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Striding forward, he found himself hoping that the viscount might at least have spied Sheldrake. Hell, who was he kidding? That self-absorbed loon probably hadn't noticed a bloody thing. No doubt he was too caught up praising himself over his incomparable aim.
At that moment, he spied Crompton, standing in a clearing and reloading his pistol, his stance every bit as arrogant as he.
George approached quietly, coming up behind the viscount as he raised his head and surveyed a line of trees.
"Do you see that cluster of oaks over there?" Crompton inquired conversationally, never turning around. He smoothed his gloves more snugly into place, then gripped the handle of the pistol and raised it. "I'd judge them to be about a hundred feet away. See that center oak—the short one that's dwarfed by the others? There's a good-sized knot about halfway down. You can see it if you look closely. I'm going to hit that knot directly in the center." So saying, he aimed and fired, striking the knot dead-center.
"Excellent," George commended, wondering if Crompton was talking to himself or if he actually knew someone was behind him, given that he'd yet to look. And, once he realized he had company, did he plan on launching into an endless lecture on the fine art of marksmanship; or worse, recounting long-winded stories of his years in the infantry, fighting the French, the Americans, and whoever the hell else he'd fought?
"Thank you." The viscount turned, his lean, tanned face relaxing into a smile. "Ah, Medford. I thought you might show up, acting as a good host and checking to see if I'm enjoying myself. Well, I am. And I must say, it's nice to have an appreciative audience." He sighed, waving his arm, presumably in the direction of the gentlemen who were out hunting. "I grew tired of shooting pheasants with amateurs. Anyone can strike a fat, slow-moving bird. It's mastering difficult targets that makes one feel truly accomplished."
George was in no mood for small talk, and less in the mood for Crompton's eccentric babbling. "I'm sure that's true. Actually, I can't stay and join you, much as I'd like to. I need to find Sheldrake. You haven't seen him, have you?"
"As a matter of fact, I have." Crompton flexed his shoulder, relaxing his lanky but well-muscled build for a moment. Despite the fact that youth had long since passed him by, extensive military training had left him as fit as a man twenty years his junior. "Sheldrake stopped by here a short while ago, said he was taking a walk." A knowing gleam. "And this time he was actually alone—not with that beautiful niece of yours."
A knot formed in George's stomach. "Why would you comment on that?"
"Oh, come now. Surely you saw the amount of time Sheldrake spent dancing with Anastasia last night. And they went riding early this morning. I saw them on their way back. They were laughing and joking like old friends. At first I thought it might be Breanna—I've heard rumors that you were encouraging a match between those two. But then I overheard snippets of their chatter: financing, business endeavors, and the like. Not to mention the woman's less clipped articulation. And I realized it was Anastasia."
In one smooth motion, Crompton reloaded his weapon. "Maybe she managed to convince Sheldrake to invest in that bank of hers. She certainly tried to convince me." A definite shake of his head. "But I have other ideas for how to increase my assets—ideas that can be furthered right here in England. And once those assets are mine, I'll deposit them in the bank of the very man you're looking for. He went in that direction, by the way." Crompton pointed toward the gardens on the south side of the estate. "He's a shrewd man, that Sheldrake. Smart as a whip."
"I agree." George was already walking. "That's why I need to find him. I'll catch up with you later, Crompton."
"Fine." The viscount adjusted his gloves, raised his pistol, and resumed his target practice.
* * *
Unaware he was being discussed, Damen continued along the path that led through the southern gardens.
Hands clasped behind his back, he was lost in thought, scarcely noticing the colorful array of flowers at his feet.
His rule about never allowing anyone to surprise him more than once had long since fallen by the wayside. And the person responsible was the same person he couldn't seem to get out of his mind—not for a minute, not since she'd first confronted him in Fenshaw's office, fire burning in those beautiful jade-green eyes as she'd battled her resentment over finding out that he'd been appointed her financial administrator.
Anastasia.
Damen paused, staring out across the manicured lawns beyond the garden, marveling at the unprecedented effect this one woman had on him. While he was definitely a man of passionate views and commitments—and an equally passionate sense of adventure—he was not a man given to sentiment, nor was he particularly romantic in nature. He enjoyed women, their company and their charms, as they enjoyed his. But as for anything deeper, more significant—no woman had ever inspired that sort of response from him.
Then again, Anastasia was nothing like any other woman he'd ever known.
She was beautiful, yes, but her beauty was just the outermost layer of something far more compelling. It was like the sugar drizzled over a tantalizing confection: initially, it lured you over, made you want a taste. And yet, having sampled one, you suddenly realized that the icing was but the finishing touch on a cake that was distinctively luscious unto itself.
God, he was thinking like either a starving man or a romantic. And since he'd already eaten, that left the latter alternative.
So m
uch for his lack of sentiment.
Damen stopped, leaning against a tree and contemplating the facts, if not the emotions, of the situation, with the careful deliberation he applied to investment matters.
Anastasia was drawn to him. She was too open to hide that. She was also enthralled by his knowledge, his contacts, and his influence in the financial community. She enjoyed his company, whether on the dance floor or on horseback, and she especially enjoyed matching wits with him, a fact that kept both their conversations and their arguments vibrant and interesting.
He, for his part, was fascinated by her quick mind, her untainted spirit, and her determination to overcome impossible odds—namely, becoming a successful business-woman in a world dominated by men. He was impressed as hell by her intelligence and insight; it had been her absolute belief in their banking venture that had provoked him into doing additional research and, ultimately, into reversing his decision.
On a more intimate level, he was aroused by her boldness and her fire—aroused, he reminded himself ruefully, to the point of behaving like a rash schoolboy. Bad enough that he'd overstepped his bounds with last night's kiss. This morning, he'd all but devoured her—and that was nothing compared to what he'd wanted to do.
She hadn't pulled away, he reminded himself. Quite the opposite, in fact. She'd come alive in his arms, responded to his kiss—no, shared his kiss—with an intensity that had nearly brought him to his knees. And the bewilderment he'd seen in her eyes afterward: awe and pleasure combined with reluctance at having to stop, that only served to heighten the already unbearable ache in his loins.
He'd known her less than a fortnight, yet he wanted her to the point of distraction. He wanted her ardor, her innocence, the wealth of untapped passion he yearned to ignite, then go up in smoke with.
