Duke of Midnight (Maiden Lane #6)(27)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

The corner of her lush mouth quirked in her not-smile, and he had a black urge to take her hand and pull her into the copse. To plunder that enticing mouth until she either smiled frankly or cried aloud in pleasure.

He blinked the erotic image away. What was he thinking? This was the gray little companion of the woman he meant to marry—and a blackmailer to boot. He shouldn’t be feeling anything for her save revulsion.

But revulsion was not the word that came to mind when she leaned a little closer, ridiculously attractive in her dowdy brown frock, and whispered, “You’d better move quickly, Your Grace, or Scarborough will snatch Lady Penelope out from under your nose. He is the more dashing duelist, after all.”

And she sauntered over to stand by Phoebe before he could make a suitable retort.

Maximus scowled and glanced at the ladies readying to shoot. Scarborough had somehow managed to position himself behind Lady Penelope, and with both arms wrapped about her, was tying on her arm guard. Maximus wanted to roll his eyes. Really, why fight for a lady so silly as to fall for such an obvious ploy?

Because it was for the dukedom.

He squared his shoulders and marched toward the couple. “If I might?” Ignoring both Scarborough’s frown and Lady Penelope’s sly smile, he swiftly and competently tied the arm guard on her arm. Stepping back, he couldn’t help but glance to where Miss Greaves and Phoebe stood.

Miss Greaves gave a mocking salute.

He scowled and turned back to make sure his other guests were prepared to shoot.

“We gentlemen assume the role of audience today,” Scarborough said jovially as they stepped aside.

Maximus drifted toward Phoebe and Miss Greaves as Lady Noakes took up her bow.

“Hiding in the back row, Your Grace?” Miss Greaves murmured as he drew near.

Lady Noakes shot her arrow.

“Oh, dear,” Miss Greaves said.

“It went wide, didn’t it?” Phoebe said.

“Nearly hit Johnny,” Maximus said grimly.

“Your footman jumped rather nimbly,” Miss Greaves mused. “Almost as if he’d been given lessons by the Ghost of St. Giles.”

Maximus shot a narrow-eyed look at her.

She smiled—really smiled, teeth and all—back. And despite the circumstances—her blackmail, the people all around them, his anger—he caught his breath in admiration. When Miss Greaves smiled her entire face lit and became utterly beautiful.

Maximus looked away, swallowing.

Phoebe giggled. “I can see why you sought refuge back here with us, dear brother. Self-preservation is the better part of valor, I think.”

They watched in silence as both Mrs. Jellett and Lady Oddershaw shot rather wildly, though Mrs. Jellett’s arrow found the target through some fluke of the wind that seemed to surprise even her.

Maximus cleared his throat, loath to admit either his own cowardliness or his guests’ lack of talent with a bow and arrow. “Lady Penelope has a fine form.” The lady was angling herself as she drew her string back.

“Oh, indeed,” Miss Greaves said earnestly. “She practices on her form quite often.”

They watched in silence as Lady Penelope’s arrow hit the rim of the target and bounced off.

“Her aim is another matter, of course,” Miss Greaves murmured.

Maximus winced as Johnny crept cautiously into the field to retrieve the arrows shot so far. The footman was a braver man than he.

“She’s going for another shot,” Scarborough said, and indeed Lady Penelope had assumed her archer’s stance again. She made a very fine figure, he noticed dispassionately: the cherry-red ribbons twined in her ebony locks fluttered in the wind, and her profile was almost Grecian.

She shot and all three footmen threw themselves prone to the ground.

“Oh, well done, my lady!” Scarborough shouted, for Lady Penelope’s arrow had hit the outer blue circle of the target.

The lady beamed in pride and stepped back graciously for Miss Royale’s turn.

The footmen looked besieged.

Miss Royale took up her bow and called to the footmen. “Best stand back. I’ve never done this before.”

“Never practiced archery?” Phoebe murmured.

“Grew up in India.” Mrs. Jellett had come to stand near them as she waited her next turn. “Heathen place. No doubt that explains her dark complexion.”

Miss Royale’s first two shots went wide, but she managed to hit the outer ring with her third one. She stepped back looking quite pleased with herself.

Fortunately, the remainder of the archery demonstration proceeded without incident, and although none of the ladies hit the inner red circle of the targets, neither did they maim one of his footmen, so, as Phoebe put it, “The afternoon must count as a victory.”

Maximus held out his elbow to Lady Penelope to lead her inside for refreshments. As they walked he bent to listen attentively as she recounted her exceptional success at shooting. He murmured praise and encouragement at the appropriate moments, but all the while he was aware that Miss Greaves had lingered behind at the archery field.

“Oh, I’ve left my gloves behind,” Lady Penelope exclaimed as they entered the Yellow Salon. The other guests were already taking seats.

“I’ll go fetch them for you,” Maximus said, for once trumping Scarborough.

He bowed and left before the lady—or the duke—could comment.

The halls were deserted as he strode toward the south doors. All the guests were in his Yellow Salon, and the servants were naturally in attendance there as well.

All the guests save one.

He saw her as he slipped out the south doors. She stood in profile across the green, her back straight, her stance that of some long ago warrior maiden. As he walked toward her, Miss Greaves drew back her bow briskly, aiming a tad high to account for the wind, and let her arrow fly. Before it had hit the target, she’d notched another and shot it. A third followed just as rapidly.

He glanced to the target. All three of her arrows were clustered together at the center of the red circle. Miss Greaves, who “did not shoot,” was a better shot than all the other ladies—and probably the men as well.

He glanced from the target to her and saw that she stared back, proud and unsmiling. Artemis. She was named for the goddess of the hunt—a goddess who had slain without remorse her only admirer.

Something quickened in him, rising, hardening, reaching eagerly for the challenge. She was no soft society lady. She might disguise herself thus, but he knew better: she was a goddess, wild and free and dangerous.