Given who was hosting the party, Evan was pleasantly surprised by the venue when he, Julia, and Harry arrived shortly after one the next day. Two tents dotted the grassy field, each with a handful of tables and chairs arranged in the shaded area. A buffet was set up under one, with cold meats and cheeses, grapes, strawberries, apricots, and bread artfully displayed on varying tiered platters. What looked to be lemonade awaited at the end, along with half a dozen fruit pies for dessert.
“My goodness—this is quite the spread,” Julia murmured. Her eyes darted around the roughly two dozen people talking, playing cards, inspecting the archery setup, or wandering down to the path lining the riverbank.
“Quite nice,” Harry said, giving an approving nod. “Wouldn’t think a vicar would hold such an extravagant party.”
“You’re forgetting he’s the son of an earl,” Julia replied, flicking a disapproving look his way.
Evan rolled his eyes. “Actually, though this is charming and well laid out, I’d hardly call it extravagant. Only a handful of servants and simple fare, no expense of candles or decorations, and entertainment had with little more than a few packets of cards, half a dozen hay bales with paper targets, and people’s own conversational skills.”
It was clever, really. The location was so beautiful, surrounded by woods on three sides and the river on the other, that it was easy to imagine they were on the finest of estates.
“Oh, look—there’s Sophie.” Julia waved, and Evan followed her line of sight to a small group clustered around the archery stand.
A yellow-gowned figure waved back, her arm moving in a wide arc above her head. Evan smiled. He liked that she favored the color yellow. It certainly made her easy to find, but it also fit her personality so very well. “And our host, too, I see,” he said, spotting the vicar’s distinctive white-blond hair. “Might as well start there.”
They made their way down the hill and across the field. As they approached, Evan could make out the other people in her group. The tall, willowy blonde, Miss Bradford, stood beside Sophie, talking to Mr. Wright, while Cadgwith and Miss Effington had their heads together a few feet away.
Wright smiled when he saw them and lifted a hand in welcome. “Greetings! So glad you all could come.”
Julia returned his smile with a warm one of her own. “Thank you, Mr. Wright. It’s so nice to see you again.”
Evan caught a slight narrowing of Harry’s blue eyes. Perhaps those childhood feelings weren’t as distant as Evan had imagined. Poor sap. Even if Julia were open to the prospect of suitors—which she absolutely was not—she certainly wouldn’t give their young neighbor the time of day.
Stepping forward, Evan began the introductions. After everyone was properly acquainted, Wright clapped his hands together and addressed the group at large. “I think some activities are in order. Who here shall participate in our archery contest? It is the only sport at which I have any talent, so I am hoping to have plenty of competitors to trounce.”
Harry was the first to speak up. “I am better with a fishing pole than an arrow, but I’m willing to give it a go. Especially if my lady would give me her favor.” He dipped into a theatrical bow toward Julia, who looked at him as if he were straight from Bedlam.
“You must be forgetting that I’ve seen you shoot. I’ll be keeping my favor for myself, thank you very much.” She looked to Mr. Wright. “Are we to have a ladies’ tournament as well?”
Miss Bradford stepped forward, her bright blue eyes sparkling beneath the brim of her bonnet. “Oh yes, please! I’ve not picked up a bow in years, but I used to be quite good.”
“I was the best of my sisters,” Sophie said, nodding proudly. “Which means I was the only one who ever managed to hit the target. Still, I think I’m willing to try again, provided no one is within a hundred paces of the target.”
Giving a little shrug, Miss Effington grinned. “I’m absolutely terrible at it, but it is great fun. I’m happy to participate.”
Mr. Wright put his hands on his hips and looked around at the group. “What say you, stragglers? Hugh, what about you? I vaguely recall shooting some arrows with you and your brother when he and my sister were first married.”
Cadgwith snorted, his scarred eyebrow lifting in disbelief. “Vaguely? I imagine you remember very well trouncing the two of us. You crowed for days about it.”
The vicar winked, his expression nothing short of devilish. “Then now is the perfect time to redeem your reputation.”
“No, I—”
“Please, Hugh,” Miss Effington broke in. “It will be fun. Unless you think it’s best not to,” she added quickly, slipping her fingers into his.
Cadgwith paused for a moment, appearing to give the request serious consideration before finally giving in. “If it pleases you, then by all means, count me in.”
Evan almost grinned—he knew the look of a hopelessly besotted man when he saw one.
Rubbing his hands together, Wright turned his attention to Evan. “And you, my lord? Shall we make it an even eight and have four teams of two? Much more fun than splitting the tournament between sexes, I should think.”
With seven pairs of eyes on him, Evan spread his hands. “I suppose I could join in.”
Julia rolled her eyes. “Oh, don’t let him fool you. He’s won at least three of the five archery contests he participated in at the county fair.”
“That was years ago,” he protested, though without much of a leg to stand on.
“Still, it’s not as though you’ve forgotten how to draw a bow. You and I shall be a formidable pair.”
“I think not,” said Harry, his hand settling at his hip. “We should be evenly distributed over talent in order to be fair.”
“I agree,” Miss Bradford added, looking between them. “A fairly matched spread will make the outcome less certain, therefore much more exciting.”
Wright nodded. “Excellent point. Very well, let me see. If Lady Julia is the best female archer, then I think it best you partner with Sir Harry.”
Julia’s shoulders sagged, but she didn’t balk. “Very well,” she grumbled. “Do try not to hurt yourself,” she tossed in Harry’s direction.
Moving on, the vicar pointed to Miss Bradford. “I think you and Cadgwith should do well together, and Miss Effington, I’m honored to offer myself as partner. That leaves Miss Wembley with Evansleigh.”
Sophie turned to Evan and offered an apologetic smile, her normally dark eyes looking bronze in the bright sunshine. “Apologies, my lord. I shall strive to actually hit the target.”
He shrugged, not at all sorry for the pairing. “I have faith in you, Miss Wembley. So long as you don’t hit me, I think we shall do just fine.”
“I shall do my best, but no promises. All I can say is that you would do well to stay behind me.” Her self-deprecating grin was endearing enough to make him chuckle.
After a flurry of working out equipment, each team chose a target, and they started with a few practice shots. Evan and Sophie had ended up on the second-to-last target, which situated them nicely beneath the shade of a wide oak. Sophie removed her bonnet and set about donning the protective brace and glove while Evan tested out the borrowed bow. It was completely different from the one he was used to, but after a few shots, he was able to compensate for the difference. He’d always liked the feel of a well-made bow in his hands. The balance, the curve, the tension—it was the perfect mix of beauty and function.
“Julia was not exaggerating,” Sophie said, admiration coloring her words. “You’re quite good. And to think I had no idea you were an archer. Although I guess I wouldn’t, seeing as how we’ve only met in ballrooms before this week, and you’d hardly wear your quiver to a dance.”
Her compliment had him standing a little straighter. “Thank you. My uncle taught me when I was young, and I’ve always enjoyed the sport.” He drew another arrow, paused to evaluate the wind, and aimed to the left of the bull’s-eye. When he released, the arrow struck the white space an inch to the right of where he’d intended. Not bad.
Turning back to Sophie, he said, “My mother has never liked visitors at Leighton Hall, so archery was a sport in which I could engage on my own, if I chose. Julia tagged along quite a bit when I was younger. She’s practiced more and more in recent years, whereas I have practiced less.”
She tugged at her leather vambrace, pulling it higher on her wrist. “My father attempted to teach his daughters the sport, but quickly gave up. I wasn’t being facetious when I said I was the only one to hit the target. And I’m being very loose with the interpretation of the word target; it was twice as big as the ones here.”
She fiddled with the lacings on the brace, but couldn’t seem to get it properly tightened. “Allow me,” he said, holding his hand out.
She smiled and offered up her arm. He adjusted the brace’s position before tightening the laces. The dark leather was supple, but not nearly so much as her pale skin. Not wanting to leave any marks, he checked to make sure the strings weren’t too tight before tying them into place. When he was done, he released her arm with surprising reluctance.
“Thank you,” she said softly as she pulled her hand back.
“Of course,” he replied, dipping his head in a shallow nod. It seemed so easy to be with her. He’d always been overly careful not to spend too much time with any one female, but somehow their rapport seemed to come naturally. He simply didn’t feel as though he needed to be on his guard with her. Clearing his throat, he tipped his chin toward the bow. “Let’s see if your skills improved, shall we?”
“Don’t get your hopes up,” she warned, but pulled an arrow from her quiver anyway. After carefully positioning it, she drew the bowstring taut and closed one eye in order to sight down the shaft. Right away, he could see that her form was terrible: the bow underdrawn, her fingers too high, her aim too low. He held his tongue, though, waiting to see how she would do. When she released, the arrow flew wildly through the air, flirting to the left and landing short by at least ten paces.
She cringed and looked back at him, the very picture of sheepishness. “I think it is safe to say my skills, such as they were, have actually managed to worsen.”
“Right,” he said, stifling a laugh. “I think perhaps a lesson in form would help.”
“I think perhaps we are too late for that,” she said, pointing to the vicar.
Wright lifted a mallet and rapped it against a small gong. When he had everyone’s attention, he spoke. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are about to have a small, friendly archery competition. The rules are, each member of the team will shoot four arrows. Whichever team has the highest points by the end will win bragging rights for life, or until such time that we compete again.”
With that, the competition began. As host, the vicar took the first shot, hitting a respectably short distance from the bull’s-eye. Miss Effington followed, winging the petticoat of the target, but still close enough to count. A little cheer went up from the spectators, and she bowed prettily.
Harry and Julia were next, and between them they managed to earn five points. “Not bad,” Sophie whispered beside Evan. “I think Sir Harry isn’t near as bad as Julia made him out to be.”
“Not surprising,” he responded, shaking his head. “Julia has always been harsh to poor Harry. He was a bit of a besotted fool in our childhood, and she’s never let him forget it.”
“Really?” Sophie raised her brows, watching the pair with increased interest. “But he seems so young.”
“He’s only two years her junior. Still, she’d best learn to be nice. He’s a gentleman now, and she needs to treat him that way.”
“In her defense, sometimes it’s hard to change one’s opinions after they’ve been formed.” She glanced over to Evan, her smile wry. “It’s a wonder you’re even talking to me, after the way things started with us.”
His lips curled in a slight smile as he shook his head. “I can’t imagine anyone ever being cross with you for any amount of time—myself included.”
She tilted her head, surprised by his comment. “Why is that?”
“You, Miss Wembley, are the very picture of irrepressibility.”
“Am I to assume that is a good thing?”
“Absolutely. It’s a very admirable trait.” The girl reminded him of a glass of champagne. Effervescent, light, and sweet.
Her dimples belied the smile she tried to hold in check. “In that case, thank you. Oh,” she said, standing at attention. “It’s our turn.”
His first shot was the best of the round, nicking the bull’s-eye and earning them nine points. He nodded in acknowledgment of the applause, then turned to Sophie. “Are you ready?”
“That depends,” she answered, lifting her bow in place. “Are you safely behind me?”
He chuckled. “Well out of harm’s way.”
This time her arrow managed to flirt in the other direction, nearly hitting the target Julia and Harry were using. Sophie’s nose wrinkled in dismay as she dropped her bow to her side. “Well, that was embarrassing. At least I can make the others feel better about their own shots.”
Julia laughed merrily, the sound clear despite the fifteen paces between them. “A little more to the left next time, if you please. We’re happy to take any points you’d like to give us.”
Sophie’s hand went to her waist, even as she laughed in response. “Go ahead, mock away. Even with my terrible shot, Evan’s still better than the both of you.”
Evan? He looked at her in surprise. Granted, he’d been thinking of her as Sophie for days, but he hadn’t called her that.
“What?” she said, noticing his expression.
“Nothing. I was just thinking we need to go over that form of yours if we are to have any hope of earning bragging rights.”
“Yes, I know—oh!” Her hand flew to her mouth as her cheeks flamed pink. “I’m so sorry! I cannot believe that I just called you Evan. In front of everyone, no less. It’s just that that’s how Julia speaks of you, and I wasn’t thinking, and it just popped out. I’m dreadfully sorry.”
He put up a staying hand. “Think nothing of it. Evan is what my friends and family call me, so I see no reason why you shouldn’t as well. It’s not as though it’s my Christian name, so we should be safe from anyone’s moral outrage.”
She peered past him to the area where the tents were set up. “Just so long as the chaperones didn’t overhear. I can just imagine what my mother would think if she heard. Now then, about my form?”
Her form? For a split second, his mind flashed to the moment when he’d laid his hand on the generous curve of her hip. Except that was not the form they were talking about. Drawing a breath to settle himself, he nodded. “Nock your arrow and pretend you are just about to shoot.”
She complied, getting into the exact same position that had sent the other arrows winging far from their targets. He pointed to her fingers where they held the arrow against the bowstring. “Your grip is all wrong. Go ahead and relax.”
When she did, he pulled the arrow from her hand, set it aside, and lightly gripped her wrist. Turning her hand palm up, he slid his finger along the highest joints of her middle three fingers. “You want to cradle the string here, not here.” He moved to her second joint. “The way you were doing it, the string drags against your fingers and throws your aim off, not to mention robbing the arrow of some of its energy.”
“I’m not entirely sure my fingers are strong enough at that point,” she said, looking doubtfully at their joined hands. “I’d hate to lose my grip and really mess things up. Not that I could do much worse than I already am, but I’d prefer not to end up with an arrow in the river.”
“I’d wager you’re stronger than you think. Here,” he said, placing the fingertips of his left hand over the fingertips of her right so they locked together. “Curl your fingers and resist my efforts to pull them straight.”
Sophie sucked in a quick breath, her eyes flitting back up to Evan’s. Thankfully his gaze was directed at their hands. Their joined hands. It didn’t matter that she wore a stiff shooting glove, or that his hands were encased in the buff leather of his own gloves. Their hands were still linked, and that was good enough for her.
He tugged his fingers, trying to pry hers open. She held steady, keeping her fingers curled just as he had instructed. She almost laughed. He wanted her to keep their hands from separating? That she could do. Letting go would be the hard part.
“There now—just as I had suspected. You are stronger than you look, Miss Wembley.” He met her eyes, smiling triumphantly. He didn’t pull out of her grip right away, and she kept her own hand completely still.
“Thank you, Evan. I hope you’re right.”
He was standing close enough to her that she could smell the crisp, slightly musky scent that she’d grown to adore. He blinked, looked down at their hands, then quickly pulled away. “All right, moving on. There is a slight breeze coming from the river. That air will push your arrow, throwing it out of the line as it travels. If you move your aim in the direction from which the wind originates, it will compensate for that push and hopefully help you to actually hit your target.”
She lifted the bow again, getting back into position, careful to hold her fingers just so. Starting with her arrow pointed directly at the target, she shifted a few inches to the left. “Better?”
He moved to stand directly behind her, so that he could sight down her arrow’s shaft. She closed her eyes for a moment, imagining she could feel the heat of him at her back. It was easy to imagine his hand sliding along her waist from behind, his lips finding the sensitive skin at the nape of her neck, his—
“Your lateral aim is good, but you need to move up slightly.”
Her eyes popped back open. Yes, the lesson.
Unaware of her daydreams, he continued. “The arrow is not immune to gravity, and it will fall as it flies. It is up to you to compensate based on how far away the target is.”
Forcing herself to concentrate, she tilted the bow up just a hair. “Like this?”
“A smidge more,” he murmured, his breath caressing the side of her neck.
She shivered, causing her grip to slip. The arrow sailed off, arcing gracefully through the air. It hit the very edge of the paper, well outside of the target, but a thousand times better than her previous shot. She gasped, whipping around to face him. “I did it!” She bounced on her toes, so thrilled she could hardly contain it. “I can’t believe I hit it! You are a genius, the best tutor ever to have lived, I’m sure of it.”
He chuckled, obviously amused by her. “Or perhaps your last tutor was simply the worst. Regardless, well done.”
“Miss Wembley,” Mr. Wright called, the merriment in his voice ruining his stern expression. “I know you are eager to lose to us, but do try to wait your turn.”
“I was merely reenacting your last shot, Mr. Wright,” Sophie replied tartly, making the vicar hoot with laughter.
“Such insolence,” Evan said, his voice low and teasing. “You’d better play nice. I won’t have you getting us tossed from the competition. If they are going to compel me to play, then I fully intend to win.”
She grinned hugely, not even trying to temper her delight. “I know, I know. But still, did you see the way it flew straight at the target? I could be the next Robin Hood. Or Robinette . . . Robina? Never mind, just call me Sophie Hood.”
His gorgeous blue eyes danced with amusement. “I don’t suggest taking up residence in Sherwood Forest just yet, Sophie Hood.”
She laughed and turned her attention back to the others, trying not to linger on the way he had said her name just then. It was a very ordinary name, but hearing the way he wrapped his tongue around the word made her wish he’d call her by her Christian name all the time. Why must etiquette always get in the way of the things she wanted?
The contest continued, with Julia and Harry scoring lowest, Hugh and May only a few points above them, and Evan and Sophie neck and neck with Mr. Wright and Charity. While Sophie’s second arrow lodged in the hay bale just inches from the target, the third had actually hit the outermost ring. Evan hit the bull’s-eye twice, but his third shot had strayed left and landed in the second ring, much to his dismay.
“Oh, dreadful luck, Evansleigh,” Mr. Wright teasingly taunted. “Must be losing your touch in your dotage. ‘The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away.’”
Lord Cadgwith gave a short snort of laughter. “Careful, Thomas. ‘Pride goeth before destruction.’ The Lord may taketh from you yet.”
“Touché, old man. I can only hope the Lord continues to show favor to his humble servant.”
The men continued to taunt one another, their lighthearted jabs amusing them all. When the fourth and final round began, Evan turned to Sophie, earnestness written all over his face. “All right, Sophie Hood, this is your chance to best each and every one of your friends, and earn eternal bragging rights for us both. I have no intention of allowing that wolf in vicar’s clothing to defeat us.”
She quirked an eyebrow. “Wolf in vicar’s clothing? My, aren’t we a competitive soul.”
“Yes, quite, which is why you must hit the target.”
“I must?” She fluttered her eyelashes in mock confusion. “Surely you are mistaken, because I am thrilled simply not to be in last place.” It was great fun to banter with him like this. His spirits were as high as she had ever seen them.
He scoffed. “Second place is practically last place. Surely you want to win and be able to hold it over your friends’ heads for the foreseeable future?”
“Not at all. I’d be thrilled for Charity, were she on the winning team.”
He made a face. “Yes, but I cannot lose to an upstart clergyman who is half a decade my junior.”
“Hmm. It sounds as though you’re in a predicament. Perhaps if there were proper incentive, I might be more driven to succeed.” Her mind whirled with all the ways he could entice her. A carriage ride alone? Another waltz, preferably one where she kept her feet about her? Or, perhaps a promised kiss? The mere idea had her stomach fluttering.
“Incentive?” he repeated, his hand going to his chin. The wind rustled the leaves above them, causing bright spots of sunshine to dance over his face. “Shall I promise to buy you a new oboe? Play the role of your servant for the rest of the day? You’ve only to name it.”
A cheer went up from the small crowd, and they turned just as Mr. Wright let out a triumphant whoop. His arrow still swayed where it had struck the target directly in the bull’s-eye. With a sweeping hand in their direction, he called, “Your shot, Evansleigh. If you wish to take it. You may prefer to save yourself the trouble of losing and simply forfeit now.”
“Not a chance, Wright,” Evan responded, the sentence almost jovial. His jaw tightened as he lined up his shot, taking his time. He held the string against the smooth skin of his cheek, one eye squinted as he sighted his target. Respectable, modern clothing aside, he looked like some sort of medieval warrior, poised with leashed energy at the moment right before battle.
At the exact instant he released the string, a gust of wind blew up from the river, pushing his beautifully aimed arrow to the right. It thudded into the third ring, more than a foot off from the center. Sophie gasped aloud, her hands flying to her mouth.
He stood there, blinking at the target in disbelief. Mumbling what she was sure must have been a curse, he turned to her, his eyes flashing silver. “Name it.”
“I’m sorry?” she said, taken aback by his abrupt command.
Teasing taunts and sounds of dismay came from the other competitors, but he ignored them completely as he pinned her with his gaze. “Name your incentive. And make it good, because you must hit dead center if we are to win.”
“The bull’s-eye?” she squeaked. “Good heavens, Evan, I couldn’t hit it for all the money in the world.”
“Why not? The arrow has to go somewhere. Why not to the center of the target?”
She laughed, shaking her head. “Why not, indeed. You do remember to whom you are speaking, yes? The girl who tripped on her own skirts? Nearly hit our competitor’s target? May or may not have managed to fall up the stairs yesterday?”
“I know whom I am speaking to. Now, Miss Eternally Optimistic Sophie Hood—name your incentive.”
He was quite serious. She nibbled on her bottom lip, deciding whether or not she wanted to play along. As far as she was concerned, the competition was over, and they had earned a very respectable second place. Because really, there was optimistic, and there was deluded. She started to tell him as much, when suddenly inspiration struck. What had she to lose?
“Sing for me.”
His brows came together. “I beg your pardon?”
She hadn’t realized just how much she had wanted to hear him until that moment. “If I hit the bull’s-eye, I want to hear you sing. Opera.”
She smiled up at him, batting her eyelashes for good measure. It was incredibly far-fetched that he would ever have to follow through, but it was certainly as good an enticement as she could imagine . . . other than asking him for a kiss, which she couldn’t have brought herself to suggest in a million years.
Surprise flashed across his features. His lips turned up in a sort of disbelieving grin as he nodded and extended the bow to her. “This shall be your only chance, so I suggest you hit your mark.”
Even knowing the hopelessness of it, a thrill still raced through her belly. If hearing him sing in Italian wasn’t incentive enough to make the impossible happen, then nothing could. “Very well, we have a deal.”
Drawing a nervous breath, she accepted the bow and lifted it into place. Evan stepped up behind her, his presence making the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.
“Wider stance,” he murmured. “Good. Now draw a little further back. A little more, so that your left arm is fully extended and your fingers rest at the apple of your cheek.”
Her lips were parted, her breaths coming in short draws through her mouth as she listened to the low, encouraging tones of his voice. He sounded so mellow, so calm and confident.
“Aim a little higher, and when you release, hold the bow absolutely still. The follow-through is what propels the arrow.”
Taking one last long breath, she concentrated all her energy on the three fingertips holding the string. One, two, three, release.