Page 24 of A Sporting Affair (The Corinthians #1)

Arrow nocked, stance set, back of hand flat, Genevieve anchored the string against her cheek. Concentrating on the tip to aim, she braced, then loosed the arrow.

The clock ticked, counting down.

She had eleven more arrows in her quiver and less than four minutes to release them, which for Mrs. Fitz-Stephens was enough time to hit the target twelve times and rest for a spot of tea, but for Genevieve, time mocked her inexperience. Twenty seconds per arrow. It sounded like an eternity; it felt like a blink of an eye. There was no time to search the crowd for Rafe or wonder if he was watching, cheering her on, and possibly—hopefully—admiring her courage rather than her skill, or lack thereof.

She reached for the next arrow. Nock, anchor, brace, aim, loose. However nervous, her hands held steady. The acceleration of her pulse was excitement, not fear. Another arrow. Another hit.

At least there was only one target. During the lessons, Mrs. Fitz-Stephens had set up several, each at a different distance.

Behind her, the next archer on the team awaited her turn. Next to her, with ample space between, were three queues, each with their own target, two teams per village. Another arrow. Another hit. None of the hits proved exceptional, no bullseyes, but that they all penetrated the target was ecstasy to Genevieve.

She reached for the last arrow, grasping empty air. Oh! She was out. She had lost count. With a quick curtsy, she handed her gear to the young lady behind her, then moved to the sidelines. Diana was two people away from a turn. Genevieve saluted for luck.

Mama greeted her with an air kiss. “Masterfully done, I dare say. Cecilia will be disappointed if she doesn’t do half as well.” The last teammate in their queue was Cecilia, who had decided to join only minutes before the start of the event. “Theia, love, why did you not join?”

Genevieve turned to find Theia hiding behind her.

“What if the string were to snap?” Theia whined. “I couldn’t bear it!”

Too late to reassure her sister the string would not snap, Genevieve left it, turning her attention back to the competition. The team next to theirs, also representing Grant Lindis, was mostly composed of the young girls from Lindstow Manor, or a handful of them, anyway, those few who were not of the same mind as Theia in fearing the bow.

“Hush!” Genevieve commanded with a wave of her hand. “Diana is stepping into position.”

They collectively held their breath. The first arrow hit only an inch below the bullseye. The second hit dead center. The third paired it as a mate. Genevieve cheered. A few people away, Mr. Thorpe and Mr. Headley cheered louder. By the time Diana finished, the center of the target was littered with arrows, proving her prowess with a bow. With Diana on their team, this would surely be a win for Grant Lindis. Assistants rushed to remove the arrows as the next young lady prepared.

Diana first joined Genevieve with a squeal, then squeezed the hands of both Theia and Mama, before skipping over to her brother and Mr. Thorpe. Mr. Thorpe, that fortunate gentleman, received a kiss on the cheek in Diana’s exuberance.

Where was Rafe? Genevieve searched the crowd. He had wished her luck before the event began, but he was nowhere—oh, there he was. Tucked behind a gaggle of noncompeting Lindstow Manor girls, Rafe stood talking with Genevieve’s Papa, the two laughing.

By the time she turned around, Cecilia had finished her turn—all her arrows flinging far and above the target to destinations uncharted—and the points were being tallied for a Grant Lindis victory. Even while hugging her sisters, Genevieve’s attention remained riveted on Rafe and Papa—whatever could be so amusing?

Slipping away before her mother and sisters noticed, she marched towards the two gentlemen, her path unimpeded as the crowd dispersed in preparation for the afternoon fête. Her father, turned away from her, did not see her approaching. Rafe caught sight of her in his peripheral—she knew the moment he did because his lips curved into a smirk. Once within earshot, she sharpened her attention to distinguish their voices from the others around her, hoping to eavesdrop a little before announcing her presence to her father.

“I’ll introduce you to Sir Courtney,” Rafe was promising as she drew closer.

“Oh, I say, a capital idea.” Hooking his fingers around the front edges of his superfine coat, Papa added, “Not that I’m one to ramble.”

Genevieve slowed her pace, befuddled, but wanting to hear more.

Rafe offered no such allowances. “Ah, Miss Slade, our archer extraordinaire. Join us.”

However facetious the compliment, she flushed.

“I’m a man with a mission, Miss Slade. I aim to encourage your father to join the Eurwendin Ramblers. Opportunities in abundance to make those all-important connections, but above all else, the chance to explore. The group turns a simple ramble into an adventure.”

Stifling a giggle to think of her father hiking, she nodded with her most earnest expression. “Just what you’ve hoped for, Papa. A way to meet neighbors.”

“Precisely my point,” Papa agreed, chin raised with an air of importance to be soon hobnobbing with the likes of Sir Courtney, whoever he was.

To further his point, Rafe said, “With such a group, you needn’t relocate to travel. A pity you did not find the group earlier. It would have saved you from moving to seek adventure.”

Genevieve remained silent. Papa was not exactly a seeker of adventure so much as an escapee from responsibility, namely that which came with ownership. Still, if anyone could convince her father to set roots, it would be Rafe.

But then, since when was Rafe solicitous of her family’s future? Was he playacting the devoted betrothed? She questioned him with a quizzing gaze.

“It is, undoubtedly, in my favor,” Rafe continued, “you did not find such a group sooner. Had you done so, you may never have come to Grant Lindis, and then I would not have met the lovely Miss Slade.”

Papa frowned. “Nonsense. Of course you would have met her. How else would I have convinced you she’s the perfect bride?”

Rafe laughed heartily. “ Ita vero . Yes, indeed.”

Genevieve looked from Rafe to her father and back. What a peculiar comment. Eyes crinkled at the corners, Rafe did not appear the least perturbed by it. She could be overtired, but what her father said did not make sense. He had not tried to convince either of them of anything, only forced them together over a misunderstanding. Had he intended them to meet? He could not have. They had all known the two eldest sons were indisposed, the eldest on an expedition of some sort and the second in London with no plans to return this year. Shaking her head, she turned her attention back to her father.

“Eh, puss? What do you say?” Papa waited for her reply.

When she stared at him, befuddled, Rafe saved her with, “As exciting as the fête is sure to be, if you feel in any way as I did after the regatta, you are ready to sleep for twenty-four hours straight.”

Genevieve mouthed a thank you before saying, “You understand too well. The excitement of the event has taxed me to exhaustion. I wonder if Diana might consider accompanying me back to the Priory for tea and quiet.”

Papa nodded towards the Headleys. “Looks to me she’s coping fine without you. Take Theia.”

Turning, Genevieve saw Mr. Headley talking with Diana, and…. Diana’s arm was threaded with Mr. Thorpe’s. With a raise of her eyebrows, Genevieve glanced at Rafe, who replied with a nearly imperceptible shrug of his shoulders. A hand on a gentleman’s forearm for balance when walking was one thing, but one should never tuck a hand in the crook of a gentleman’s arm unless the relationship was quite serious. Genevieve hoped Diana’s friendly nature was not going to be misinterpreted as something more.