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Amelia narrowed her eyes and watched how he held the weapon and drew it up to aim. He did seem to know what he was doing. “Perhaps, but that doesn’t mean he has good aim.”
Silence stretched between them as they watched Lowenbrock let loose an arrow. It landed just a small distance from the center of the ring, but it wasn’t closest to the mark. “You think he’s trying to ensure he doesn’t win?”
“It’s possible. There’s a cash prize for the winner, and he strikes me as the type of man who wouldn’t allow his competitive streak to keep money from a family in need.”
Amelia watched as Lowenbrock’s rival puffed up with pride and took his place for the next round. She suspected the steward was correct. The marquess wouldn’t want to make it too obvious though.
“Given the fact that the crops aren’t thriving this year, the marquess has come to a unique understanding about the rents.”
Amelia faced the man. “He hasn’t said anything to me about it. Should you be sharing this information?”
Mr. Jeffers didn’t take his gaze from the marquess when he replied. “It isn’t a secret. Everyone knows.”
Curiosity overcame her. “They’d hate accepting charity.” She crossed her arms and waited for him to divulge the information he so clearly wanted to.
“Yes, His Lordship came to that realization himself. Which is why he met with each family individually. He explained that there were others in need of assistance but who wouldn’t want to accept charity. He told them that he plans to keep this year’s rents in a separate fund for those whose crops fail to produce as expected.”
Amelia shook in wonder. So many would not be so kind. “And if few can contribute to that fund?” But she already knew what the answer would be.
“He’ll be financing it himself, of course, to ensure none go without this winter.” Mr. Jeffers faced her then. “He’s a good man. If your uncle were still alive, he’d be happy to see a match between you.”
Amelia looked away, embarrassed by the observation. First Mr. Markham and now Mr. Jeffers was suggesting there should be a match between her and Lowenbrock.
“Yes, well, I imagine every eligible female in the region will feel the same way. And when he meets some of them at the ball, he likely won’t even remember my name.”
The look he gave her was enigmatic at best. But when his gaze drifted to the side, he broke into the widest grin she’d ever seen from the man. She hadn’t known he was capable of expressing so much emotion.
Amelia followed his gaze and wasn’t surprised to see his wife approaching. Mrs. Jeffers looked very pretty that morning, tendrils of her light brown hair curling about her face. She was wearing a white cloak that made her look almost like an angel. It was no secret that the steward was truly besotted by his wife, and Amelia had come to learn that the woman felt the same way about her husband.
She was carrying a wrapped package. When Mr. Jeffers reached out to take it from her, she shifted to the side and gave her head a firm shake.
“You won’t discover what I bought that easily. You’ll have to wait until your birthday.”
Mr. Jeffers raised one brow, which had the result of causing his wife to huff out a small breath.
“Take note, Miss Weston, that husbands are often like little boys. Don’t be surprised if yours goes searching through the house to find out what you got him for his birthday.”
Mr. Jeffers chuckled. “My wife exaggerates. It isn’t my fault she leaves her packages lying about for anyone to find.”
Amelia laughed at the light banter between the two. They bid her goodbye, and she watched as they walked away. Despite her protestations, Mrs. Jeffers allowed her husband to take the package she’d been carrying and took his arm. She leaned into him as they strolled toward a table where some sweetmeats were laid out.
The way they smiled at each other caused a pang within Amelia’s heart. She wanted what they had for herself, but she’d have to be content to write about it instead.
Her gaze drifted back to Lowenbrock. She’d missed the end of the contest. He murmured something to the man with whom he’d been competing. From the way he clapped the other man on the back, it was clear Lowenbrock hadn’t won. She wouldn’t be surprised to learn the steward had been correct in his assessment of the marquess’s abilities with a bow.
When his gaze met hers across the field, he smiled and headed toward her. A small zing of anticipation unfurled in Amelia’s belly, one she tried her best to ignore. They were friends, nothing more. It was normal to be happy to see one’s friends.
She ignored the little voice that reminded her she’d never felt this way about anyone else.
Lowenbrock’s step faltered, and he turned to greet a woman who had placed a hand on his arm. A woman whose attire revealed far too much flesh given the weather. The petite woman fluttered her lashes at Lowenbrock and leaned forward slightly so he wouldn’t be able to avoid seeing right down the front of her dress.
She must have been a new resident of the village, or perhaps a visitor from farther away, because Amelia didn’t recognize her. As she watched the marquess smile down at the woman, Amelia was powerless to stop the anger that swept through her.
She tore her gaze from them and spun around to look at something—anything—else. Her gaze settled on a little girl who was trying to drag her mother toward one of the games that had been set up. With a sigh, the woman gave in and allowed her daughter to lead her in that direction.
Normally the sight would have brought a smile to Amelia’s face, but she couldn’t forget the way Lowenbrock had smiled down at that woman. And the way she’d leaned in just a little too close in response.
Amelia had been wrong to think she could only be friends with this man. From the moment he’d rescued her in London, she’d done everything in her power to deny her attraction to him. She’d tried to convince herself that her fascination with everything he did and the way he looked, so effortlessly handsome, was only her desire to study him so she could base her hero on him. Lowenbrock and the hero of her book had diverged at some point because it had felt more than a little uncomfortable to continue to base her hero on the man with whom she lived so closely. But her fascination with him hadn’t waned. Quite the contrary, it had only grown with each passing day.
