Page 35 of The Duelist for the Ton
“Eleanor, my love,” the duke said in a low voice, and the duchess colored.
“Oh, forgive me—I’ll send you an invitation, of course.” She turned to Angela. “I hope you’ll come. There will be pall-mall and archery for the ladies and shooting and fishing for the gentlemen—though if you prefer to fish or shoot, you may do so. Portia likes to shoot, though she’s promised to teach the other ladies archery. She’s rather good, you know.”
“Lady Portia Hawke?” Stephen said.
“That’s right. We had shooting at our house party last winter, and Portia bested all the gentlemen, didn’t she, my love?” She exchanged a smile with the duke. “What was the name of the fellow you engaged to teach us?”
“Greaves.”
“That was it, Mr. Greaves. Poor Foxton was so incensed at Portia besting him that he threatened to throw Mr. Greaves into the lake.”
Angela, who’d been watching the duchess with wide-eyed admiration, tugged at Stephen’s sleeve. “Oh,canwe go, brother? It sounds wonderful—my first house party!”
“I’m not sure if Mrs. Stowe will be available to chaperone you,” he said.
“Ican chaperone your sister, colonel,” the duchess said.
Two pairs of eyes focused on him—one green and enigmatic, the other a warm brown to match his own, filled with eagerness.
How could he refuse Angela, the innocent soul he loved more than anyone in the world?
“Very well,” he said, and smiled inwardly at Angela’s squeal of pleasure. “We’ll be delighted to accept, Duchess. But on one condition. My sister isnotto partake in the shooting.”
“Not even the archery?” Angela asked.
“I’ve no objection to your wielding a bow and arrow,” he replied, “but I disapprove of firing a gun for pleasure, and find it particularly unbecoming for a woman.”
“The pheasants on your brother’s estate must be very grateful to hear that,” Lord Staines said.
Stephen shook his head. “My brother does not share my sensibilities.”
“Neither does most of Society,” Whitcombe said. “But I agree with you, colonel, that women and weapons do not mix, and that includes Lady Portia Hawke.”
“My, my, Your Grace, are you indulging in gossip?” a female voice said from behind.
Stephen caught his breath as he turned to see the subject of their conversation standing in the pathway, arm in arm with her brother.
“Portia,” the duchess said, “my husband was just telling the colonel here what an excellent shot you are.”
Lady Portia’s eyes widened. For a moment, Stephen caught a flicker of fear in her expression before she blinked and glanced at her brother, but Foxton was staring at Lady Staines.
“Don’t tell my brother that,” she said, “or he’ll throw you in the Serpentine. He cannot bear the notion of a woman—even his sister—besting him at anything requiring any level of skill.”
“Doyouintend to shoot at Rosecombe?” Stephen asked.
“I intend to concentrate my efforts toward the archery competition, colonel. I have my eye on the prize.”
“Which is?”
She gestured toward the duchess. “A portrait of the winner, at Eleanor’s hand. She’s something of an artist, you know.”
“Of course!” Stephen said. “You exhibited at the Royal Academy last year, didn’t you, Duchess? I’ll wager the competition for that particular prize will be fierce, for it’s that rare thing—a prize that money cannot buy.”
“Such as love,” Angela said, glancing from Stephen to Lady Portia and back, a smile playing on her lips.
“There’s a prize for the best shot also,” Whitcombe said. “The man—or woman—who bags the most birds stands to win a case of Trelawney’s finest brandy.”
“Then I’ll stick to archery,” Lady Portia said. “I cannot stand brandy, and I’ve no intention of furnishing my bother with yet more means to reduce himself to a state of inebriation each night.”
