Thwak. Thwak. Thwak. It was a comforting sound. Beatrice took a moment to watch while a folly of shots landed solidly, near the bullseye, but none of them hit center.
Thwak. That one did.
“Incidentally,” Gideon said, gesturing toward the far target and its shooter, “the reigning champion is Lord Longstaffe.”
Lord Longstaffe?
Beatrice followed the motion—and stilled.
Down the line, the viscount met her eyes and dipped his chin in polite acknowledgment. No censure. No amusement. Certainly no hint of grievance. And no bandage—only a dark, thin line at his jaw that spoke more of inconvenience than injury.
Thank heaven.
She offered a carefully apologetic smile and inclined her head.
“Wonderful,” she murmured to herself.
Gideon’s mouth curved, though there was something measured beneath it now. “You could look at it another way.”
“Oh?” she asked, arching a brow.
“A gentleman who has already proven himself disposed to generosity of spirit,” he said lightly. “Should you require it.”
Beatrice let out a soft breath through her nose. “I should rather not require it.”
“No,” Gideon agreed. “I did not think you would.”
That—more than anything—settled something in her.
Her gaze returned to the targets. To the clean, distant circles. To the quiet expectation of the line.
Last night had been… untidy.
This would not be.
“I might have preferred a warning,” she said, though without any real heat.
Gideon’s glance flicked toward her. “I would have provided it, if warning was required.”
Beatrice considered that.
Then, almost despite herself, her fingers itched—not with irritation this time, but anticipation.
“Perhaps,” she conceded, before turning back to the line. “Does it matter where I set up?”
“It doesn’t, but—” He was interrupted by a voice shouting from behind them.
“Hold, if you please! Archers collect their arrows. The first round begins in exactly five minutes.”
The master of ceremonies continued with a series of instructions before calling out the names of the first contestants. With a light nudge from Gideon, Beatrice stepped back from the shooting line.
The next few minutes passed in quiet preparation.
Beatrice slipped the bow from its leather case and ran her fingers along the polished curve of the wood, checking for the slightest irregularity out of habit rather than necessity. The string was secured with practiced ease, the tension settling into that familiar, perfect resistance she knew by feel alone.
From the arrow case she selected three shafts, examining each one quickly—the fletching smooth, the heads true, the weight balanced just as she preferred.
Around them, other archers stretched their shoulders and tested their grip. Beatrice did the same, pulling the bowstring to her cheek and holding it there. She exhaled.
