curious. Before I knew it, I was—”
“Taking up my bow? Trying your hand?” Georgina answered for him. The strangest inclination to rescue Mr. Greymont from his own embarrassment surprised her. Why in the world should she care if he was embarrassed or not? But for whatever reason, it bothered her seeing him struggle to explain himself.
“Yes. You have well and caught me at it, Miss Georgina.”
Georgina stifled the urge to laugh at him. Mr. Greymont standing in the glade, arrows strewn everywhere but in the rings of the target, his slightly rumpled appearance in perfect harmony with the scene of destruction, reminded her of a child attempting to hide a stolen sweet, with the evidence smeared all over his face. The picture of him was too much. A smile cracked, and then a giggle escaped. Georgina had to cover her mouth to keep from losing control. She didn’t want to be rude.
“Ah, I amuse you.”
“In this instance, sir, I am afraid, yes.” Georgina bit the inside of her lip to still the persistent urge to laugh.
Mr. Greymont grinned back at her though, a naughty look that told her he wasn’t all that bothered by her amusement at his expense. “I s’pose I deserve it. I am, after all, a dreadful shot, the proof displayed for all to witness, my dismal talent with a bow.” He held out his arms wide. “I assure you, I can do much better with a gun.” He shook his head back and forth slowly and released another grin. “I plead mercy, Miss Georgina.”
“And mercy you shall have, Mr. Greymont. I’ll never disclose my knowledge of your…ah, skills, as a bowman.” Georgina cocked a brow at him. “But perhaps you’d better take a brief lesson in the basics of proper form, you know, should you find your curiosity getting the better of you again at some other house party you might attend in future.”
“Miss Georgina, I heartily accept your offer. How do we begin?” he asked, far too easily.
“You want me to instruct you, Mr. Greymont? What say you I am no better at hitting the mark than you are?”
“I would be honored to take any bits of wisdom you care to scatter my way, Miss Georgina. And I know you’re skilled because I remember you shooting at targets when you were just a girl. Your accuracy was true then, and you’ve had years and years to hone your talent. I’d bet my horse you’re a crack shot by now. At the very least, a Lady Paramount worthy of master status, or in your case, mistress.” He winked at her.
Mr. Greymont had a naughty streak. What was he playing at? Could an educated man really be so inept at a sport that must be compulsory for someone of his class? He knew enough to know that a “Lady Paramount” was the person appointed to preside at tournaments and had ultimate say. And he definitely looked a little too eager in Georgina’s opinion. Smiling at her, waiting on her answer, like he’d anticipated her offer before she’d made it. He held out his hand to her. The breeze rattled the leaves in the trees above them.
“No need to bet your magnificent Samson, Mr. Greymont. I’ll do it.”
Georgina deliberately clasped her hands behind her back, deciding that two could play at this game, whatever it was, and that sharing in some company could be no harm. It would even be a pleasant change to have a companion while she was out here shooting. Jeremy Greymont was safe.
* * * *
“Before we can start, all these arrows must be collected first,” she told him, her eyes missing nothing as she observed the scattered points. Jeremy caught another amused grin cracking from the corner of her mouth.
God, she was a delight to look at. With her hands clasped behind her back, the most pleasant result of lush breasts pushed forward as if in welcome was much admired. Today she was gowned in a rich brown velvet that wrapped around her lush curves like melted chocolate. He’d bet she tasted just as sweet as the decadent dessert if ever he could get his tongue anywhere onto her skin. The mere thought of tasting even a sliver of her sent the stuff behind the front flap of his kecks to throbbing. Whatever else was at issue between the two of them, Jeremy found himself hugely attracted to this woman. He wanted her.
“Mr. Greymont, I do believe you have emptied the quiver,” she teased as she bent down to gather up points.
I’d love to find my way into your quiver.
“Have I? How many arrows to a quiver?” Jeremy kept his face straight as he asked the question, even though he knew the answer. No, he was enjoying this playful banter with Georgina Russell too much to come clean about his archery skills not being quite so terrible as he intimated. Jeremy wasn’t being entirely truthful, but what harm was there in this? His gun had indeed jammed, and by chance he’d come upon her archery equipment laid at the ready. What better way to get to know Georgina than begging for help with his shooting technique?
So in the glade he’d waited until she’d ar
rived. Jeremy couldn’t have just sat in the grass. He would’ve looked a tremendous sap, so he had shot arrows to fill the time while he waited for her to show up. With as little focus as possible. But with Georgina to help him, hopefully standing very close so he could breathe in her lovely scent some more, his bowman skills might take a swift turn for the better.
All in all, Jeremy would say that things were working out rather well. Today was the first time he’d seen Georgina cheerful and light. And Jeremy quickly decided that a smiling, happy Georgina was well worth any effort on his part.
“Two dozen fills a quiver, and not a hit among them!” she sang back at him.
The laugh Georgina had been suppressing up until now came forth with a clear burst into the autumn air of the glade. Jeremy could tell she had been trying to hold back from laughing outright at him, for she was a lady after all, but the happy sound of her was so lovely, Jeremy felt grateful to have been the person responsible for making it happen. Suddenly struck with the notion that her laughter was a gift, he paused for a moment. Strange. He shook off the sensation and kept retrieving arrows.
“Miss Georgina, I believe you are finding my lack of accuracy to be a great source of merriment. And actually, I did make a hit, but the arrow did not stick. It came off from the target.”
“Ah, well, there’s a name for a point that does that. It’s called a—”
“Let me guess!” Jeremy blurted, holding up a hand to stop her. “You call it a bounder.”
“No, not a bounder.” Georgina shook her head slightly.
“A jumper then.”
“Wrong again, Mr. Greymont.” Her lips twitched.
“A springer? Tell me it’s called a springer, Miss Georgina.” Jeremy was enjoying himself too much to stop.
“Well, you are certainly full of creative ideas, I’ll give you that, Mr. Greymont, but I am afraid you are still incorrect. The proper term is ‘bouncer.’”
“Ah, bouncer. Right. Bouncer makes good sense, for the arrow bounces off the target without holding fast. Very good.”
Georgina gave him what could only be described as a tolerant look. “So, if we were to assess your performance thus far, we could say you had one bouncer and the all rest were a miss.”
I’m here alone with you, and I’d call that a direct hit. “But you won’t tell on me, will you?” Jeremy said knowingly, loving the fact that they could share in another secret.
“No. I will not expose you as I’ve already said.” Her eyes swept down to the grass.
“Why won’t you?” Not understanding why he asked her such a thing, Jeremy just knew he wanted something from her. A gesture on his behalf. What? He couldn’t really say, and the question left his lips as easily as a spot of fluff pulled by the wind.
Georgina blushed beautifully before answering. “Because, I think you are—”
She paused and lifted her eyes to meet his. Jeremy felt his body tense in anticipation of what she would say of him. The snapping sound of leaves rocked by the wind filled the silence.
“—in great need of my help, Mr. Greymont!”
And then the beautiful Georgina laughed. A sound not loud or boastful, but soft and sweet and gentle, like a caress down his neck that travelled straight to his heart and warmed it, spreading slowly from the inside out.
You have that right, Miss Georgina Russell. I desperately need your help.
Jeremy bowed with a flourish before stepping forward to hand over the last collected arrow. “That’s the last, and I am ready for my lesson.”
He made sure to get a brush of her hand with his as he passed her the arrow. The place where their hands touched tingled under his leather glove. And as Jeremy gave himself over to her for archery basics, he truly felt some goodness, some enjoyment, a blast of happiness, some delight—whatever the hell it was—it felt nice. Jeremy felt damn wonderful for the first time in a long, long while.
Chapter Six
What reinforcement we may gain from hope;
If not, what resolution from despair.
—John Milton, Paradise Lost (1667)
One week and innumerable wicked fantasies later, Jeremy’s card game suffered abominably due to distraction. His attempts to sleep at night during that same week hadn’t fared much better, what with his wicked imaginings getting the better of him when he was alone.
The distraction was the lovely woman across the room from him, of course. Jeremy had been watching her for the past half hour. So he had seen how her father seemed oblivious to the leering of that lewd bastard, Pellton.
Just this morning Jeremy had been witness to more bad behavior on Pellton’s part. As he had left his own room, he saw a young maid exit Pellton’s, her rumpled clothing askew, furtive glances all around, and a hand to her hair to smooth it. All testaments to what Pellton had been doing with her in the night. In Jeremy’s opinion, such behavior was the lowest of the low. Using servant girls, particularly in the confines of a host’s home, simply wasn’t done. And if he considered that Pellton was trying to woo the daughter of said host in addition to his infidelities, there seemed no end to the man’s dreadful manners.
Pellton was forever begging Georgina for strolls in the garden and for games of cards. Jeremy had done his best to rescue her from those incursions because whenever Pellton got near her, Jeremy felt his ire blossom. A visit to the library had been especially timely only yesterday. He’d gone in there to find something to read, which was unusual in itself…
* * * *
Jeremy knew he needed something to do in his room at night besides think about what he’d like to be doing with Georgina between the bed linens.
He also knew Oakfield’s library was well appointed. Jeremy felt confident he’d be able to find something of interest in its vast collection, but when he stepped in, he got the surprise of an interest very different from that of a good book—the sight of Georgina reading. Her back faced him as she reclined on a lounge chair with one leg draped over the chair arm. Her pink slipper pointed down to the floor, exposing a lovely stockinged ankle and underskirts aplenty.
“Thank you, Fannie, you may set it on the table,” she said without looking up from her book.
“I’ve been called many things over the years, but that name, never,” he answered, unable to refrain from teasing.
Georgina peered around the side of the chair and, pulled her leg off its perch so fast the book slid from her lap and dropped with a thud. “Mr. Greymont! I do beg your pardon. I—I believed you to be the maid with my tea.” She bent down to retrieve her book off the floor.
“Obviously.” He smiled at her. “No apologies necessary, Miss Georgina. And I am sorry I don’t have any tea to bring to you.” He held up his empty hands. “I’ve just come to find a book.”
“Obviously.” She smiled back, a hint of mischievousness lighting up her face.
Teasing him again. It was so easy with her. Being around her, talking, sharing a meal, taking the air, anything, everything was just so damn easy with her. Effortless. He had to force himself to say something. Otherwise he’d just keep standing here and staring, like the besotted idiot he was.
“You looked very captivated by your tome. Please continue on, Miss Georgina, and don’t let me disturb you. I’m just going to search the shelves back there.” He indicated with his thumb.
“Very well, Mr. Greymont.” She gave a serene nod and turned back to reading her book. This time, her leg kept primly on the seat of her chair, unfortunately for him.
Jeremy wandered over between two shelves and began his search for something to read. He heard the maid come in with Georgina’s expected tea a few minutes later, and he heard when she closed the door behind her when she left.
He pulled down a thick volume and opened it. The Last of the Mohicans: A Narrative of 1757, by the American writer, James Fennimore Cooper. Jeremy had heard about this novel. He checked the date on the title page. The story had caused quite a stir in Europe since its publication in ’twenty-six. He k
new the setting for the story took place during the Seven Years’ War, when France and England battled for control of the colonies in America and where the French had called upon the native tribes to fight against the British. The protagonist viewpoint was that of its Indian hero, and it was this facet of the novel that caused such a rumbling among those obsessed with the order of the classes. Jeremy flipped through pages until he came to an illustration that looked wildly interesting. It showed a man and a woman in the background watching in horror as an Indian warrior wrestled with a great bear standing on its hind legs. Right down his alley. His unconventional mind was piqued by anything radical. Jeremy knew this book would suit him perfectly.
His choice made, he tucked it under his arm and made ready to leave when he heard the door open again.
“Aha. I’ve been searching everywhere for you, my dear. It was only when I spied the maid leaving did I think you might be in here.”
The voice had a slithery cant to it, and Jeremy knew who it belonged to the second he heard it. Pellton. The vulture.
“What are you reading, dear Georgina?” Pellton demanded.
“Poems. I am reading poetry, my lord,” Georgina answered back in a stiff voice.
Jeremy stayed behind the shelf, out of sight, and listened. He heard Pellton set himself down on something and say, “Read me one of the poems out of your book. I wish to hear your voice, Georgina darling.”
“Sir, you should not speak to me in ways so familiar.”
“But why shouldn’t I speak familiarly to you? I intend to marry you, and the sooner you accept the fact, the better.”
“No, sir. I have given you my answer, and it is an emphatic—”
“Your refusal does not concern me overmuch.” Pellton spoke right over her words. “I know that in time we will come to an understanding. You see, my darling Georgina, you have no other suitors, no prospects other than me. And your father wants you to marry me, doesn’t he?”
