He also looked at her differently, as though he had slept no better than she had, and as though some decision had been made in him, and it frightened him only because he meant to keep it.
Her stomach turned over.
“If Captain Greaves insists upon more science in the matter,” Jasper said, his gaze still lingering upon her a shade too long, “let us each take another turn and allow the targets to speak for themselves. Captain, I believe you are first.”
With a huff, the dragoon captain accepted the challenge and stepped to the mark. He produced two middling shots and one that nicked the edge of the bull. It was a respectable showing, but not close to victory.
Jasper took the pistol next. He did not hurry, nor boast. He simply sighted, fired—and struck within an inch of centre. The second shot landed beside it. The third formed a neat littlecluster. The onlookers murmured in approval, though no one gasped as they had for Lottie. Men shooting well was expected.
“Excellent grouping, Deverell,” observed the duke gravely.
Jasper lowered his pistol and offered a small bow. “I thank you. Though I cannot pretend to rival Miss Tolliver’s performance. Hers was artistry.”
Lottie’s eyes narrowed. What was he about, complimenting her in public? It was bold of him, to say the least. Worse, it was kind.
She waited her turn before she took the pistol back from the footman. She fired, and the ball struck the centre so neatly that it might have been drawn there by appointment.
Captain Greaves made a strangled sound. “This is absurd. There must be some irregularity.”
“Oh, undoubtedly,” said Jasper. “It is terribly irregular for a lady to be better at something.”
“It seems the contest now rests between Mr Deverell and Miss Tolliver,” said the duke. “Both have struck cleanly. A tie, if you will.”
Jasper inclined his head toward her, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Shall we settle the matter, Miss Tolliver?”
Lottie’s heart gave a small leap, though she raised her chin as though the suggestion bored her. “Naturally. I could not bear to be accused of victory without challenge.”
The duke’s voice carried across the lawn. “Miss Tolliver shall fire first.”
A rustle of anticipation swept the little crowd. Lottie stepped forward, pistol in hand. Her mother gave a strangled cry into her fan; her father murmured, “That’s my girl,” as though she were about to hop a hedge on horseback.
Lottie raised her chin, sighted, and pulled the trigger.
Crack! Dead centre.
The second shot—another clean bull.
By the third, her pulse was singing. She fired, steady and sure. The ball struck so near the others that the target looked, once more, to bear a single dark hole. The captain of dragoons swore under his breath.
Lord Tolliver clapped as though at a circus performance. “Ha! There it is! Three for three! Not a miss! Did I not always say she’d beat the lot of you?”
Jasper stepped forward to take his turn, calm as ever. He bowed his head slightly to Lottie before raising the pistol. “Well, Miss Tolliver, it appears you have set me a standard.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. Did she imagine that gleam in his expression?
His first ball struck clean in the centre, to a murmur of approval, and his second, likewise, was dead true. Jasper lifted the third pistol, sighted the target, and, with the smallest twitch of his wrist, sent the ball sailing wide. It struck the grass a full yard from the board.
Jasper’s gaze caught hers as he inclined his head. “Congratulations are in order, Miss Tolliver. Never have I seen a steadier hand… nor a lovelier victor.”
“Thank you, Mr Deverell,” she said sweetly. “And I thank you, gentlemen. The victory is most gratifying.”
Indeed, the victory was not gratifying at all, for Lottie had seen Jasper’s hand move. The coward.
Jasper Deverell had thrown it. Her glorious, perfect, undeniable victory had been marred by gallantry. He had robbed her of the clean satisfaction of besting him! The thought made her want to shoot him somewhere tender.
She curtsied for the crowd, all serene elegance, while plotting precisely how she would ruin him; for a win is never so galling as when gifted instead of earned.
Still, Charlotte was a Tolliver through and through, and a Tolliver never wasted an advantage. Poor Mr Deverell—he hadthrown away the match, and in doing so, delivered himself straight into Charlotte’s keeping, for the next forfeit belonged to her.
