Chapter Fifteen

It was a truly magnificent autumn day, Sebastian reflected, as the arrow released from Mrs. Eastwood’s bow sailed through the air and landed nowhere near the target. It was uncommonly warm for November, and the mellow sunlight cast everything in a lazy golden glow. Lady Freesia was setting her trap for Lord Devand, Lady Louisa had removed her cloak—thus displaying her bountiful bosom—and lo! An opportunity to annoy Nicholas Eastwood had fairly dropped in his lap.

A man could not ask for more happiness than that.

“Allow me to assist you, Mrs. Eastwood. May I?” Sebastian gestured to her bow.

“You are welcome to try, although I fear it is a lost cause. I am not at all as proficient in physical endeavors as my sister.”

He stepped behind her and placed his left hand on her waist to guide her. “Turn your body like this. And then your elbow comes back like so.” His right hand came to her arm. “Higher, Mrs. Eastwood. The arrow cannot fly true if the tool is limp.”

From somewhere nearby came a sound of male outrage. Sebastian grinned.

“And now the release,” he murmured.

Mrs. Eastwood sent the arrow flying with a sharp twang. It hit the target—off-center, but at least it wasn’t a complete miss.

“There now, Mrs. Eastwood. Do you feel the difference when your body aligns itself to the goal?” He all but purred the words in her ear.

“Wessex,” Eastwood warned.

There was a fine line between teasing and death, and while Sebastian was happy to dance nimbly along it, he knew better than to step a toe on the wrong side. He released Mrs. Eastwood into the care of her husband and turned to find himself pinned by the far-too-knowing gaze of Miss Benton.

“Do you require my tutelage as well, Sigrid? I should be happy to school you in the art of archery.”

“If I required such knowledge, I should be better served by Lady Freesia, as she is far more skilled than you in both archery and shooting. But as she is otherwise occupied with Colonel Kent, perhaps I should ask Mr. Eastwood.”

“Not Mr. Eastwood.” Sebastian laid a hand to his heart. “You wound me, dear lady.”

She gazed at him with compassion in her blue eyes. “Has it not been long enough? Forgive him, Wessex.”

For a moment he did not understand, and then he threw his head back in laughter. “For claiming Mrs. Eastwood when I had sought to make her mine, do you mean? Never fear, Miss Benton. My heart healed long ago. He is just so easy to tease, I cannot resist.”

“I was not speaking of Mrs. Eastwood. She has nothing to do with this. It is not for her sake that you mercilessly poke the bear. She couldn’t break your heart because it never belonged to her. Don’t pretend with me, for I know you too well. You weren’t in love with Mrs. Eastwood.”

“I might have been,” he protested. “Everyone says I was. I did offer for her, after all.”

Miss Benton tilted her head. “Were you?”

“No,” he admitted. “I liked her very much. I still do. But my heart did not break when she chose Eastwood.”

“Exactly.” Miss Benton gave him a smile of smug satisfaction. “Which is why that is not the injury I speak of when I say you must forgive him.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” Sebastian said shortly. He pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed deeply. Why was he allowing her to irk him? “He has done me no injury.”

“He has injured someone you love.”

“Someone I love?” Sebastian laughed. “Really, Miss Benton, after you claim to know me! Have I not told you that I do not love, and neither do I hate? I like Eastwood well enough, as I like everyone. And if I tease and provoke and poke, well, what of it? Someone must. Should a man be allowed to wreak such misery and then be welcomed back into the bosom of his family with no repercussion? Tell me that, Miss Benton. For years he allowed Abingdon to suffer, to fear for his life. And for what? His pride? He could have returned home at any time to make amends. Abingdon is the best man I have ever known. There is not another alive who does not look like a beast in comparison to his goodness. I—” He stopped abruptly.

Good God.

Miss Benton smiled.

“Do go away, Sigrid,” Sebastian grumbled. “You are insufferable when you are right.”

“Wessex.” She laid a cajoling hand upon his arm. “Abingdon forgave his brother a long time ago. Why can’t you do the same?”

“Abingdon forgave him even when he thought Eastwood was trying to murder him. As I said, he is an uncommonly good man. There is no use holding him up as the standard of behavior to which I should aspire, because I will not rise to the occasion. Leave me alone to wallow in the depths of my pettiness, if you please.”

“I do not please. One of these days you will go too far and irreparably damage your friendship with Eastwood. Mrs. Eastwood and Abingdon will side with him, and where they go, Lady Abingdon follows. And as Lady Abingdon is my dearest friend, naturally I shall have to cut you, as well. Then where will you be?” she demanded.

Sebastian sighed. “Your stubbornness is unbecoming, Miss Benton.”

It was not his first lie, but it was his most blatant. Her cheeks were rosy with indignation, and her annoyance gave an extra sparkle to her eyes. That had always been the uncomfortable truth about Miss Benton—her beauty was a direct result of her Sigrid-ness.

True, yes, the blue of her eyes, the luminosity of her skin, the moonlit gleam of her hair were all undeniably perfect. But none of those things were what made her beautiful. It was simply her, the soul of her, that glowed through everything like a lit flame behind a porcelain lamp. She might have had a large nose and spotty skin and she would still have been the most beautiful woman in England.

Damn her.

“I am not suggesting you be someone you are not,” she said. Her hand was still on his arm. “Tease him, by all means, as friends are wont to do. Only, let go of your anger and leave Mrs. Eastwood out of it. That is where the danger lies.”

She was right, again, and he knew it.

He looked to where Nick stood with his wife. Truly, he liked the man. Abingdon wasn’t the only victim of the Eastwood family legend; Nick had suffered his own share of grievances. And yet…

“How does one release the millstone one has embraced for so long?” he mused. “It has become a habit that I don’t know how to do without. You will have to help me, Miss Benton. Steer me straight when I veer too far. We could have some sort of signal when I have overstepped.”

“I’ll pinch you,” she said ruthlessly.

“I would expect nothing less of you, dearest Sigrid.” He laid his hand over hers. “And now, if you will excuse me, there are games afoot, and the foot is mine.”

She grabbed his hand, holding him captive. “Aha! I knew you were up to something!”

He looked down at her in surprise. “Did you?”

“Oh, yes. Your expression gave it away at breakfast. Nothing brings that gleam in your eye, that smirk of your mouth, except scheming.”

“I had no idea you watched me so closely.” He was ridiculously pleased by the discovery.

She blinked up at him, her expression slightly befuddled, before she narrowed her eyes. “Well, someone has to. You are always up to no good.”

“Why does everyone say that?” he complained. “Has it never occurred to anyone that I might be up to something very good? Such thankless work.”

He did not wait for her reply before striding toward his guests.

“Shall we be very silly?” he asked. “Let us pretend we are knights of Arthur, and this field and these targets our tournament. Lord Sutton shall be our king and grant a boon to the winner. What say you all?”

There was a smattering of applause in response to his game.

“Splendid idea!” Lord Devand cried. “But should you not take the role of king yourself, Duke? You are nearest to the Crown, after all.”

“Ah, but every tournament needs a fool, and who better to play the part than I? I am not serious enough to play a king. The more pity that fools may not speak wisely what wise men do foolishly, as our Bard hath said.”

He pivoted back to Miss Benton, who was watching him with a curious expression on her lovely face. He winked at her and threw his arms wide.

“Now, Sigrid, watch what happens.”