Page 69 of The Duelist for the Ton
“Of course not, sister, but his reluctance to shoot is a trait he shares in common with women.”
“Not all women.”
“Quite so, Lady Portia,” Whitcombe said. He approached his wife, took her hand, and lifted it to his lips. “I’ve missed you, my love,” he whispered. The other gentlemen smiled, save Foxton, who rolled his eyes.
“Lord Hardwick chose to remain with us here,” Duchess Whitcombe said, leaning into her husband’s touch. “A preference for archery is not exclusive to my sex.”
“Ah, but everyone knows Hardwick is in thrall to his wife,” Foxton said.
“I say, there’s no need for that, old chap,” Whitcombe said. “A man who loves his wife is more of a man than one who doesn’t, is that not so, gentlemen?”
A murmur of agreement rippled through the men, who dispersed among the ladies, pairing up with their wives to form happy couples.
“Your sister performed remarkably well, Your Grace,” their hostess said to Foxton.
“I trust she didn’t behave out of turn,” he said.
“Lady Portia is perfect in every way. I would not have her any different.”
She glanced toward Stephen with that curiously unsettling gaze of hers—dark with intensity, as if she were looking into his soul.
“My sister has much to learn,” Foxton said. “But perhaps, given that she was born into nobility, she must uphold higher standards of decorum than those who were not.”
“That’s enough, Foxton,” Whitcombe said, holding his wife close. “I’m afraid you must forgive our friend here. He bagged the fewest of the whole party—even McIver here bested him, and McIver’s not fired a gun before.” He turned to Lady Portia. “Ma’am, we’d have fared better had you accompanied us in Foxton’s stead. Mr. Greaves continues to tell me how much more proficient you are at marksmanship than your brother, though he takes care to say it when your brother’s out of earshot for fear of being tossed into a lake again. Men don’t like the notion of being bested by a woman—well, some men, at least. Men who believe they have something to prove.”
“My love, you mustn’t tease our guest,” the duchess said. “I’m sure Foxton meant no offense.”
To his credit, Foxton colored, and he bowed to her. “Forgive me, Duchess. I fear I’m not at my best today.”
The duchess nodded to him, then to the footman in attendance. “Charles, would you have luncheon brought out?” She turned to the party. “It’s such a pleasant day, I thought we could have our luncheon outside ahead of the afternoon’s competing, unless anyone objects. Beatrice, would you mind?”
“I’d love that,” Lady Hardwick said. “And my doctor is at hand should I be in need of him.”
Dr. McIver nodded. “Aye, yer ladyship, the air will do ye good.” He approached Stephen and offered his hand. “Colonel, a delight to see ye. I take it ye’re well? No concerns about”—he glanced about, then lowered his voice—“about the war?”
“Nothing I cannot deal with, Dr. McIver.”
“There’s no shame in admitting yer fears, lad. Yer injuries from Waterloo are as potent as those suffered by the likes of young Captain Broom, even if they cannot be seen by the untrained eye. There’s those among us who know and appreciate that, and will value ye no less for yer struggles.”
Stephen glanced across the guests to Lady Portia, who watched them both, a smile on her lips. “Those who display such understanding also deserve to be valued, colonel, do you not think so?”
“Yes,” he said, returning her smile. “They deserve to be valued above all others.”
The doctor glanced toward Lady Portia, then let out a soft chuckle.
“H-have you seen Captain Broom lately, doctor?” Stephen asked.
“He’s returned to Yorkshire,” came the reply. “I believe he’s to be married in September.”
“Then his fiancée didn’t abandon him.”
“Why would she? What woman in charge of her wits would forsake such a fine lad? He’s a hero from Waterloo, and the sort of level-headed young man who’d only fall in love with the right sort of lass. As are ye, colonel.”
Stephen shook his head. “I made a fool of myself trotting after Miss Howard—Lady Staines—as is.”
“But I’ll wager ye’ve learned from yer mistakes and would now only lose yer heart to the right lass. Or perhaps ye already have. She’s as fine a lass as I’d hope for ye.”
“Dr. McIver, I’ve no idea who—”
