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“Oh.” She frowned. There ought to be some sort of prescribed statement for such a situation. What did one say when a gentleman confessed to a shortcoming? She couldn’t recall ever hearing one do so before, but surely, sometime in the course of history, some gentleman had. And someone would have had to make a reply.
She blinked, waiting for something meaningful to come to mind. Nothing did.
And then—
“Hermione can’t dance.” It just popped out of her mouth, with no direction whatsoever from her head.
Good gracious, that was meant to be meaningful?
He stopped, turning to her with a curious expression. Or maybe it was more that he was startled. Probably both. And he said the only thing she imagined one could say under the circumstances:
“I beg your pardon?”
Lucy repeated it, since she couldn’t take it back. “She can’t dance. That’s why she won’t dance. Because she can’t.”
And then she waited for a hole to open up in the ground so that she could jump into it. It didn’t help that he was presently staring at her as if she were slightly deranged.
She managed a feeble smile, which was all that filled the impossibly long moment until he finally said, “There must be a reason you are telling this to me.”
Lucy let out a nervous exhale. He didn’t sound angry—more curious than anything else. And she hadn’t meant to insult Hermione. But when he said he couldn’t shoot, it just seemed to make an odd sort of sense to tell him that Hermione couldn’t dance. It fit, really. Men were supposed to shoot, and women were supposed to dance, and trusty best friends were supposed to keep their foolish mouths shut.
Clearly, all three of them needed a bit of instruction.
“I thought to make you feel better,” Lucy finally said. “Because you can’t shoot.”
“Oh, I can shoot,” he said. “That’s the easy part. I just can’t aim.”
Lucy grinned. She couldn’t help herself. “I could show you.”
His head swung around. “Oh, gad. Don’t tell me you know how to shoot.”
She perked up. “Quite well, actually.”
He shook his head. “The day only needed this.”
“It’s an admirable skill,” she protested.
“I’m sure it is, but I’ve already four females in my life who can best me. The last thing I need is—oh, gad again, please don’t say Miss Watson is a crack shot as well.”
Lucy blinked. “Do you know, I’m not sure.”
“Well, there is still hope there, then.”
“Isn’t that peculiar?” she murmured.
He gave her a deadpan look. “That I have hope?”
“No, that—” She couldn’t say it. Good heavens, it sounded silly even to her.
“Ah, then you must think it peculiar that you don’t know whether Miss Watson can shoot.”
And there it was. He guessed it, anyway. “Yes,” she admitted. “But then again, why would I? Marksmanship wasn’t a part of the curriculum at Miss Moss’s.”
“To the great relief of gentlemen everywhere, I assure you.” He gave her a lopsided smile. “Who did teach you?”
“My father,” she said, and it was strange, because her lips parted before she answered. For a moment she thought she’d been surprised by the question, but it hadn’t been that.
She’d been surprised by her answer.
