Page 39 of My Hellion, My Heart
How long had she known the earl?Since childhood.
For how long had she been a widow?Two years.
Did she know that her betrothed was once the Prince Regent’s secret spy?You can’t possibly expect me to dignify that with an answer, Lady Lyon.
The response had won Irina over, especially because Gwen had been fishing for gossip. But it was mostly the fact that Lady Carmichael seemed devoted to Henry…which Irina knew he needed, and despite her hurtful words about his apparent cowardice when it came to her, she only wanted for his happiness.
“You care for him, don’t you?” Irina had asked her over afternoon tea.
“Very much.”
“He deserves to be happy,” she’d said softly.
Lady Carmichael had stared at her with an odd, assessing expression. “Yes, he does.”
Irina adjusted her seat on her horse, pushing the conversation with Lady Carmichael from her mind as the man ahead of her forged forward for his turn at the archery contest. The bustle of her riding habit was ridiculously intrusive. It weighed heavy behind her, as did the pleated tweed skirts of her habit that obscured the pair of buckskin trousers underneath. There were only two other ladies participating in the contest, though they were sticking with tradition and riding sidesaddle, as good and proper ladies did. Irina, however, intended to win the contest, and so riding astride was the only fathomable option.
Beside her, several more contestants waited for their chance. Targets had been set up along a ribboned-in course lain out in the open field before them, and the rider to complete the circuit with not only the fastest time, but also the most accurate shots at the targets, would be the victor.
Lord Beechum was currently taking the course with all the focus of a drunken butterfly. He swerved along, readying his bow and arrow with such slow precision that he was not bothering to see to his mount’s direction.
“I’ve seen grass grow faster than this,” Max muttered. He stood beside Irina’s horse, his hands on the traces in an attempt to help calm and steady the animal as they waited. She was up next.
“It isn’t as if we have anything better to do,” she replied. The rest of the women were currently taking tea and painting portraits in the garden. She suspected that was where both Lady Carmichael and Gwen were. Irina turned in her saddle, and far across the grounds, near a pond, stood a grouping of men holding long-barreled rifles. They were waiting for the archery contest to conclude before lining up to shoot at their own targets, set up on haystacks across the pond. Henry was among them.
And he was looking at her.
Their eyes met, clashing with a jolt Irina felt in her spine.
She turned away first.
“Finally,” Max sighed as Lord Beechum let his last arrow loose, the arrowhead striking the outermost rings on the target.
Max snorted.
“Be polite,” Irina chastised, trying not to laugh as well.
Laughter behind them at the pond drew her attention, and again she glanced toward the men. Henry was no longer watching her, so she allowed herself a moment to look her fill. He was the only one not holding a shotgun, and as he swung up onto his mount—a borrowed gray, she noted—she realized he wasn’t going to participate. Lord Thorndale was there, however, and the two of them seemed to be in conversation.
She still couldn’t believe she’d called the earl a coward. Every time she thought of it, she wished for the chance to take it back. He was a war hero. He wasn’t a coward, not truly, and yet…he was running. For whatever reason, he was running from her.
“Darling, have you fallen asleep up there waiting for Lord Beechum to complete the course?” Max said, tugging on her skirt. She blinked and looked toward the starting line. The others were waiting for her to begin.
“I’ll be but a minute,” she said confidently, turning the reins and trotting forward.
She had her bow in hand and a sheath filled with six arrows slung over her horse’s neck, the cardinal fletching feathers waiting for her to grasp as she rode the course.
“Your Highness,” one of the footmen said, his eyes on a pocket watch. He raised a small tea towel, and when the second hand clicked at the top of the watch, he brought the linen down.
She took off, racing along the course entrance while pulling the first of her arrows from the sheath. Holding the reins while taking the shot would be impossible, so she clenched her legs, pressing her knees into her mount’s sides to stay straight in the saddle as she nocked her arrow.
Irina let it fly, rushing past the first target before she had the chance to see it bury into the bullseye. She just trusted that it had, and taking the reins again, steered for the turn in the course and the second haystack target. Without slowing, and rising slightly in the saddle, Irina released her second arrow to hit the target dead center amidst wild cheering before racing for the third.
A gunshot cracked through the air, and she faltered, her concentration ripped away. Irina twisted in her saddle, slowing her pace and no doubt seriously damaging her time. But when she saw a horse and rider barreling in the opposite direction, around the pond and toward a stone wall, she brought her mount to a complete stop.
The group of men near the pond were shouting at the one who’d fired the shot; the man holding the smoking shotgun wore a look of surprise and chagrin, and Irina knew right away it had gone off unexpectedly.
Her heart spluttered as she looked to the horse and rider again, riding wildly toward the stone wall. It was the borrowed gray. It wasHenry. And something was wrong. He wasn’t sitting right in the saddle, but bouncing around, as if he had lost control. He seemed to be hunched over, too, his head turned down.
