“True,” she said sweetly, “and yet, here you are, keeping up with me for fear you cannot match either.”
That earned her a sharp glance, his jaw working, and she bit back a smile. His worry was genuine. She could see it in the furrow of his brow, the taut line of his shoulders, but teasing him felt deliciously wicked.
The beat of wings startled the group, and several riders lifted their rifles at once. Matilda steadied hers, her pulse quickening. Jasper leaned closer, his voice low enough for her alone.
“Steady. Don’t rush it.”
She didn’t dare look at him, not with her aim fixed. “You’ll see soon enough, Your Grace. I’ve no intention of missing.”
He gave a low huff of laughter. “Prove it, then.”
But the pheasant dropped before she could take her shot, the hounds baying as they dashed forward.
“Lord Whitcombe’s bird!” the keeper called, his sharp voice ringing over the field.
A cheer went up as Whitcombe tipped his hat, grinning broadly. Matilda lowered her rifle, heat rushing to her cheeks not from shame, but from the sharp sting of disappointment. She had beenso close.
Beside her, Jasper’s stallion shifted, the duke’s gaze heavy on her. “Steady,” he murmured low, as if sensing her frustration. “It wasn’t yours.”
She snapped her head toward him, eyes flashing. “I know very well whose bird it was, thank you. I needed no reminder.”
His lips curved, infuriatingly amused. “Forgive me. I thought perhaps you needed the comfort.”
She narrowed her eyes, tilting her chin. “Comfort is for the faint-hearted. I daresay the next one will be mine. Try to keep up, Your Grace.”
His jaw flexed, but his smile lingered. “Careful, my lady. Pride goes before the miss.”
She smirked, raising her rifle again as the company prepared for the next round. “Then pray I don’t miss, or you’ll never hear the end of it.”
The men around them chuckled, some impressed, some incredulous at her spirit, but none dared speak against her. And though her heart still beat fast with the sting of failure, Matilda felt the thrill of daring course through her veins.
The hunt pressed on. Shots rang out one after another, echoing across the field as pheasants burst skyward in frantic bursts of feathers. Lord Whitcombe bagged another, earning boisterous congratulations, while Mason fired and missed to a chorus of friendly jeers. Evelyn and Hazel kept their pace steady, content to ride at the edges, observing the spectacle with composure.
Matilda, however, kept her rifle ready. Her pulse thudded in her ears each time the wings beat overhead, each time someone else’s shot claimed the prize. She ignored Jasper’s watchful presence beside her, ignored the sidelong glances cast her way. She would not miss again.
Then came her chance.
A pheasant broke from the hedgerow, darting upward with a frantic screech. Matilda lifted her rifle, breath steady, the world narrowing to the bird’s path. The trigger gave beneath her finger?—
A crack split the air.
The pheasant dropped, tumbling into the field. The keeper’s sharp nod confirmed what she already knew.
“Lady Sterlington’s bird!”
For a heartbeat, silence. Then came the cheers, hearty and impressed, and even a few raised brows of genuine respect.
“Well done!” Mason called, grinning.
“True aim, indeed,” another gentleman admitted.
Matilda lowered her rifle, her cheeks flushed, exhilaration coursing through her veins. She had done it. It was not the first bird, no, but it was hers, nonetheless. And in the rules of the hunt, no one could question a clean shot.
Jasper rode closer, his stallion pacing her mare with ease. His blue eyes searched her face, his expression caught between exasperation and something far less guarded.
She arched a brow, her lips curving in a sly smile. “Well, Your Grace? Still think me reckless?”
His jaw tightened, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him, twitching upward. “I think,” he said slowly, “that I should keep a closer eye on you. Before you shame us all.”
