Gideon did not react, but simply drew another arrow.
The second shot landed even closer. And the third—dead center.
Beatrice exhaled slowly.
“Well,” she murmured under her breath. That was… not bad at all.
Gideon turned, and his gaze found her immediately.
“Well?” he asked.
“Longstaffe is champion, you say,” she accused.
“Yes.”
“Is that because you didn’t enter last year?”
She saw his answer in his not-so-innocent shrug.
Then he gestured toward the line. “Your turn, my lady.”
And Beatrice suddenly felt every pair of eyes shift toward her.
She took up her bow.
Stepped forward. And, relaxing her shoulders, Beatrice took her place on the line.
REVELING
The applause still echoed in Beatrice’s ears as she strolled toward a row of pale green willows, a glass of champagne balanced lightly in her hand and the medal at her throat hanging absurdly heavy from its deep blue ribbon.
Just beyond the trees, the Thames drifted lazily beneath their trailing branches.
Gideon matched his pace to hers.
She did not look back.
Instead, she lifted her glass of champagne, the cool stem damp against her fingers, and took a measured sip.
Second place had gone to Gideon, who had accepted the prize with easy indifference—a slender silver brooch shaped like an arrow and engraved with the date of Mrs. Shaw’s spring competition. He had turned it once between his fingers before tucking it into his waistcoat pocket, as though it were no more remarkable than a spare button.
Third place went to Lord Longstaffe. And as the viscount accepted his prize, he’d turned to Beatrice, lifted his hand, and flicked it near his forehead in a subtle military salute.
Forgiveness, or at least respect.
Beatrice had scarcely finished accepting her own award, surrounded by unfamiliar faces, before Gideon had taken her gently, but firmly, by the arm.
“Come,” he had murmured. And before anyone else could detain her, he steered her neatly away from the gathering crowd.
Behind them, the garden party had come fully alive—bright congratulations, rueful remarks from defeated gentlemen, and a quintet sending a lively little country tune across the lawn.
“How did you know?” she asked.
The moment she’d won, the attention had become… overwhelming. Compliments. Questions. A few elderly ladies asking where she had learned to shoot.
One very determined gentleman requesting that she demonstrate again.
“You were studying the lace on Mrs. Shaw’s parasol,” he said.
