Sweet Enemy (11 page)

“Foolishness.” Aunt shook her head in disgust. “Only my brother could sire such a headstrong, imprudent girl,” she muttered. She raised herself to her full height, well beneath Liliana’s nose. “I command you to stop this nonsensical behavior and apologize to the earl.”

Anger rose in Liliana’s chest. She’d listened to Aunt Eliza criticize her father most of her life. Besides, she would not apologize for being herself. Well, certainly she’d overplayed it. She wasn’t typically rude, but she did, nearly always, speak her mind. Stratford’s footwork
had
been deplorable, and holding a horse race when one is clearly more experienced than others was quite unfair. She’d said nothing that wasn’t true.

“I shall not,” Liliana said. “A gentleman such as Stratford has dozens of girls bowing and scraping to him, trying to win his hand. I believe he’s the sort of man who likes a challenge.”

The moment the words left her mouth, Liliana frowned. They made more sense than she’d expected, and she had the strangest feeling they might be true. Heavens. What if her incendiary words had done the equivalent of throwing down a gauntlet? No! That would be disastrous.

Aunt opened her mouth in rebuttal, but Liliana stayed her. “Nevertheless, Aunt, I shall take some bit of your advice,” she appeased. After all, the damage had surely
been done. “I shall treat Stratford with the utmost respect and solicitude for the rest of the afternoon.”

Aunt gave her a disgusted look, then retreated into the crowd.

Liliana removed the bouquet from her chair and dropped it atop the other one on the grass beside her. She sat, troubled. Perhaps Stratford did like a challenge, but he couldn’t possibly want her and her sharp tongue anymore, if he ever did.

Her eyes sought Stratford. The third event had been set up. Targets were affixed to old barrels several yards out. Archery perhaps?

She spotted Stratford off to her right, standing with the other gentlemen. They looked to be checking pistols. A shooting competition, then.

Well, at least she wouldn’t be subjected to another display of masculine grace and form. Goodness, it had been near impossible to keep her eyes from Stratford all afternoon. Yes, his footwork had not been up to snuff for a swordsman, but as a man—he was quite the specimen. He exuded strength and purpose. Even now, she noted the concentrated intensity with which he cleaned his weapon. If he turned that intensity upon a woman in the bedroom…

Liliana felt herself blush and snatched up her equation. She couldn’t explain this awful attraction, so she did what she always did. Focused her mind on cold science. Yet this time, it didn’t suffice. After scratching through three mistakes in her formula, she set the paper down.

Stratford was such a contradiction. At first, she’d been certain he was on to her. Yet then he’d surprised her with the thoughtful bouquet of globe thistle. When he’d presented her with it, he’d seemed like a true suitor, anxious for her praise. And he’d deserved it. Not only had he fought well, but she’d seen the pain in his eyes. He’d struggled through and come out the victor. She’d felt rotten insulting him so.

Had he truly just been trying to impress her? A warm sensation flowed through her before she squelched it. It hardly mattered if he had.

Still, it wouldn’t hurt to act the proper lady for the rest of the afternoon. If Aunt had noticed her slights, others had as well. That wouldn’t do. Should Stratford win the last event, she’d compliment him. Not effusively, mind you. Just more…nicely. She’d draw no more attention to herself. And then, if it turned out he wasn’t onto her after all, she could slip back into obscurity and complete her search.

The murmuring of the crowd quieted as the men lined up. Liliana sat up straight and fixed her eyes on the field. She would watch this match with interest.

Several feet separated each contestant from his neighbors. Servants stood behind with horns of gunpowder and extra ammunition. Stratford stood nearest to the crowd, giving Liliana a perfect view.

The trumpets sounded and each man raised an arm. Balls shot from twelve pistols with a deafening boom. The yellow-dressed girl gave a little shriek. Liliana rolled her eyes.

She watched Stratford as he meticulously reloaded, pouring his powder precisely. He was close enough that she could see the ripple of muscle on his forearm below his rolled-up sleeve as he took careful aim and pulled the trigger. Another shot exploded from the muzzle.

Again she watched his precision, a trait that she, as a chemist, truly appreciated. Oh yes, concentrated intensity. Her blush returned and she looked away.

After five shots, the men lay down their arms, and servants darted out to retrieve the targets. The targets were taken to a table near the tent, where a panel of judges pored over them before once again declaring Stratford the winner.

This time, Liliana stood and clapped with everyone else. She smiled prettily, waiting to congratulate him.

But the man who stalked toward her with a bouquet
held haphazardly upside down in one hand and a target in the other was no sweet suitor. He was fourteen stone of cross male, and he looked to be spoiling for a fight.

“Congratulations—,” Liliana began, but Stratford tossed the bouquet toward her. Not hard, but clearly without care. She caught the lovely bunch of yellow roses and tucked them in the crook of her arm, as if he’d handed them to her gently.

She took a quick step back when the target was thrust into her face.

Five shots clustered very near the bull’s-eye.

Liliana cleared her throat. “Well done, my lord.”

Stratford lowered the target and glared. “Is that all you have to say?”

“Well, yes, I—”

“Because I can assure you, Miss Claremont, most of my shooting experience has been from the back of a moving horse,” Stratford claimed. “With a rifle,
not
a pistol.”

Liliana didn’t know what to say, so she nodded.

“So my victory meets your ideals of sportsmanship?”

Liliana nodded again, astounded. Her plan had worked better than she’d thought.

“Did my stance meet your approval?” he challenged. “Not leaning too far forward or back?”

“Your stance was perfect,” she said slowly.

He raised himself to his full height and looked down on her, cocking a raven brow. “So even you, with your uninformed petty little standards, could find nothing wrong with my performance?”

Liliana narrowed her eyes. Uninformed? Petty? She’d had quite enough of his display. Yes, she’d been rude, but he was being a boor.

She stepped toward him, raising herself as well—she was no shrinking violet. “Since you asked,” she said, simply because she couldn’t help herself, “you didn’t hit the center, not even once.”

She could actually see the blood rising up Stratford’s neck to his face before he exploded.

“No one hits the center with a flintlock!” he exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air. “It takes so long for the powder to ignite, it throws off one’s aim!”

Liliana shrugged.

Stratford’s fist clenched and he gave her such a fierce stare, Liliana feared to take so much as a breath. Not that she sensed he’d do violence to her person, but she’d never seen someone so angry.

Then he collected himself, a mask of indifference slipping over his features. When he spoke, his voice was nonchalant. “But then, what would a woman know of a man’s pursuits?” He capped his mocking words with a shrug of his own and turned away.

Liliana sucked in a breath. Laughter tittered around her, but it hardly registered through the swiftly rising haze of fury. “A man’s pursuits?” she asked, her voice sounding low and dangerous to her ears. Her entire life she’d been told to keep her nose out of
men’s pursuits
. As if men alone had a brain worth educating. As if only men were capable of understanding complex scientific theory or making any worthy contribution to the world besides babies.

Well, not today. Liliana took a bold step forward. “I’d wager,
my
lord
,” she scoffed, “that this
woman
can not only make that weapon fire faster, but increase its accuracy measurably.”

Stratford stopped and turned back to face her, both brows raised. People around them hushed in expectation. Liliana heard Aunt Eliza’s groan from the crowd.

“And how do you propose to do that?” Stratford asked, sounding more surprised than scornful.

“That is none of your concern,” she snapped. “Do you take my wager or not?”

Stratford’s cobalt eyes narrowed slightly, thoughtful. “That depends, Miss Claremont,” he said after a moment. “How would you propose we test your claims? Will you shoot against me?”

Liliana’s stomach clenched. She’d never fired a
weapon in her life. She had little chance at hitting a target.

“Because while we can verify accuracy easily enough, the only way to test whether a gun fires more quickly than another is to shoot them at the same time,” he pointed out reasonably, with a smile that said he knew very well she couldn’t shoot.

Liliana clenched her jaw. “I have no experience,” she admitted.

Stratford nodded. “Well then, unless someone steps forward as your proxy, I don’t see how I could take your wager, tempting though it may be.”

Liliana’s heart fell as the silence dragged on. Of course no one would challenge Stratford on her behalf. She closed her eyes. Not only had she made a fool of herself, but she’d made sure there was plenty of attention on her now. Her only consolation was that after this embarrassment, people would expect her to stay away in shame. That would clear up her time so she could search the house.

She only hoped she’d be allowed to stay.

“I will shoot on the lady’s behalf,” came a rich baritone. Liliana’s eyes flew open and she turned. The crowd parted, and a dashing man stepped forward and came to her side. “As I’ve missed the afternoon games, I’d enjoy getting in a bit of sport.”

Relief flooded Liliana, though she couldn’t place her rescuer. She didn’t think she’d ever seen him before. Definitely not since she’d been at Somerton Park.

Like Stratford’s, his hair was as dark as night, but that’s where the similarities ended. His glittering green eyes were framed by long black lashes and had an exotic slant that reminded Liliana of a gypsy.

He was taller than Stratford as well—taller and leaner, with a smile that flashed quickly, unlike Stratford’s slower, warmer one. Yet he didn’t make Liliana’s breath catch in her chest as Stratford did—a fact that deeply annoyed her.

“If that meets your approval, mademoiselle?” the stranger asked, giving Liliana a slight bow.

Liliana swallowed. “I’d be delighted, sir…?”

The man straightened and laughed. “Stratford, don’t you think you should introduce the lady to her new champion?”

Stratford’s face had gone stormy. “Miss Liliana Claremont, Lord Derick Aveline, heir to Viscount Scarsdale.”

“A pleasure, Miss Claremont,” Aveline said. Liliana gave him a quick curtsy. “Now, shall we begin?” Aveline held his arm out to Liliana and, after securing her hand, took a step toward the field.

“Not quite,” Stratford said, drawing Liliana’s gaze back to him. She and Aveline stopped walking. “We’ve yet to agree on the terms of the wager. What have you in mind, Miss Claremont?”

Oh, dash it all. This had become enough of a scene. She couldn’t very well ask him to hand over any information he had about her father’s death, and she wanted nothing else from him.

“I had nothing particular in mind,” she answered.
Other than to prove your chauvinistic views as nonsense.

Stratford gave her a look that said wagers were a man’s pursuit as well. Drat him.

“I’ve an idea,” Aveline interrupted. “It is my understanding that Stratford chose to champion you for the day, yes, Miss Claremont?”

Liliana nodded.

“And that you were to spend the rest of the evening and supper ball with him as escort?”

She hadn’t known that part. Still, she nodded.

“Well, as I am your champion now, should we win the wager, I propose that you spend the evening with me instead.”

The wager sounded innocuous enough and would get her out from beneath Stratford’s watchful eye. “That would be preferable,” she said, knowing it insulted Stratford, but she was beyond caring. “If we should lose?”
She looked over at Stratford, who stood rigid, the tic of a muscle evident in his jaw.

“Then Miss Claremont spends the rest of the house party with me.”

A gasp came from somewhere behind them.

“Every breakfast, every luncheon, every supper and every activity.”

What? Good heavens, this couldn’t be happening. “I don’t really think—”

“That’s hardly equitable,” Aveline spoke over her, which annoyed her, yet he voiced the truth.

“Be that as it may, that is my demand,” Stratford said, his voice hard.

Aveline patted her hand where she gripped his forearm. “Then I must insist the same. Should we win,
I
shall escort Miss Claremont for the duration.”