Page 59 of Surrendering to a Fiery Lady

“Why are you looking at me like that, by the way?” She noticed how his eyes travelled over her.

“You moving to cover my mouth in such a way may have reminded me of that night at the Thames. You stopped me talking in just that same way. Then you kissed me.”

“Good memory?” she teased him.

“A very good memory, indeed.”

Behind them, the bags were taken from the carriage to the house and they both grew distracted by it, looking towards the bags.

“I suppose there is much to do,” Elliot said. “A tour of the house, for starters, from the housekeeper.”

“Yes.” Ophelia tried to keep the disappointment out of her voice as he took a step toward the house.

She may have been dismayed that day to realise he was not travelling with her, but this moment with him now had given her hope. He had to feel something for her, or he would not be as charming as he was.

“Elliot?” she called to him. He paused and looked back at her. “I suppose you have hunting grounds here in this estate.”

“Of course.” He nodded. “It is the finest sport you can find round here.”

“I was wondering…” She paused and walked toward him. “Tomorrow, maybe we could go hunting together?”

She held her breath as she waited for his answer, only releasing that breath when she saw him smile.

“What time should we leave?”

Chapter 19

Elliot watched from a distance as Ophelia crept forward through the trees. He didn’t dare move in case he spoiled her chances of getting the shot.

Raising the shotgun in her hand, she took aim through the woods. Elliot smiled, admiring the way her figure stood tall with the gun nestled against her shoulder. To take aim properly, she had lifted one foot on a rock in front of her, and that position had made the skirt of her gown fall away from her leg, revealing more of her stocking-clad skin.

Ah, you tempt me, Ophelia.

She fired the gun. The shot ricocheted through the trees, but it missed and the deer scarpered, darting off through the trees so fast that all that could be seen was the white tail and the long legs flinging behind him.

“Damn!” Ophelia muttered, lowering the gun. Elliot couldn’t help laughing. The sound burst from him, and she turned her head toward him, her eyes instantly narrowing. “Are you laughing at my misfortune?”

“No, I wasn’t, I assure you.” He emerged from where he was hiding amongst the trees, his own gun tucked under his arm. “I was, however, laughing at your look of dismay.”

“Oh! Am I that amusing?” she asked, standing tall as she placed the gun against the nearest tree.

“Very,” Elliot said, earning a tap around his arm in reprimand as he reached his side. He couldn’t help laughing once again. He and Ophelia had been hunting together for what had to be the last couple of hours. When he had come down to the front door to meet her, he had been surprised to find her ready to go, early. He had been relieved she wasn’t going to back out of their excursion today.

“Well, I am not amused,” Ophelia said, though the smile that fought through showed she was. “I seem to have lost the ability to shoot anything at all.” She picked up the gun and began walking through the undergrowth, lifting the hem of her skirt to aid her walk. “I must be distracted.”

“Should I confess some hope at being the thing that is distracting you?” As he passed behind her, he touched her arm briefly with his fingers, loving the way that spark travelled between them. She turned to look at him. “I think I’ll take that as a yes.” She laughed with him as they walked on. “I have not known many ladies who shoot. I do not think I have seen any lady shoot so well with a shotgun as you do, either.”

“I am better with arrows, as you saw,” she reminded him of the archery event they had attended together. “But my father was always keen on me knowing many sports.”

“Something tells me I would have liked him,” Elliot observed, staring ahead through the trees.

“You think so?” Ophelia seemed to rush to keep up with him at his side.

“Yes. A sportsman, like myself, and what is more…” He paused, glancing at her. “He had a close relationship with you, did he not? It was not such a friendship I had with my own parents. I would have liked to have known a good father.”

“He was the best of fathers,” she said sweetly. “I am sorry, you know.”

“Sorry? For what?” he asked, stumbling in the undergrowth.

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