I can’t believe you know so little about firearms.”
“I can’t believe you know so much,” Devonmont countered. “Never seen a woman as keen on guns as you. It’s rather chilling.”
“Isn’t it, though?” Jackson put in. “Better watch it, Devonmont. Her ladyship is liable to shoot first and ask questions later if she finds you doing anything she doesn’t approve of.”
“I may just take your caution to heart, Pinter.” Devonmont winked at Celia. “Then again, some things are worth risking life and limb for.”
Celia looked startled, then cast Jackson a smug smile. With a snort, he drank more ale. Devonmont was really starting to irk him. They all were.
“So, Lord Devonmont,” Celia said, turning her back on Jackson, “would you like me to show you the difference between a percussion gun and a flintlock?”
“By all means,” Devonmont replied. “Though I can’t promise to remember any of it later, explain away.
Then he happened to glance at the viscount, and his blood stilled. The viscount’s eyes followed Celia’s every move, and his finger kept stroking his goblet as if he wanted to stroke some part of her.
Jackson gritted his teeth. No way in hell was he letting that bloody foreigner-or Devonmont, or even the duke-stroke anything of hers. “Are we going to stand around all day discussing which guns are more effective at killing,” he snapped, “or are we actually going to kill something?”
Gabe exchanged a glance with his sister. “You’re right. ‘Prickly’ is the word.”
“Mr. Pinter is probably just eager to earn his kiss,” Stoneville put in. “And given how the numbers stand right now, he may very well do so.”
They all pivoted to look at his lordship.
Stoneville chuckled. “Devonmont has killed a pathetic eight brace of birds, Gabe a respectable fifteen, Basto an impressive seventeen and a half, Lyons an even more impressive nineteen, and Pinter an astonishing twenty brace. My sister is tied with him at twenty brace.”
“Good show, Pinter!” Gabe said amiably. “You must beat her so none of us have to pay for a blasted rifle.”
“Here now, Gabe,” the duke cut in irritably, “I have as much chance of beating her as Pinter does. I’m only behind by one brace.”
“I don’t’ care who beats her,” Gabe said. “Just make sure one of you does, in case I can’t catch up. She’ll pick the most expensive gun in Manton’s shop.”
“You’re such a pinchpenny, Gabe,” Celia teased as they tramped back over the field, headed toward the east end of the estate.
“That’s because need every guinea I have, in case you don’t marry.”
The lord might have meant the comment as a joke, but clearly Celia didn’t take it that way. When the blood drained from her face, Jackson felt a stab of sympathy. He could understand why she wanted to show her family that she could find a decent husband. But decent was the operative word.
“Oh, I daresay Lady Celia will be married sooner than you think,” the duke remarked. When he slid a knowing glance at Celia and she smiled faintly, Jackson felt his heart drop.
The duke seriously had his eye on her. And apparently she knew it.
Confound it all.
As they stopped, Jackson began loading his gun with quick, efficient movements. That blasted duke could look all he wanted, but he was not marrying Celia.
Nor even getting another chance to kiss her. Not if Jackson had anything to say about it.
She should let one of the gentlemen with their little wager and steal a kiss. That would help her cause far more than beating them.
But what if Mr. Pinter won? What if he kissed her as he had last night? It would be just the sort of thing he’d do, to put off her suitors by making it appear she had an interest elsewhere. That perhaps he had an interest in her, too.
Perhaps he does.
She snorted. The only interest he had was in ruining her life. He still reported to her about her suitors. He would much rather be here, trying to upset all her plans, than doing his job.
He shot well, though. She’d give him that. The man knew his way around a firearm.
Perhaps we could practice together at Marsbury House sometime,” he said.
“I would enjoy that.” She ignored the niggle that said encouraging the duke’s suit was wrong when she wasn’t sure she wanted to marry him.
“Yes, Lady Celia always enjoys showing a man how to use his gun,” Mr. Pinter put in. “You couldn’t ask for a better tutor, Your Grace.”
When the duke stiffened understandably, she glared at Mr. Pinter. “His Grace needs no tutoring. He shoots quite well. And manages to remain civil at the same time, which is more than I can say for you, sir.”
Why was Mr. Pinter being so difficult? Bad enough that he’d goaded her into this competition-must he also make her suitors resent her? So far they’d taken her participation in this competition in stride, but if he kept provoking them…
Mr. Pinter scowled as they all halted to reload. “Civility is for you aristocrats.” His voice was sullen. “We mere mortals have no sense of it.”
“Then it’s a miracle anyone ever hires you to do anything,” she retorted. “Civility is the bedrock of a polite society, no matter what a man’s station.”
“I thought money was the bedrock,” eh countered. “Why else does your grandmother’s ultimatum have all of you dashing about trying to find spouses?”
It was a nasty thing to say and he knew it, for he cast her a belligerent look as soon as the words left her mouth.
“I don’t know why you should complain about that,” she said archly. “Our predicament has afforded you quite a good chance to plump your own pockets.”
“Celia,” Oliver said in a low voice, “sheathe your claws.”
“Why? He’s being rude.”
The beater’s flushed the grouse. Mr. Pinter brought down another bird, a muscle ticking in his jaw as they all fired. “I beg your pardon, my lady. Sometimes my tongue runs away with my good sense.”
“I’ve noticed.” She caught the gentlemen watching them with interest and forced a smile. “But since you were good enough to apologize, let us forget the matter, shall we?”
With a taut nod, he acknowledged her request for a truce.
After that, they both concentrated on shooting. She was determined to beat him, and he seemed equally determined to beat the other gentlemen. She tried not to dwell on why, but the possibility of another kiss from him made her nervous and excited.
When Oliver called time a few moments later, she’d beaten them all. But she’d beaten Mr. Pinter by only one bird.
“It appears, Lady Celia, that you’ve won a new rifle,” the duke said graciously.
“No,” she answered. They all stared at her. “It doesn’t seem sporting to win a challenge only because one of my opponents had a faulty firearm. Which we provided to him, by the way.”
“Don’t worry,” Mr. Pinter drawled. “I won’t hold the fault firearm against you and your brothers.”
“That’s not the point. This should be fair, and it isn’t.”
“Then we’ll move forward,” Oliver said, “and let the servants flush the grouse again. Pinter can take one more shot. That’s probably all that the misfire delayed him by. If he misses, then you’ve won squarely. If he hits his target then it’s a tie, and we’ll decide a tie breaker.”
“That seems fair.” She glanced over at Mr. Pinter. “What do you say, sir?”
“Whatever my lady wishes.” His eyes met hers in a heated glance.
She had the unsettling feeling that he referred to more than just the shooting. “Well, then,” she said lightly. “Let’s get on with it.”
The beaters headed forward to flush the grouse, but either because of where the grouse had last settled or because of the beaters’ position, the birds rose farther away than was practical.
“Damn it all,” Gabe uttered. “He won’t make a shot from here.”
“You can ignore this one, and we’ll have them flushed again,” Celia said.
But Mr. Pinter raised his gun to follow their flight. With a flash and the repugnant smell of black powder igniting, the gun fired and white smoke filled the air. She saw a bird fall.
No, not one bird. He’d hit two birds with an impossible shot.
Her breath lodged in her throat. She’d hit two with one shot a few times, due to how they clustered and how well the birdshot scattered, but to do it at such a distance…
She glanced at him, astonished. No one had ever beaten her-and certainly not with such an amazing shot.
Mr. Pinter gazed at her steadily as he handed off the gun to a servant. “It appears that I’ve won, my lady.”
Her mouth went dry. “It does indeed.”
Gabe hooted pleased at having escaped buying her a rifle. The duke and the viscount scowled, while Devonmont just looked amused as usual.
All of that fell away as Mr. Pinter’s gaze dropped to her mouth.
“Well done, Pinter,” Oliver said, clapping him on the shoulder. “You obviously more than earned a kiss.”
For a moment, raw hunger flickered in his eyes. Then it was as if a veil descended over his face, for his features turned blank. He walked up to her, bent his head…
And kissed her on the forehead.
Hot color flooded her cheeks. How dared he kiss her last night as if she were a woman, and then treat her like a child in front of her suitors! Or worse, a woman beneath his notice!
“Thank heavens that’s done,” she said loftily, trying to retain some dignity.
The men all laughed-except Mr. Pinter, who watched her with a shuttered expression.
As the other gentleman crowded round to congratulate him on his fine shot, she plotted. She would make him answer for every remark, every embarrassment of this day, as soon as she had the chance to get him alone.
Because no man made a fool of her and got away with it.
Though I’m surprised that you read novels.”
“I do have other interests than shooting, you know.”
“I never said otherwise.”
“But you think me a complete tomboy. Admit it.”
He measured his words. “I think you a woman with a few unusual interests that happen to be similar to those of some men. Those interests don’t, however, make you a tomboy.”
No tomboy would fire his blood the way she did right now in her elegant redingote, despite the black smudges of power along its sleeves and the mud caked along its hem. And no tomboy would have kept him up last night imagining what it would be like to raise her skirts so he could run his hands along the pale swaths of thigh that lay above her garters.
“And yet,” she said hoarsely, “you kissed me as if I were some mannish chit beneath your notice. God forbid you should treat me as a desirable woman in front of my suitors. It might give them ideas.”
He stared at her, thunderstruck. She was angry because he’d accorded her the respect she deserved? “Forgive me, my lady,” he said acidly. “I didn’t think you’d want me to toss you down in the grass and ravish you. I see I was mistaken.”
Two spots of color appeared on her cheeks. “There is a vast space between ravishing me and treating me like a child. The gentlemen expected you to kiss me on the lips, as they would have. You won such a kiss, after all. When you didn’t take it, I’m sure they thought it was because I was somehow…unattractive to you. And that only hurts my cause.”
Her cause, which was to be affianced to one of those arses. Anger boiled up in him. “Let me see if I understand you correctly. You wanted me to kiss you with some degree of passion so your suitors would be convinced if your desirability as a woman. Is that right?”
She cast him a resentful look, then nodded.
He strode up close, unable to contain his temper. “Isn’t it enough for you that they’re already barking at your heels like randy hounds? That they’re seizing your hand at the breakfast table and inviting you for tete-a-tete practice at their estates?”
“What good does that do me when you seek to turn their affections away at every turn? You provoked me to accept that shooting challenge because you wanted me to frighten them off with my enthusiasm for guns. Admit it.”
All right, so that was true. But he had good reason for it. “I wanted them to see you for who you really are and not the woman you keep pretending to be.”
“Pretending to be?” she said in a choked voice. “And who is that? A lady worthy of marriage? You wanted to expose me as some…adventuress or man in woman’s attire or…oh, I don’t know what.”
“No!” he protested, suddenly all at sea in their argument.
“You know what, Mr. Pinter? Ever since we made our agreement, you’ve only made matters worse, for some nefarious reason of your own.” She planted her hands on her hips and gave him a look of pure defiance. “So you’re dismissed from my employ. I no longer require your services.
You’re the only person who doesn’t see the advantage in such a match.”
“That’s because I don’t believe in marriages of convenience. Given your family’s history, I’d think that you wouldn’t either.”
She colored. “And why do assume it would be such a thing? Is it so hard to believe that a man might genuinely care for me? That he might actually want to marry me for myself?”
“Why would anyone wish to marry the reckless Lady Celia, after all,” she went on in a choked voice, “if not for her fortune or to shore up his reputation?”
“I didn’t mean any such thing,” he said sharply.
But she’d worked herself up into a fine temper. “Of course you did. You kissed me last night only to make a point, and you couldn’t even bear to kiss me properly again today-“
“Now see here,” he said, grabbing her shoulders. “I didn’t kiss you ‘properly’ today because I was afraid if I did I might not stop.”
That seemed to draw her up short. “Wh-What?”
Sweet God, he shouldn’t have said that, but he couldn’t let her go on thinking she was some sort of pariah around men. “I knew that if I got his close, and I put my mouth on yours…”
But now he was this close. And she was staring up at him with that mix of bewilderment and hurt pride, and he couldn’t help himself. Not anymore.
He kissed her, to show her what she seemed blind to. That he wanted her. That even knowing it was wrong and could never work, he wanted to have her.
She tore her lips from his. “Mr. Pinter-“ she began in a whisper.
“Jackson,” he growled. “Let me hear you say my name.”
Backing away from him, she cast him a wounded expression. “Y-you don’t have to pretend-“
“I’m not pretending anything, damn it!”
Grabbing her by the sleeves, he dragged her close and kissed her again, with even more heat. How could she not see that he ached to take her? How could she not know what a temptation she was? Her lips intoxicated him, made him light-headed. Made him reckless enough to kiss her so impudently that any other woman of her rank would be insulted.
When she pulled away a second time, he expected her to slap him. But all she did was utter a feeble protest. “Please, Mr. Pinter-“
“Jackson,” he ordered in a low, unsteady voice, emboldened by the melting look in her eyes. “Say my Christian name.”
Her lush dark lashes lowered as a blush stained her cheeks. “Jackson…”
His breath caught in his throat at the intimacy of it, and fire exploded in his brain. She wasn’t pushing him away, so to hell with trying to be a gentleman.
He took her mouth savagely this time, plundering every part of its silky warmth as his blood pulsed high in his veins. She tasted of red wine and lemon cake, both tart and sweet at once. He wanted to eat her up. He wanted to take her, right here in this room.
So when she pulled out of his arms to back away, he walked after her.
She didn’t stop backing away, but neither did she turn tail and run. “Last night you claimed this wouldn’t happen again.”
“I know. And yet it has.” Like someone in an opium den, he’d been craving her for months. And how that he’d suddenly had a taste of the very thing he craved, he had to have more.
When she came up against the writing table, he caught her about the waist. She turned her head away before he could kiss her, so he settled for burying his face in her neck to nuzzle the tender throat he’d been coveting.
With a shiver, she slid her hands up his chest. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because I want you,” he admitted, damning himself. “Because I’ve always wanted you.”
Then he covered her mouth with his once more.
I no longer require your services." With her head held high, she strode for the door.
Hell and blazes, he wouldn't let her do this! Now when he knew what was at stake.
"You don't want to hear my report?" he called out after her.
She paused near the door. "I don't believe you even have a report."
"I certainly do, a very thorough one. I've only been waiting for my aunt to transcribe my scrawl into something decipherable. Give me a day, and I can offer you names and addresses and dates, whatever you require."
"A day? Just another excuse to put me off so you can wreak more havoc." She stepped into the doorway, and he hurried to catch her by the arm and drag her around to face him.
He ignored the withering glance she cast him. "The viscount is twenty-two years your senior," he said baldly.
Her eyes went wide. "You're making that up."
"He's aged very well, I'll grant you, but he's still almost twice your age. Like many vain Continental gentlemen, he dyes his hair and beard-which is why he appears younger than you think."
That seemed to shake her momentarily. Then she stiffened. "All right, so he's an older man. That doesn't mean he wouldn't make a good husband."
"He's an aging roué, with an invalid sister. The advantages in a match are all his. You'd surely end up taking care of them both. That's probably why he wants to marry you."
"You can't be sure of that."
"No? He's already choosing not to stay here for the house party at night because of his sister. That tells me that he needs help he can't get from servants."
Her eyes met his, hot with resentment. "Because it's hard to find ones who speak Portuguese."
He snorted. "I found out this information from his Portuguese servants. They also told me that his lavish spending is a façade. He's running low on funds. Why do you think his servants gossip about him? They haven't been paid recently. So he’s definitely got his eye on your fortune.”
“Perhaps he does,” she conceded sullenly. “But not the others. Don’t try to claim that of them.”
“I wouldn’t. They’re in good financial shape. But Devonmont is estranged from his mother, and no one knows why. I need more time to determine it, though perhaps your sister-in-law could tell you, if you bothered to ask.”
“Plenty of people don’t get along with their families,” she said stoutly.
“He has a long-established mistress, too.”
A troubled expression crossed her face. “Unmarried men often have mistresses. It doesn’t mean he wouldn’t give her up when he marries.”
He cast her a hard stare. “Are you saying you have no problem with a man paying court to you while he keeps a mistress?”
The sigh that escaped her was all the answer he needed.
“I don’t think he’s interested in marriage, anyway.” She tipped up her chin. “That still leaves the duke.”
“With his mad family.”
“He’s already told me about his father, whom I knew about anyway.”
“Ah, but did you know about his great-uncle? He ended his life in an asylum in Belgium, while there to receive some special treatment for his delirium.”
Her lower lip trembled. “The duke didn’t mention that, no. But then our conversation was brief. I’m sure he’ll tell me if I ask. He was very forthright on the subject of his family’s madness when he offered-“
As she stopped short, Jackson’s heart dropped into his stomach. “Offered what?”
She hesitated, then squared her shoulders. “Marriage, if you must know.”
Damn it all. Jackson had no right to resent it, but the thought of her in Lyons’s arms made him want to smash something. “And of course, you accepted his offer,” he said bitterly. “You couldn’t resist the appeal of being a great duchess.”
Her eyes glittered at him. “You’re the only person who doesn’t see the advantage in such a match.
Jackson…” she whispered.
“I love to hear my name on your lips,” he rasped against her ear. “Say it again.”
“Jackson…this isn’t another lesson…is it?” She had to know. She had to be sure.
“It ought to be,” he growled. “God knows you didn’t learn the first one very well, or we wouldn’t be here together, alone.”
When he lifted her onto the table, knocking off some of the books, she gasped. “I’ve never been good with lessons.”
He brushed a kiss over her lips. “Perhaps you haven’t had the right teacher. Or the right lessons, my lady.”
“Celia,” she countered, burying her hands in his thick, raven hair. He had the most beautiful hair, soft to the touch, with lovely waves that spilled wantonly over her fingers. “If I’m to call you Jackson, you must call me Celia.”
His eyes turned molten gray as they locked with hers. “Celia,” he breathed. Then he brought his hands up to flick open the buttons of her redingote and pull out her lace tucker so he could toss it aside.
She caught her breath. “Wha-What are you doing?”
“Continuing your lessons.” He spread open her redingote gown to expose her undergarments. “I want to taste you. Will you let me, sweeting?”
Sweeting? That alone would have softened her resolve, for no mad had ever called her such a lovely thing. But the fact that he was asking for what Ned had tried to force from her melted her resistance even further.
“I’m willing to repeat a lesson as often as it takes to learn it,” she said, shocking her own boldness.
I do find it odd,” she went on, “that you should care how Mr. Pinter feels about me. I thought all you wanted was to have some man marry me. He would be as good as any.”
Gran winced. “Not if he is after your fortune. That is what happened to your mother, and I regret to this day that I did not see beneath your father’s winning smiles and title to his mercenary motive.”
Celia swallowed past the lump in her throat. “Well, since Mr. Pinter has no title and barely knows how to smile, you needn’t worry. If he has a mercenary motive, he’s hiding it well.” She surreptitiously kicked her tucker under the table as she stepped forward. “Now, let’s go have some tea, shall we?”
After another hard look about the room, Gran took the arm Celia offered and let her grandmother accompany her out the door. But while they walked down the corridor, Celia’s mind kept stumbling over Gran’s revelation.
A rich wife of rank would enhance his chances.
It wouldn’t be the first time a man had pretended to find her fetching for his own reasons. But if Gran’s suspicions about Jackson’s motives proved true, it would definitely be the last. Because Celia would rather enter a loveless marriage with the Duke of Lyons than be used by Jackson Pinter.
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