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Miss Bentley had been correct, on all points. And though it had been extremely unladylike of her to chase after beetles, he could not help but admit a thread of admiration. His life experiences had taught him to respect courage wherever it was found.

He had decided to give her an apology at the first opportunity, which had occurred far sooner than expected—fate again?—only to have her expertly deflect it.

She was an anomaly. He was accustomed to being a sought-after partner, and though he was not so handsome nor rich as Darcy, he knew his way around a charming conversation.

There were degrees of beauty and desirability having nothing to do with wealth and gender, and in those arenas, he was firmly established in a higher circle than Miss Sarah Bentley .

I expected her to be flattered by my condescension.

What followed had been the most unique, thought-provoking—or perhaps, simply provoking—discussion on courtship and marriage he had ever had with anyone.

Her straightforward views were refreshing, but heavens, she was a menace to herself!

Amongst the ton , which lived for scandal and twisted words for sport, such opinions could ruin her!

What were Hampton and her father thinking, not to have safely arranged her into a union at the earliest opportunity?

Though she would be devilish difficult to dictate to , he thought wryly. Too intelligent by half. Likely smarter than both of them together.

The story of her infant brother, although he thought it proved nothing of her point, had touched him.

How old had she been? Younger than Georgiana was now, surely, and though he adored her, he could never imagine Miss Darcy of Pemberley taking charge of a nursery, or spending untold hours comforting a colicky infant.

And now…she intended to…what had she said? Experiment with animal spirits? With Reggie Withers?

This was his fault. She had misunderstood him and was too innocent to realise her danger.

While there was nothing wrong with Withers, Fitzwilliam would certainly not leave a na?ve young maiden’s reputation within his clumsy hands.

His true apology, his atonement for his bad behaviour, would be to keep her safe from herself. It was the least he could do.

After the previous day’s rain, Sarah enjoyed her walk to the archery field with Miss Bennet. Having a few moments alone with her was a fortunate chance, as Mr Darcy was usually to be found nearby whenever she was.

“I am so happy to have the opportunity to speak to you,” Sarah began eagerly. “I wonder if you would mind answering a question or two?”

If Miss Bennet was taken aback by such interrogation, she was too polite to show it, murmuring her agreement.

“Oh, thank you! You see, Mr Darcy claimed that he made an awful first impression upon you, but that eventually, he managed to overcome it. Somehow you managed to see through his worst self and into his better one. How did you know he was not merely a handsome face? Though I must say, his face is exceptional, and no one would blame you for making a fortunate guess and hoping to make the best of it after.”

Miss Bennet shook her head in a little bewilderment at this onslaught, but quickly burst into laughter. “First of all, you must call me Elizabeth, as all of my friends do. You would fit right in with my sisters, who seldom hesitate to voice any questions they might have.”

Sarah sighed. “Georgette reminded me only today that I must do better at fitting my curiosity into conversations in a less frantic manner. But I am certain Mr Darcy will join us at any moment, and I am so anxious to know how to tell whether a man is a worthy investment or a bad bargain. Do, please, call me Sarah.”

“A worthy investment?” Elizabeth asked, still smiling.

“Well, I am depending upon my fortune rather than my looks to secure a husband,” Sarah admitted honestly.

“Which of course brings me a selection of men who might uncharitably be called fortune hunters. Not that I would call them any such thing—a man who wishes to improve his lot in life is only prudent—but I would like to see beyond it. Mr Darcy says you cared nothing for his wealth, which says a great deal about your character, and makes me even more anxious to know—how did he earn your good opinion?”

“I am afraid I cannot answer your question in a satisfactory manner, Sarah. It was too long ago, and I suppose I was in the middle before I knew I had begun. I am sorry.”

Sarah sighed. “I knew it was unlikely that anything about your romance would relate to any potential one of mine.”

Elizabeth patted her shoulder. “I can tell you this—never assume that what you absolutely know is absolutely true.”

“But…how can I be sure of anything at all, if I do not?”

“I suppose one must do one’s best,” Elizabeth answered, laughing a little.

“Long before there was a betrothal, my aunt, uncle and I toured Mr Darcy’s very grand home with his housekeeper.

Had I known he was in residence, I would never have done it.

But I did, and he was, and…I think every once in a while, there is no harm in taking a little risk to discover if what you know to be true… really is.”

“Take risks. Discover what you do not know,” Sarah repeated, nodding thoughtfully. “I thank you. You have confirmed my own intuition.”

“Oh, I did not quite mean—” Elizabeth began, but at that moment Mr Darcy joined them, Sarah excused herself to join the archers, and the opportunity for sharing further confidences was lost.

Sarah approached the archery range in high spirits. For one thing, Mr Withers had specifically asked earlier whether she was going to join the archers. For another, she genuinely enjoyed the sport, was rather good at it, and expected to impress him with her prowess.

Miss Hilgrove and Miss Barlowe already tittered together at the edge of the field. And there was Mr Withers, standing with the gentlemen—including Colonel Fitzwilliam. If her heart accelerated a bit at the sight of the colonel as well, so handsome and hale in comparison, well...she looked away.

To her surprise, Mr Balton-Sycke appeared with Lady Aurelia on one arm and Lilly on the other. What is he still doing here?

She could not help but support Lord Saye’s pursuit of Lilly, and not simply because of his title and looks.

While Mr Balton-Sycke was well enough in appearance, one could just see how he would be twenty years from now, complaining of his gout and draughts and calling for the maids to build up the fires. No wonder he wishes to marry young.

A stand of bows was positioned to the right of the field, while two servants holding leather pouches of arrows stood beside an older gentleman, Lord Mickels—a noted toxophilite—who would officiate.

Sarah walked directly to the bows and stood in contemplation of them.

At the same time, she noticed the field abutted a pretty little wilderness.

It would not take much of a walk if, after the practice, Mr Withers and I were to stroll therein?

And, perhaps, I could take the small risk of allowing him a kiss?

Assuming, of course, he wished for such an opportunity.

The men approached, Mr Withers pulling one of the bows from the stand, saying, “Miss Bentley, allow me to string your bow for you.”

Sarah glanced at his choice, but selected a different one from the rack.

“Actually, I believe this one is more suitable for me.” Placing her foot on its lower limb and bending its frame, she expertly looped the bowstring into the appropriate groove.

“I am quite able to string it myself, as you see.”

Miss Barlowe tittered. “Mr Withers, I would be so grateful if you would string mine.”

As he hurried to do her bidding, Sarah realised her mistake.

And yet, the bow she had selected was clearly superior to the warped thing he had chosen, and did he truly wish for such studied helplessness?

When Mr Withers walked away with Miss Barlowe, she sighed and glanced at Colonel Fitzwilliam, expecting to see a smirk at this proof of her ineptitude at flirtation.

To her surprise, he had already strung his bow, procured two pouches of arrows, and said only, “Shall we?”

He must be trying to establish his good conduct, after last night’s débacle , she thought. Still, she took his proffered arm and strolled with him towards the shooting lines, only to have him abandon her to Mr Darcy. No matter , she thought.

There were four bullrush targets set up, with concentric rings upon their fabric faces—one looked to be very near, a distance of perhaps only twenty yards, the second at thirty, the third at thirty-five, the fourth at forty.

Since Sarah regularly shot at fifty yards, she thought that showing her proficiency here ought to be an easy business.

To her surprise, the colonel re-joined her just as Lord Mickels began fussing about rules, and the science of it, and demonstrating his scoring cards. Sarah released a little breath of impatience, even as she tried to appear attentive.

“Come, now, Pickles, let us begin,” Colonel Fitzwilliam interrupted. “We planned an informal practice, not a tournament.”

Mickels gave him a withering glare, but called, “Ladies and gentlemen, take your places,” and the couples each chose a target—with Miss Barlowe making haste for the nearest one.

The ladies took their shots.

“The wind, no doubt,” Colonel Fitzwilliam murmured in her ear as Miss Barlowe missed the target completely. It was all Sarah could do to keep her expression even, as the day was cold and clear, with nary a breeze. She had hit the nine-point gold from thirty yards.

The gentlemen nocked their arrows and took their shots. They all performed respectably, with the colonel’s and Mr Withers’s shots tying at nine points each.

“Mr Withers did well,” she commented, and he rolled his eyes.

“Twenty yards,” the colonel muttered. “A child could toss it that far.”

Arrows were collected, and then it was their turn at the thirty-five-yard target. Sarah aimed and stuck exactly the mid-point of the golden centre.

“Oh, good show!” cried Mr Withers, and Sarah smiled at him .

“He was speaking to Miss Barlowe,” the colonel whispered. “She almost managed almost to nick the target this time.”

Sarah elbowed him.

His arrow then thudded into the centre, neatly splicing hers with a curious intimacy that made her blush.

To cover her uneasiness, she turned her attention to Mr Balton-Sycke, who had yet to cease chattering away with Lady Aurelia.

Beside them, Lilly looked bored, staring absently at the nearby field.

She noticed Colonel Fitzwilliam’s gaze followed them as well.

“He is attempting an encroachment of our party. I will see that he fails,” the colonel said, glaring at his sister.

“You dislike Mr Balton-Sycke?” she asked curiously, as they collected their arrows.

“I have nothing against the man,” he said, “except that he is an insinuating worm.”

But he refused to add any details with which she might enlighten Lilly as to the man’s character. Was this brotherly loyalty? It was not unadmirable, if so.

It was their turn at the forty-yard target. Ever after, she would never quite be certain what had happened. Sarah nocked her arrow and drew, aiming well above the farthest target, beginning her calculations for its flight.

At that moment, Georgette and Mr Anderson entered the field, diverting her attention.

Georgette wore a stunning archeress’s dress in jade green, white silk slashing its skirt in a medieval pattern, the whole conforming to her slender, perfect figure with elegant simplicity.

Mr Anderson could barely keep his eyes from her.

His admiration was so obvious, so…blatant, when she had thought him the most dispassionate creature alive, that Sarah thought with some surprise, Why… he adores her!

This is why he is always in her company ! But then, Georgette’s appeal to Mr Anderson could really be no mystery. Every gentleman at the party who was not related to her or betrothed to another had made some effort to inveigle their way into her notice.

Still, why does she tolerate him? Sarah wondered. His presence was undoubtedly, at least at times, keeping more acceptable suitors at bay.

Why, if I were so beautiful, I should have a dozen hangers-on ! Sarah thought. Abruptly, however, she knew the thought for the lie it was. There was only one man she had begun to desire as yet, a man so wholly her opposite, and so far from her reach, the very notion appalled her.

Completely bewildered by this sudden blaze of attraction for her partner, Sarah stood motionless, arrow drawn, while Lady Aurelia, to her left, nocked her arrow and shot.

However, possibly due to the distracting entrance of the other couple, her arrow sputtered rather than soared, feebly bouncing hardly a ten-yard distance.

A rather unladylike curse flew along with it.

And between Lady Aurelia’s cursing and her surprise at the discovery of her own secret passion for Colonel Fitzwilliam, Sarah somehow released her arrow, whilst still pointing at the sky.

It should not have mattered, except to her score.

But the idiotic Mr Balton-Sycke shouted—“Your shot did not count, my dear Lady Aurelia! A mere accident. I shall retrieve it!”—and matching word to action, bounded the few yards to her ladyship’s fallen arrow.

Sarah’s arrow began its descent, and she watched in horror as it slowly, leisurely glided downwards towards the oblivious Mr Balton-Sycke.

The others began shouting, including the colonel—who called him by an extremely disrespectful nickname—but to no avail.

Balton-Sycke only halted, looking around ineffectually as the arrow dropped unluckily, mercilessly, and directly into his buckskin-clad hindquarters.

The arrow tip was not a broadhead, but a blunt thing designed to do as little damage as possible to the targets. Still, it was hardly gentle, particularly given the gravity-fuelled trajectory. Sarah winced as her shot landed, but her victim gave a soprano-edged scream.

Colonel Fitzwilliam clapped her on the shoulder. “Extra points for you, Miss Bentley. Extra points for you.”