“I do know one.” But he was not a savage boy at all. He’d been her friend, of sorts. And this aspect of America was so much more complicated than she could even begin to explain. “Lyncona was born Creek Indian. Muscogee. A… friend of my father’s adopted him when his family was killed in a battle.”
“Does he paint his face? Is he dangerous? I hear some of the natives in Africa do that.”
“My friend was not dangerous.” She smiled sadly. “I was only acquainted a short while, and he was much younger than me, but on a few occasions when our fathers were busy in meetings with one another, he took the time to show me a bow that he’d built. It wasn’t as large as these.”
Tabetha’s eyes were large as saucers, and she exaggerated a shiver that ran through her. “You are so much braver than me.”
“Not at all. It’s not as though Philadelphia is teaming with Indians. They are people. Like you and me.” Just as she’d had preconceived notions about the English, so too, it seemed they did about Americans. “And they do, on occasion, paint their faces. But they trade in the towns. They eat. They hunt. A white family raised Lync. Other than his darker skin and hair, he was very much the same as you and I. He made saddles on his father’s estate.”
The room had fallen oddly quiet, and Charley felt Jules watching her. Was she talking too much again? The same as when she’d sat beside Lady Westerley?
“What a different life you have lived,” Bethany tilted her head as she commented thoughtfully.
“My father introduced me to more people than my mother approved.” Because she had often insisted upon remaining at his side. She’d never wanted to be left at home, forced to dress up and learn pursuits that interested her mother.
As she spoke, Charley flicked her gaze around the room. This was how her mother had been raised. What if she’d tried harder to get along with her mother? Could Charley possibly have a closer relationship with her? Had her mother’s insistence that she become a lady, simply been her way of showing that she loved her?
Guilt prickled down her spine.
These people—Jules, his friends, his sisters, and even Lady Felicity—they’d been more than kind to her. They hadn’t tried to make her feel inferior or different or ashamed in any way. She looked from Bethany, who was blushing beside Lord Chaswick, to Tabetha, to the giant Viscount Mannington-Tissenton, both Spencers, and the very elegant marquess.
And to Jules, who had stepped forward, holding a bow at his side as well.
They had protected her. Jules had gone out of his way to make her feel welcome.
“I look forward to watching you shoot.” Amusement danced in his eyes.
Whereas Lord Chaswick was golden and statuesque, Jules’ elegant nonchalance sent Charley’s heart leaping. She blinked and forced her breaths to calm. Other gentlemen appeared stiff in their tightly fitted jackets, breeches, and cravats, but Jules seemed perfectly comfortable and he moved with casual grace.
“It will show off my form, or so I’ve been told.” Charley couldn’t help herself.
“Are you flirting with me, Miss Jackson?”
The sunlight slanting through the terrace windows caused his blue eyes to appear brighter than usual, the color of cornflowers in bloom. She felt heat creeping into her cheeks at his words. Because she’d done more than flirt with him the night before.
She was grateful for the fan Daisy had insisted she take with her that morning and felt every bit the lady as she flicked it open and fanned herself.
Jules’ smile grew wider.
“Well, are we going to shoot or are we going to stand about staring at one another all morning?” Lord Manningham-Tissinton’s voice echoed in the large open space.
“We are going to shoot,” Tabetha announced and she and Bethany sprang forward to select bows for themselves while Mr. Stone Spencer set out various arrows.
“Normally, we would have targets set up facing one another, so that after all the archers have taken their turns, we could cross to the other side and then shoot back.”
“It is all about showing off one’s form,” Tabetha reminded her with a wink, meeting Charley’s gaze and laughing. She then tipped her head backward and, taking long exaggerated strides, glided across the room to face the nearest target. “Shall I go first?”
Both Chaswick and Manningham-Tissinton, in unison, threw their arms up in mock surrender.
“If the rest of you value your life, I highly recommend standing back,” Jules warned with an indulgent glance in his youngest sister’s direction.
Tabetha threw a glare toward all the gentlemen and then raised her bow, drew back on the string, and shot off the arrow.
It arced upward into the air and then descended just as gracefully, landing on the shining parquet floor about five feet in front of her.
Nonplussed, Mr. Spencer stepped up behind her and handed her another arrow. With everyone looking on, he practically embraced her from behind as he explained what she could do to improve her skills and adjusted her stance at the same time.
The second arrow she shot off, with his assistance, plunged nicely into the outer rim of the target.
When everyone around her applauded softly, including Jules, Charley belatedly clapped her gloved hands together.
Jules beckoned with one arm toward a spot distant from the second target “Shall we, Miss Jackson?”
She could easily inform him that she was perfectly capable but a devilish and unusual urge kept her from speaking up. With a slight nod, she lifted the bow and pretended to study it curiously. Utterly self-assured, Julian accepted an arrow from Mr. Spencer and moved to stand behind her.
“Hold the bow here”—he lifted her hand and adjusted it on the smooth wooden grip of the bow—“and pull back on the string like so.” He used his other hand to show her where to grasp the string.
Charley had held a bow numerous times and yet with his chest touching her back, and his arm resting along her shoulder, in the presence of other people, she fumbled to rest the arrow on the shelf when he handed it to her.
“You pull back on the bow string just so.” His breath caressed her cheek.
This man.
This blasted British earl.
What was it about him that made her feel lighter? That caused her to feel weak with giddiness?
Focus on the target.
Deep breath.
Closing one eye, she slipped the string into the nock and pinched the arrow between her fingers just in front of the fletching. Reasoning that his nearness had caused her to feel rather weak, she then allowed the man—the one she’d been determined to resist, to dislike even before she’d met him—well, she allowed that same man to tutor her in doing something she’d done hundreds of times before. Together, they drew the string backward and not half a second after she released, the arrow landed in the center of the target with a satisfying thump.
Silence met her shot initially, and then the others were applauding softly.
“Perhaps Miss Jackson should be instructing you, Jules old boy.”
Charley forced herself to appear as unaffected as possible, hardly aware of which of the other gentlemen commented. Because Julian hadn’t moved. In fact, he seemed to have drawn closer.
He slipped a second arrow into her hand, and they went through the motions a second time with the same resulting bullseye. She could almost imagine they were alone again, only vaguely aware that the others had begun shooting at the second target set up in the room.
Even Mrs. Crabtree’s presence in the corner didn’t matter.
What force in the universe was so powerful that neither she nor Julian seemed capable of stepping away from the other?
Or was it only her?
He caressed the length of her forearm gently, sending a shiver down her spine. “Is that lemon cake I smell?”
There was laughter in his voice but also something else. Something primitive that reignited the sharp wanting that had kept her awake half the night.
“Bre
akfast,” she said, then cleared her throat. “I ate three of them.”
She felt his chuckle behind her.
And her reaction didn’t seem as though it was one-sided. His breaths sounded a little shorter, a little quicker, just as hers were. His touch lingered longer than it should have, just as she craved.
His lips brushed the shell of her ear, shooting unexpected liquid heat to her core.
They lined up a third time. Charley drew back the string—
“Here they are!” a shrill voice announced, causing Charley to turn her head at the same moment she loosened her grasp of the string.
Any warm fuzzy feelings she’d had fled when her right forearm felt as though it had burst into flames. The arrow landed wide, missing the ubiquitous haybales stacked about and knocking over a vase that had been considered distant enough from the targets so as to be safe.
Glass shards went flying and flowers and water scattered on the floor.
Horrified at what she’d done, Charley bit back her yelp of pain and pressed her arm against her belly.
Jules had taken a few respectable steps away from her and turned toward the door as well. Apparently, the other guests in the house party didn’t wish to be left out. Miss Somerset, her younger sister Miss Delia, and Lady Felicity swept inside the ballroom along with a handful of others.
“Oh, dear! I hope it wasn’t valuable.” The elder Somerset sister’s words ought to have been sympathetic, but she spoke them with a hint of glee. “I suppose you didn’t have the opportunity to learn archery either while growing up in America.”
“Oh, but—”
“You are quite fortunate to be allowed to mingle amongst society,” Miss Somerset interrupted Charley before she could assert that archery, was in fact, something of which she had some knowledge.
“Miss Jackson is not without proficiency with the bow and arrow.” Jules sent a meaningful glance toward the target where both of the two other arrows she’d shot protruded unapologetically from the center circle.
“As always, my lord, you are kindness itself—to give credit for your abilities to the… lady.”
Charley was not unfamiliar with Miss Somerset’s type. There had been plenty of equally spiteful young women in Philadelphia. Ladies who seemed to have everything they could possibly want or need, and yet it was never enough.
They would wish to take something away from people who would not fight them.
Charley would not fight Rachel Somerset over this. She had other things to worry about. Like what she was going to do with Jules and all these… feelings.
And she wanted nothing more than to sooth the skin on her arm with something wet and cool.
“I believe a contest is in order,” Lord Chaswick suggested while laughing. “A friendly one, in the spirit of fun.”
“That isn’t necessary,” Charley objected.
“Wouldn’t that be unseemly?” Felicity sent her a pitying glance. “It would not be an even match.”
“Surely, ladies appreciate a little friendly competition?” Lord Manningham-Tissinton said, with a challenging gleam in his eyes.
Charley groaned inwardly, as Rachel Somerset turned to her, looking rather pleased at the prospect. “We do on occasion. But I wouldn’t want to embarrass Miss Jackson.”
Charley exhaled a long slow breath.
“What do you say?” Jules met her eyes. “Are you willing to give it a go?”
He chuckled. He’d known she’d made the shots on her own. “It would not be a fair competition.” She shrugged. “But if Miss Somerset wishes to make some sort of wager…”
“Is that what ladies do in America? How positively outrageous!”
“I beg your pardon, my dear Miss Somerset? When my mother tries her hand at whist, are you suggesting she’s not a proper lady?” Lord Greystone spoke in an icy tone from where he’d been standing near the entrance.
Charley clutched her wrist and resisted the urge to pull back her sleeve so that she could blow on her arm… anything to cool the burning. A large pitcher of water placed on a nearby table looked heavenly. She could pour the water onto her burning skin, or better yet, submerge her arm in it completely.
“It is set then! Each of the ladies will take three shots and the best one wins.”
She jerked her head back to Jules since she’d missed the last few pieces of the conversation. He raised his brows at her.
“And the winner may choose the gentleman of her choice to escort her for the duration of tomorrow’s excursion,” Tabetha announced with glee.
“As does second place,” Mr. Spencer offered in a conciliatory tone. “Under which terms, the way I see it, the gentlemen chosen win regardless.”
“We will indeed,” Jules responded, lifting that one corner of his mouth ever so slightly. The urge to kiss the other corner in hopes of coaxing a full smile was most inconvenient.
The other Cocksure Gents, as Charley was beginning to think of them in her mind, had begun a few private discussions on their own. Were they actually going to bet on this foolish competition?
Of which the winner would choose a gentleman for… “Wait. What excursion?” Charley really needed to pay more attention to what was going on around her. In answer to the question she’d blurted out, all eyes swiveled toward her. Being the focus of attention wasn’t something she ever wanted, in fact, it was exactly what she would have avoided at all costs.
“Lady Westerley has planned a visit to the abandoned Abbey that sits on the edge of the estate. She’s arranged us to take tea outside—if the weather cooperates,” Bethany said.
“We’ll ride in carriages to the base but those who wish to experience the full benefit of its grandeur must hike to the top.” Tabetha’s enthusiasm showed clearly. “Bethany, Jules, and I have done it a thousand times, of course, but it’s one of my favorite places on all of Westerley Crossings.”
“Please, do not feel you have any obligation to participate in this ridiculous contest. My sister is an excellent archer.” It was kind of Miss Delia to be forthcoming with such information. How many unsuspecting young ladies had the younger girl watched her older sister humiliate?
“But then that would be considered a forfeit.” Lord Chaswick sent Charley a challenging glance.
Either way, Charley knew this silent war Rachel Somerset had declared was an unwinnable one. She shifted her gaze to the windows where a perfectly clear sky suggested future spring-like days. If she lost the contest purposely, then Rachel Somerset would, of course, select Lord Westerley as her companion.
It would be the perfect opportunity for Charley to nip these precarious emotions in the bud. Perhaps he would turn his affections toward another if he thought she wasn’t interested.
Because his secret courtship was stirring up some most inappropriate secret longings in Charley.
If Charley were to win the contest outright and then not select Jules as her companion, the message she sent would be an even stronger one.
The thought of him walking and talking with Rachel Somerset on tomorrow’s excursion sent Charley’s heart plummeting—which ought to be warning enough. But she’d let down her guard. And spending time alone with Julian Elias Fitzwilliam was a heady experience and could potentially weaken her resolve. She mustn’t allow her emotions to overrule her determination to reclaim her life in America and take over her father’s company.
“I accept your challenge, Miss Somerset.”
Chapter 19
WARRIOR WALLFLOWER
“Twenty pounds Miss Jackson edges her out,” Mantis said softly after sidling up beside Jules.
“I’d be a fool in more ways than one to take a bet like that.” Jules would not bet against Charley. Even if he didn’t believe she had a chance at hell in winning, he’d not do that.
She hadn’t wanted to participate in the contest, but he didn’t begrudge her for doing so. For as long as he’d been acquainted with the Somerset sisters, he knew that the older chit had not been afraid to show her cl
aws. God help the man who married her.
God help him if Charley lost. He, as well as every other bachelor in England, was fully aware that that Rachel Somerset and her mother had been setting traps for titled gentlemen since the first day she’d made her come-out a few years ago. A trickle of sweat dripped down the back of his neck.
Charley would win. She’d been the one who’d aimed the arrows they’d shot together. Good lord, he hoped so.
Had he inadvertently aimed it for her? Had she merely experienced a short burst of beginner’s luck?
The prickly but pretty brunette lined up to take the first shot while Charley stood back, clutching her arms in front of herself. Was she nervous?
He couldn’t quite tell. Was she a warrior or a wallflower today?
The thwacking sound of an arrow landing drew his attention back to the target. Charley’s challenger had managed to hit the second ring around the center one.
“I should have warmed up.”
“A commendable shot.” Stone’s encouragement had Jules wondering who of his friends had wagered on Charley and who had wagered on Miss Somerset.
Because, of course, they would never pass up such an opportunity.
“Miss Jackson.” Chase gestured for Charley, who had retrieved the arrow she’d used a moment before, to take her turn.
“Best shot out of three wins?” she asked, looking far too innocent for his comfort.
Surely, she’d done this before? Or perhaps, he held back a grin, she’d killed a few bears. It would not have surprised him. The fact that she surprised him as often as she had with something she said or did was already rather stupefying.
“Best out of three.” Jules met her gaze. What in bloody hell was going on in that complicated brain of hers?
She stepped up to the imaginary line where Miss Somerset had shot from and then took a step backward.
And then she sent him a look.
And he knew.
It was the same look she’d had when she offered him a taste of her whiskey. It was the same look she’d had when she’d tasted the scotch.
She was in complete control of this competition.
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