Page 13 of A Sporting Chance (The Chances #8)

“Y ou’re ready.”

“I am not ready.”

“What have all these preparations been for, if not to prepare you for such a moment?”

Easy for him to say . Kathleen’s arm quivered as she maintained the bow draw, the arrow balanced upon her fingers shaking as she struggled to maintain her steadiness.

She was standing about twenty feet from the butt. It was a shameful distance, all told. She had seen Leopold draw at least four times farther back than this—but as he rightly had pointed out, she had no strength in her arms.

Kathleen could still recall the shock of heat that had flowed through her at the sudden realization that Leopold had been looking at her arms.

She glanced at them again now. She had never given her arms much thought, not until a nobleman had. A nobleman with a terrible reputation who would surely be pushed beyond the brink of ruin once it was widely known that he was spending copious time with her.

“You have to trust yourself, Kathleen.”

Kathleen swallowed as waves of heat poured over her. Thank goodness she could blame the weather—the sun had been blazing all morning.

But she could not lie to herself. She knew the burning, twisting feeling inside her was due only to Lord Leopold Chance’s close proximity. The way he was looking at her. The intensity of his attention, which was not to admire, no matter how much she may have wished it.

No, Leopold always examined her with the careful eye of a tutor, nothing more. It was somewhat disheartening, but then, Kathleen was hardly an expert in the wooing of gentlemen.

And yes, she’d kissed him. Or he’d kissed her. She could hardly recall, her memories swirling not with thoughts, but with sensations.

“I’ll miss,” she said quietly.

Leopold’s gentle chuckle was far closer behind her than she had expected. “Yes, you’ll always miss.”

Kathleen almost let the arrow down at that remark. “Then why teach me?”

“You’ll always miss, if you never let free the arrow,” came his quiet reply.

It was difficult to argue with that.

Kathleen inhaled deeply and tried to remember everything Leopold had taught her. It had been a great deal, which was why it was only now that he was allowing her to let loose her first arrow.

Careful of your stance. Do not twist your ankle overly. Knees nice and supple. Reduce the tension in your shoulders—it could be done by willpower alone, apparently, not that Kathleen had much luck with that.

Breathe deeply, but slowly. Allow your hands to be rigid, but not so rigid as to prevent the bow from its natural movements. Lean into what the bow wants. The bow wants to clasp the arrow, then it wants to release it.

Kathleen blew out, slowly. Leopold stepped to the side, mere inches from her, his gaze trained on her lips.

Which was more than a little distracting.

Far before she had intended to, Kathleen let go. The arrow, unprepared as it was, soared—

About seven feet. And not in the direction of the butt.

Leopold’s chuckle was both warming and infuriating. “Well, for a first try, not bad.”

“Do not speak to me,” Kathleen warned as she lowered the bow and rolled her aching shoulder.

“But for a novice—”

“I said , do not speak to me,” repeated Kathleen, trying to keep her tone light as her pulse quickened.

Leopold’s smile was far too enticing, damn him. “You should have seen my first attempt.”

Try as she might, she could not glare at that. “Was it as terrible as mine?”

He was laughing now as he took the bow from her and examined the bowstring. “Let us just say, I did not manage to let the arrow fly.”

“You did not?”

Leopold shook his head wryly. “I dropped both arrow and bow in my frustration. I could not draw back, as you do. I had not the strength.”

Now that was more like it. Kathleen was not one to demand compliments; she had not led a life of a lady in fashionable Society in London or Bath or Brighton. But she was human. It was most pleasant to be positively compared to a young Leopold.

Wait a moment. A young Leopold.

“Precisely how old were you,” Kathleen asked tentatively, “when you first attempted this?”

It was the twinkle in his eyes that told her before Leopold even opened his mouth. “Oh, I don’t know. Four. Perhaps five years old.”

Kathleen did not even think—she did not have to. The numerous archery lessons had developed between them a comfort she had never experienced with another.

Nudging him hard with her shoulder, she said, “How can you compare myself, a full one and twenty, with yourself at four years old!”

He was laughing now, and she was laughing too, and for a moment, Kathleen could forget the scandal of her sister, the distance from her family, the pittance she lived on and the frustration of her own prospects.

It was merely herself and Leopold laughing and teasing each other on a splendid lawn with the summer sun beating down on them.

That was surely the reason that when they ceased laughing, Leopold was remarkably close. Standing very close, truth be told. Far closer than was necessary.

Not as close as she would want.

Kathleen swallowed the memories of that kiss, a kiss she regretted not for the sake of the kiss itself, but for its aftermath, and took a hesitant step away. He did not follow her.

It’s all in your mind, Kathleen Andilet , she told herself sternly as Leopold carefully replaced the bow she had been using on the rack.

The man kissed you, to be sure, which probably happened to lots of people, and he clearly has no wish to repeat it.

He was a lord—surely a rake! Do not daydream.

Do not allow yourself to believe nonsense.

“Well, I believe we can make it official,” said Leopold casually.

Kathleen dropped the arrow she had just pulled out of the ground. “We can?”

“I think it’s been a sufficient amount of time,” he said, turning and examining her critically. “Don’t you?”

All she could do was gape. What the…? He could not mean what she thought he meant. Could he?

They had not spoken of matrimony. They had not spoken of the future much at all, choosing to shy away from such topics, she knew not why.

Perhaps because Kathleen knew she could not tell him of the misfortune her sister had found herself in. Perhaps because having heard the story of his own particular scandal—not that it was much, as far as she could see—he did not wish to tempt fate.

But now he was suggesting… Was he not?

“I…I do not know what to say,” Kathleen said helplessly, leaning down to pick up the arrow again and twisting it in her fingers.

There was more than a hint of mischief in Leopold’s eyes. “You do not think so?”

She was entirely lost, and in truth, it was not very sporting of him to tease her this way. The fact that she enjoyed it so much was neither here nor there.

“As I said, I believe we can make it official,” he said, leaning against the rack and crossing his arms over his chest. His strong, shapely forearms over his broad chest.

Kathleen swallowed. Her mouth was inexplicably dry, and she found herself taking a few steps toward him. The need to be close to him…she did not wish to examine it too closely, but it was most certainly there.

“You… You do?”

Leopold nodded, his lopsided, teasing smile broadening. “I think you are officially the worst archer in the history of the London Archery Club.”

Kathleen’s face collapsed into laughter as relief—and disappointment—flooded through her.

She hadn’t actually thought he’d been about to… No, he would never have. They were not even officially courting. Yes, they had spent a great deal of time together, and alone. Without a chaperone. There had been a possibility that someone would have demanded he marry her. Her sister? Her father?

Oh, it had been a foolish thought, indeed, and not one she should have entertained for one single minute.

“I protest,” she said aloud, hoping her smile did not indicate the myriad thoughts that had flown through her mind. “Considering that I have only been learning a couple of weeks, I believe I am doing quite well!”

“You think?” asked Leopold as he picked up a few stray arrows they had discarded as part of their lesson.

“I do,” Kathleen said firmly, knowing that this was flirtation on her side, and surely his own, and deciding not to care. “I know which way around to hold a bow. I would suppose that it took four-year-old Leopold much longer to ascertain that.”

His laughter was like a reward for a hard-won battle, and she luxuriated in it.

There was something…something so freeing, so relaxed about Leopold when he was laughing.

She had noticed it last week; when he laughed, all the cares of the world seemed to melt away from his shoulders, his forehead smoothing, the lilting smile he treated her with somehow broader.

And then the laughter faded, and all the cares appeared to rush back, and he returned to being someone who had burdens he could not carry.

“Yes, well, you are improving. The first shot you take is always the worst, I find,” Leopold said, replacing the arrows in the rack. “It’s onward and upward from here on out.”

“You think?” Kathleen had not meant to echo him, nor to sound so wistful.

This bet of theirs—it was foolish, now she came to think on it. She liked this man, liked him far beyond what was acceptable, but she would certainly never expect anything from him.

And she was lonely. Hard though it was to admit, Angela was not able to be her sole companionship. Not for the rest of their lives.

Oh, heaven forbid.

It was pleasant, to find a friend. To make one.

Whether Leopold considered her a friend…

No, almost certainly not. A gentleman always had more friends than a lady; he could go more places, speak to more people, and besides, he was the son of a duke!

Kathleen was no expert, but she presumed it was far easier for sons of dukes to befriend people than daughters of country gentlemen who were accompanying their disgraced sisters to London.