Gideon shook his head faintly.
“No.” His voice gentled just slightly. “I am reminding you of the things you already know.”
“And if I miss?”
“You will not.”
His certainty was infuriating and reassuring at the same time.
She glanced sideways at him. “You are remarkably confident.”
“I’ve seen you shoot.”
That simple answer… It was exactly what she needed.
More contestants stepped forward one by one, bows rising, strings snapping as arrows flew toward the distant targets. And as she watched, Beatrice felt waves of strange anticipation rise and fall within her—little bursts of nervous energy followed by something steadier.
Perhaps it was simply the rhythm of the competition.
Or perhaps it was having Gideon beside her.
“Next up: Baron Hawkins.”
He stepped forward, and his absence was unexpectedly noticeable—like stepping out of sunlight into the shade. Beatrice drew a small breath, annoyed with herself for noticing at all.
But then Gideon glanced back over his shoulder.
And winked.
Then he strode toward the shooting line and, not in any hurry, removed his jacket. It was not the first time she had seen him in shirtsleeves. Of course, he’d done the same for their practice sessions in the ballroom.
And yet?—
Out here, among a dozen other gentlemen who had done the same, the comparison proved… illuminating.
Gideon’s shoulders were broad—perhaps not quite so massive as Lord Longstaffe’s, but nearly—and he carried himself with an ease the others lacked.
He rolled his sleeves once. Then again. Beatrice couldn’t help but study his forearms.
Pale, with the perfect dusting of hairs. And his hands…
Elegant, certainly. But also strong. Capable.
Beatrice licked her lips, but then jerked her attention to his bow as Gideon took his stance at the line.
The lawn quieted slightly.
His form was perfect—feet planted, one shoulder angled toward the target. Nothing forced. Nothing hurried.
When he nocked the arrow, Beatrice inhaled. Then Gideon drew the bowstring back…
For a moment everything seemed to narrow to that single line of tension—the bow, the arrow, Gideon’s steady posture.
The string snapped softly, and Beatrice’s breath left her as the arrow struck the target with a solid thunk.
Not even an inch off-center.
A murmur of approval drifted through the crowd.
