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Lora watched with bated breath, daring the projectile to miss. The arrow disappeared into a ray of sunshine with a whoosh, then penetrated the target, missing the bullseye by an eighth of an inch.

Spectators gathered and broke into applause. Samuel smirked, disgruntled but satisfied. He left his post and made a show of straightening the high collar of his uniform as Lora’s father limped into sight.

“What do you make of this?” Mina asked. “Do you think the duke can best him?”

“A bluff surely,” Lora said. “I have never known my cousin to excel at any sport. His passions have always lent themselves to the gaming tables.”

“Your father has arrived.” Eliza gave Lora’s arm a light squeeze. “Maybe he will put an end to this.”

“I do not see how. Beresford agreed to this travesty.”

Mina regarded the scene, nodding. “The duke must know something we do not. He is older, wiser, more experienced. His physique lends itself to the outdoors. Who’s to say?”

Papa hobbled forward and said something to the duke, who looked directly at Lora. Though their eyes met briefly, the tug in her heart pulled as tautly as the bowstring he placed between his fingers.

“Oh, I cannot look,” Mina said. “What, do you suppose, did your father say to him? It is obvious he has not stopped the match. The duke is preparing to shoot.”

Yes, he was. Every formidable inch of him attracted her like a writhing worm to a fish dangling just out of reach.

He moved with grace, nocked his arrow, and drew it back—arms flexing, muscles straining, jaw tense.

Then, in one fluid movement, a delicate dance that held her spellbound, his fingers flexed and the shaft let loose.

Those gathered around stared in wonder as his arrow traveled twenty, fifty, eighty to one-hundred yards. Magnificent arc! The suspense lingered for what seemed like hours until the tip imbedded dead center on the board.

“Bravo!” several gentlemen shouted to great applause.

“Lora!”

Turning, she came face-to-face with her father.

“It is up to you whether you honor this bet,” he said. “No one will say a word if you choose otherwise. I am told you had no part in it, and the duke holds himself to a higher standard than your cousin. Take into consideration that winning a bet is more important to Samuel than your reputation.”

“I must go, Lora,” Mina said as if desiring to avoid a quarrel. “Ruth is waiting. I fear I have left her alone too long as it is.” Mina squeezed her hand reassuringly then withdrew to the house.

“Miss Parr,” Papa said, stopping her. Lora watched the pair closely as her father joined Mina. “Please understand, my nephew has been away for several years. Though that does not excuse his inappropriate behavior. I hope it has no bearing on how you view others at Winterbourne.”

“Indeed, it does not, my lord.”

“Good. I am glad.” He offered his arm in a rare, touching tribute. “Allow me to escort you back to the house, then. I understand you enjoy reading, Miss Parr. As it happens, I have just received a first edition of?—”

As his voice faded with their retreat, Eliza broke into Lora’s thoughts. “Is that not encouraging?”

Watching the pair depart, she asked, “What?”

“The attention your father is giving Miss Parr.”

“Yes. Very.” She smiled, her heart warming to the lively change in her father’s attitude. “And I’m not above wishing Samuel would turn into a frog so that he cannot become master of Winterbourne and the next Marquess of Putney. I am quite piqued that he recklessly gambled my lips away.”

“There are worse things to suffer,” Eliza said with a sigh.

Her stomach knotted, and she stiffened. “Like what?”

“Being known as a wallflower all of your days.”

“Eliza, someday a man will enchant you, and all the years you’ve spent yearning for that moment will vanish.”

The duke divested himself of his bow and the wrist guard, then rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth.

Smothering a groan, Lora knew it was unlikely that she would ever forget this mad lurching of her heart whenever she looked at him.

She flattened her palms against her dress and watched the duke accept congratulations from those in his vicinity while Samuel stalked up to the house, casting worrisome glances at the woods.

“Don’t look now.” Lora tore her gaze away from Samuel, reservations about his behavior sinking into the pit of her belly.

Why was he so on edge, so desperate to win a bet?

“His Grace is heading this way,” Eliza whispered, her warning too persuasive to ignore.

“I wonder what he will say to you, now that he has won a kiss. Do you suppose he plans to collect his prize?”

“I do not know.” Rather, she wasn’t sure she wanted to know. It was all so scandalous and stimulating and seductive. A delightful shiver ran through her, warring with her anxiety.

“I have seen the way you look at each other. And do not tell me you feel nothing for him.”

“I feel—” Though she was delighted to see her father finally show interest in living again, she was angry at Samuel. He’d humiliated her, mocked her. And the duke . . . he . . .

“You have done nothing wrong, sweet friend. You are above reproach.”

But that wasn’t true. She hunted down men and made them pay for their crimes. “I wish Nicholas was here. He’d tell me—” She stopped short in dismay. “Why can’t things be different?”

“Because they aren’t.”

Eliza had a pure heart and, therefore, couldn’t possibly understand the dilemma Lora faced. “I am in imminent danger,” she said fearful of what the future had in store. “I feel it deep in my bones.”

“No,” Eliza said, “you are saved.”

If only that were true. “Am I?”

“Yes. And now I must venture indoors before I’m christened like a baker. Heaven knows I have enough freckles already. Besides, it’s time to face the duke.”

“Don’t go.” She hung on until their hands nearly parted, forcing Eliza to stay.

The duke arrived, his eyes brimming with tenderness and passion, stealing her breath. “My apologies for entertaining that bet, ladies. I had no choice but to defend Lady Lora’s honor.”

She found her tongue. “I do not need a protector, Your Grace.”

“Except that isn’t so. Is it?”

She and Eliza exchanged glances, Eliza’s eyes imploring her to go along with everything she said. “Your Grace, please allow me to applaud your archery skills. They make my paltry attempts to use a bow pale in comparison.”

“No one becomes a proficient without practice, Lady Eliza.”

“Thank you for saying so, but that is the problem. I cannot practice while I am at Winterbourne because Lora doesn’t know how to hold a bow.”

“Eliza.” She blinked back surprise. Why was her friend acting out of character? It benefited no one, especially Lora. If the duke discovered her proficiency with the weapon, he might be led to suspect she was the highwaywoman he'd seen in the woods.

“You see? She’s too humble by half. May I prevail upon you to give her a lesson or two? A bit of practice would put us on more equal footing.”

Beresford bowed. “I would be honored.”

“You see, Lora, we are saved.”

“Would you like a lesson today, Lady Lora?” he asked with a faint glint of humor in his eyes. “I am at my leisure.”

Eliza put her hand to her forehead, nearly unsettling her bonnet. “Oh, yes, the sooner, the better. But you must excuse me, I am quite famished. Sport kicks up quite the appetite, does it not?”

Lora shot her a warning glare.

“Enjoy your lesson. I shall be over there, chaperoning by the refreshment table. I am quite certain that Lora will be the goddess of the hunt in no time at all.”

Some of Lora’s frustration evaporated. “Eliza.”

“Allow me.” Beresford offered his hand. The charge of unbidden energy that shot through her extremities at the contact as he led her to the bow stand, proved this was a bad idea.

Once there, he began removing the glove on her right hand, one delicious finger at a time.

Her knees weakened, her pulse quickening.

He replaced the glove with the wrist guard and began lacing it with slow, infuriating skill.

Then, he plucked a bow from the table and stepped behind her, lowering the circumference of it over her head.

Heat flushed over her as he whispered close to her ear.

“This puts me in mind of Cruikshank’s Comic Alphabet. ”

“A is the archer who shot at a frog,” she found herself saying.

“You know it?” he asked, placing her fingers on the string one at a time.

“Much can be said of intellectual sport, but there is nothing like having this kind of power in one’s hands.

” How right he was. “It is invigorating. And once a person accepts that power, it flows vicariously through the fingers to the arrow and on to the target. A silky, smooth transition spent on a breath.” He eased back her arm, leveling her hand with her cheek.

He adjusted her footing and placed his hands on her waist, turning her body toward the target and melting every inhibition she’d been born with.

“A line.” He flattened his fingers down the length of her left arm, reviving every inch of her until she closed her eyes envisioning their bodies intertwined. “Release.”

She leaned into him and turned her head toward his heat, their lips a hairsbreadth apart. Their eyes met for an instant.

“Nock the arrow.”

“How?” she asked breathlessly, embracing the theater. “Show me.”

The duke cleared his throat and then stiffened suddenly, releasing her arm.

Before she knew what had occurred, the bow stand bridged the space between them.

“That is enough for today.” His gravely tone sounded as if he was in pain, but she had no idea how that could be.

He was fine a moment ago. “If you like, we can pick up where we left off tomorrow.”

Perplexed, she asked, “Have I done something wrong?”

“No.” He shook his head. “Please, excuse me. I just recalled something that requires my immediate attention.”

Beresford turned his back and walked away, leaving her staring in his wake.

“Good heavens!” Eliza exclaimed, hurrying to her side. “From where I stood, that was quite entertaining. But what did you say to him? What could have possibly caused an end to your lesson before it began?”

“I hardly know.”

Had she given herself away? Did the duke suspect she was the highwaywoman from the woods?