The memory heated her blood so quickly, so thoroughly, that she felt as if she were burning from the inside out. She barely caught herself before she began to fan her face.
As she joined the other ladies for tea, she could only think about getting Ian back into her arms.
Unfortunately, Ian excused himself from supper that evening. He sent his regrets down from his rooms, indicating that his work had suffered too much already this week. Juliette might have been concerned that she’d done something wrong—that she’d misstepped when she’d pulled him into the unoccupied second-floor room and into one of the most erotic, compromising situations she’d never dared to imagine—had she not received a separate note from him. At first, it made no sense, but it gradually became apparent that it was a code. In his absence, Ian had presented a new challenge to her in the form of a lengthy note written in lines of alternating languages.
The first line was in French, the second was incomprehensible to her. The third line was in Italian, and the fourth was again, unreadable—wait. She knew that word. Chridhe.It was the Gaelic word for “heart.” She recognized it from the children’s book Ian had gifted to her. And he’d used that word the last time they’d been together; “mo chridhe,” he’d said.My heart.And there, just above that word in the third line was the Italian word for heart,cuore. All at once, she realized what Ian had done. He’d written her a note in simple code, using a combination of languages he knew she could speak and read. Beneath each line of that text was a corresponding translation of that phrase into Gaelic. He had given her a linguistic challenge to further her education, just as he’d promised. He was a man of his word who knew just how to tantalize her thirst for knowledge.
She admired the graceful combination of foreign letter combinations and strange little accent marks. And her heart tripped and fell so hard that she knew it would never recover.
∞∞∞
A playful archery tournament was scheduled for the following day. Though she’d stayed up quite late working on her translation of Ian’s note, Juliette looked forward to the day’s event. The prize was more symbolic than an actual trophy: All the guests had raved about Cookie’s rich chocolate tart, so Juliette had asked her to whip up another to go to the winner of their competition.
“Each competitor will have three arrows, one shot from each distance marker. The most consistent archer will win our delicious prize.” A few men made appreciative murmurs in response to Juliette’s announcement.
“When you say consistent, does that also mean the archer who misses every shot could potentially win the competition?” asked Lady Morton cheekily. “Missing all three shots is still technically consistent.” Everyone chuckled, even Juliette.
“How about the archer with the most arrows closest to the center will be crowned our winner?” Juliette capitulated.
“Yes, winner of the best chocolate tart this side of the Channel!” one of the men shouted cheerfully, earning a round of approving cheers and applause.
Juliette and Ethan handed the equipment to the first archer, Lady Morton. For all her joking, she turned out to be a decent archer. Her arrows all hit the target and came within a hand’s length of the center.
Miss Finchley’s arrows flew less true. The first two landed shy of the hay-backed target, but the third struck the top of the target.
Lady Sommerfeld performed admirably, likely spurred on by the competitive streak she shared with her husband. Their quips in between shots provided much laughter and entertainment for the party.
Juliette was the final lady to have her turn, and Ian knew with sudden shocking intensity that he was in trouble. She held her back and forearm as straight as a pagan goddess, her chest thrust out and hips in perfect alignment. The arrow was nocked and she stood in that pose with unwavering confidence until the arrow was loosed and flew with a zing to within an inch of the target’s heart.
“Brava!” the Duchess of Morton clapped excitedly; the rest of the guests quickly followed suit.
“Your sister is an impressive shot,” Lord Leighton remarked appreciatively. Ian did not care for the appraisal in that tone. In even the short time of their acquaintance, Ian had learned the man never used it unless he was inspecting a particularly interesting insect. His fists clenched at his side, his teeth grinding until they squeaked beneath the pressure.
“She’s a touch out of practice,” the earl explained, watching while his sister prepared her next arrow. “But she is rather good. It was one of the few activities in which she had lessons.” The next arrow landed even closer to the center than the first.
“Quite good. And her form is lovely,” interjected another of the guests…Baron Something-Or-Other. Ian had not bothered to commit the man’s name to memory since the baron had demonstrated even less interest in getting to know Ian. Now, Ian was glad of it, because it would make killing the man all that much easier.
Juliette’s last arrow struck home and it was quickly followed by enthusiastic applause. Juliette strode over to the earl and poked him in the chest. “Prepare to lose, just like when we were children.”
“Hardly,” Hopesend laughed in reply before striding over with the larger bow and setting up for his turn.
Juliette stopped at Ian’s side under the pretense of watching her brother. She stood with her arms crossed and it took everything in Ian to not look down and appreciate the swells of flesh above the neckline of her emerald green gown, especially now that he knew how that flesh tasted.
“I’d no idea what a markswoman you were,” Ian murmured, never taking his eyes off the earl.
“I thought it might be a deterrent if you discovered I could find a hare’s eye from across a field.”
“Can you?”
He loved the way her lips curled. “In theory. I’ve hit such a target, but I never had the stomach for actual hunting—not that I would have been allowed to anyway.”
He and Juliette joined in the polite congratulations when the earl completed his turn and passed the bow along to Leighton.
“My father taught me to hunt when I was a lad,” he said in a low tone.
“With a bow?”
Ian shook his head. “A slingshot.”
