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“A wise lady would seek out her fiancé’s company, of course,” Melisande murmured.
Jasper was part of the shooting party, naturally. He loved anything to do with physical exertion. Unlike Samuel, though, he was in constant movement—one moment crouching on the ground for some reason, the next bounding up to the footmen to help with straightening the targets. For a moment, Emeline remembered what Samuel had said about Jasper: that he fought as if he’d had no fear. That was certainly not the man she knew. But then again, maybe a woman never really knew the men in her life.
Emeline shook her head. None of that mattered. “This has nothing to do with Jasper. You know that.”
“You do have an understanding with him,” her friend reminded her neutrally.
“An understanding, yes. That’s exactly what it is. Jasper’s heart is not involved.”
“Isn’t it?” Melisande glanced at her toes, pursing her lips. “I think he has a certain fondness for you.”
“He sees me as a sister.”
“That can be the basis for a loving union—”
“He has other women.”
Melisande didn’t say anything, and Emeline wondered if she’d shocked her friend. It was to be expected that an aristocratic gentleman would have affairs, both before and after a marriage, but it was considered gauche to speak of such things aloud.
“You had no quarrel with that before,” Melisande said. The gentlemen were beginning to order themselves as to who would shoot first. “Come, let us go watch the target shooting.”
They strolled toward the shooters.
“I still have no quarrel with Jasper’s feelings for me,” Emeline said low. “In fact, I believe a kind regard toward one’s spouse is for the best in marriage. Far better than desperate passion.”
She felt Melisande’s sharp glance, but her friend did not comment. They had neared the group of gentlemen shooters now. The Duke of Lister stepped forward and made a show of preparing to shoot. No doubt he’d been given the first shot as a badge of his rank.
“Nasty man,” Melisande muttered.
Emeline raised her eyebrows. “The duke?”
“Mmm. He drags his mistress about like a little dog on a chain.”
“She doesn’t seem to mind.” Emeline glanced at Mrs. Fitzwilliam again. She was shielding her eyes to watch the shot, her golden hair glinting in the sunshine. She appeared perfectly relaxed.
“She can’t show any vexation, can she, if she’s to keep her position?” Melisande frowned at her, and Emeline suddenly felt rather dim-witted. “But all the same, it must be wretched. None of the ladies will talk to her and yet he is perfectly respectable.”
The duke raised the gun to his shoulder.
Melisande covered her ears with her hands as he fired, and she winced when the sound of the shot echoed off Hasselthorpe House. “Why do guns have to be so loud?”
“So that we ladies can be duly impressed, I expect,” Emeline said absently.
A footman advanced ceremonially toward the target and painted a black circle around the bullet hole so that all could see where it had hit. Lister’s shot was near the edge of the target. He scowled, but the watching ladies clapped enthusiastically. Mrs. Fitzwilliams started forward as if to congratulate her protector, but the man didn’t notice her and turned away to talk loudly with Lord Hasselthorpe. Emeline watched as the woman halted uncertainly before smiling and strolling back to the edge of the lake. Melisande was right. Obviously it wasn’t an easy job being a mistress.
“Don’t the gentlemen look manly!” Lady Hasselthorpe fluttered toward them. Today their hostess was dressed in pink-dotted dimity over wide panniers. Many pink and green ribbons decorated her elaborately draped skirts, and she held a white shepherd’s crook in one hand. Apparently she fancied herself a rustic shepherdess, although Emeline doubted many shepherdesses wore panniers whilst tending sheep. “I do so love to watch the gentlemen show off their prowess.”
She was interrupted by another loud bang!
Melisande started at the sound. “Lovely,” she said with a strained smile.
“Oh, and Mr. Hartley is next with his odd gun.” Lady Hasselthorpe squinted toward the gentlemen—she was notoriously nearsighted but refused to wear spectacles. “Do you think it will fire properly with such a long barrel? Perhaps it will explode. That would be most exciting!”
“Quite,” Emeline said.
Samuel stepped up to the mark and stood for a moment simply looking at the target. Emeline frowned, wondering what he was doing. Then, almost faster than her eye could follow, he lifted the rifle to his shoulder, aimed, and fired.
There was a stunned silence from his audience. The footman with the paintbrush started toward the target. Samuel had already turned aside even as everyone else waited to see where the ball had hit. Solemnly, the footman painted a black circle at the very center of the target.
