The Earl I Adore (13 page)

“Yes, I know—oh!” Her hand flew to her mouth as her cheeks flamed pink. “I'm so sorry! I cannot believe that I just called you Evan. In front of everyone, no less. It's just that that's how Julia speaks of you, and I wasn't thinking, and it just popped out. I'm dreadfully sorry.”

He put up a staying hand. “Think nothing of it. Evan is what my friends and family call me, so I see no reason why you shouldn't as well. It's not as though it's my
Christian name, so we should be safe from anyone's moral outrage.”

She peered past him to the area where the tents were set up. “Just so long as the chaperones didn't overhear. I can just imagine what my mother would think if she heard. Now then, about my form?”

Her form? For a split second, his mind flashed to the moment when he'd laid his hand on the generous curve of her hip. Except that was
not
the form they were talking about. Drawing a breath to settle himself, he nodded. “Nock your arrow and pretend you are just about to shoot.”

She complied, getting into the exact same position that had sent the other arrows winging far from their targets. He pointed to her fingers where they held the arrow against the bowstring. “Your grip is all wrong. Go ahead and relax.”

When she did, he pulled the arrow from her hand, set it aside, and lightly gripped her wrist. Turning her hand palm up, he slid his finger along the highest joints of her middle three fingers. “You want to cradle the string here, not here.” He moved to her second joint. “The way you were doing it, the string drags against your fingers and throws your aim off, not to mention robbing the arrow of some of its energy.”

“I'm not entirely sure my fingers are strong enough at that point,” she said, looking doubtfully at their joined hands. “I'd hate to lose my grip and really mess things up. Not that I could do much worse than I already am, but I'd prefer not to end up with an arrow in the river.”

“I'd wager you're stronger than you think. Here,” he said, placing the fingertips of his left hand over the fingertips of her right so they locked together. “Curl your fingers and resist my efforts to pull them straight.”

*   *   *

Sophie sucked in a quick breath, her eyes flitting back up to Evan's. Thankfully his gaze was directed at their hands. Their
joined
hands. It didn't matter that she wore a stiff shooting glove, or that his hands were encased in the buff leather of his own gloves. Their hands were still linked, and that was good enough for her.

He tugged his fingers, trying to pry hers open. She held steady, keeping her fingers curled just as he had instructed. She almost laughed. He wanted her to keep their hands from separating?
That
she could do. Letting go would be the hard part.

“There now—just as I had suspected. You are stronger than you look, Miss Wembley.” He met her eyes, smiling triumphantly. He didn't pull out of her grip right away, and she kept her own hand completely still.

“Thank you, Evan. I hope you're right.”

He was standing close enough to her that she could smell the crisp, slightly musky scent that she'd grown to adore. He blinked, looked down at their hands, then quickly pulled away. “All right, moving on. There is a slight breeze coming from the river. That air will push your arrow, throwing it out of the line as it travels. If you move your aim in the direction from which the wind originates, it will compensate for that push and hopefully help you to actually hit your target.”

She lifted the bow again, getting back into position, careful to hold her fingers just so. Starting with her arrow pointed directly at the target, she shifted a few inches to the left. “Better?”

He moved to stand directly behind her, so that he could sight down her arrow's shaft. She closed her eyes for a moment, imagining she could feel the heat of him at her back. It was easy to imagine his hand sliding along
her waist from behind, his lips finding the sensitive skin at the nape of her neck, his—

“Your lateral aim is good, but you need to move up slightly.”

Her eyes popped back open. Yes, the lesson.

Unaware of her daydreams, he continued. “The arrow is not immune to gravity, and it will fall as it flies. It is up to you to compensate based on how far away the target is.”

Forcing herself to concentrate, she tilted the bow up just a hair. “Like this?”

“A smidge more,” he murmured, his breath caressing the side of her neck.

She shivered, causing her grip to slip. The arrow sailed off, arcing gracefully through the air. It hit the very edge of the paper, well outside of the target, but a thousand times better than her previous shot. She gasped, whipping around to face him. “I did it!” She bounced on her toes, so thrilled she could hardly contain it. “I can't believe I hit it! You are a genius, the best tutor ever to have lived, I'm sure of it.”

He chuckled, obviously amused by her. “Or perhaps your last tutor was simply the worst. Regardless, well done.”

“Miss
Wembley
,” Mr. Wright called, the merriment in his voice ruining his stern expression. “I know you are eager to lose to us, but do try to wait your turn.”

“I was merely reenacting your last shot, Mr. Wright,” Sophie replied tartly, making the vicar hoot with laughter.

“Such insolence,” Evan said, his voice low and teasing. “You'd better play nice. I won't have you getting us tossed from the competition. If they are going to compel me to play, then I fully intend to win.”

She grinned hugely, not even trying to temper her delight. “I know, I know. But still, did you see the way it flew straight at the target? I could be the next Robin Hood. Or Robinette . . . Robina? Never mind, just call me Sophie Hood.”

His gorgeous blue eyes danced with amusement. “I don't suggest taking up residence in Sherwood Forest just yet, Sophie Hood.”

She laughed and turned her attention back to the others, trying not to linger on the way he had said her name just then. It was a very ordinary name, but hearing the way he wrapped his tongue around the word made her wish he'd call her by her Christian name all the time. Why must etiquette always get in the way of the things she wanted?

The contest continued, with Julia and Harry scoring lowest, Hugh and May only a few points above them, and Evan and Sophie neck and neck with Mr. Wright and Charity. While Sophie's second arrow lodged in the hay bale just inches from the target, the third had actually hit the outermost ring. Evan hit the bull's-eye twice, but his third shot had strayed left and landed in the second ring, much to his dismay.

“Oh, dreadful luck, Evansleigh,” Mr. Wright teasingly taunted. “Must be losing your touch in your dotage. ‘The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away.'”

Lord Cadgwith gave a short snort of laughter. “Careful, Thomas. ‘Pride goeth before destruction.' The Lord may taketh from you yet.”

“Touché, old man. I can only hope the Lord continues to show favor to his humble servant.”

The men continued to taunt one another, their lighthearted jabs amusing them all. When the fourth and final round began, Evan turned to Sophie, earnestness written
all over his face. “All right, Sophie Hood, this is your chance to best each and every one of your friends, and earn eternal bragging rights for us both. I have no intention of allowing that wolf in vicar's clothing to defeat us.”

She quirked an eyebrow. “Wolf in vicar's clothing? My, aren't we a competitive soul.”

“Yes, quite, which is why you
must
hit the target.”

“I must?” She fluttered her eyelashes in mock confusion. “Surely you are mistaken, because I am thrilled simply not to be in last place.” It was great fun to banter with him like this. His spirits were as high as she had ever seen them.

He scoffed. “Second place is practically last place. Surely you want to win and be able to hold it over your friends' heads for the foreseeable future?”

“Not at all. I'd be thrilled for Charity, were she on the winning team.”

He made a face. “Yes, but I cannot lose to an upstart clergyman who is half a decade my junior.”

“Hmm. It sounds as though you're in a predicament. Perhaps if there were proper incentive, I might be more driven to succeed.” Her mind whirled with all the ways he could entice her. A carriage ride alone? Another waltz, preferably one where she kept her feet about her? Or, perhaps a promised kiss? The mere idea had her stomach fluttering.

“Incentive?” he repeated, his hand going to his chin. The wind rustled the leaves above them, causing bright spots of sunshine to dance over his face. “Shall I promise to buy you a new oboe? Play the role of your servant for the rest of the day? You've only to name it.”

A cheer went up from the small crowd, and they turned just as Mr. Wright let out a triumphant whoop. His arrow still swayed where it had struck the target
directly in the bull's-eye. With a sweeping hand in their direction, he called, “Your shot, Evansleigh.
If
you wish to take it. You may prefer to save yourself the trouble of losing and simply forfeit now.”

“Not a chance, Wright,” Evan responded, the sentence almost jovial. His jaw tightened as he lined up his shot, taking his time. He held the string against the smooth skin of his cheek, one eye squinted as he sighted his target. Respectable, modern clothing aside, he looked like some sort of medieval warrior, poised with leashed energy at the moment right before battle.

At the exact instant he released the string, a gust of wind blew up from the river, pushing his beautifully aimed arrow to the right. It thudded into the third ring, more than a foot off from the center. Sophie gasped aloud, her hands flying to her mouth.

He stood there, blinking at the target in disbelief. Mumbling what she was sure must have been a curse, he turned to her, his eyes flashing silver. “Name it.”

“I'm sorry?” she said, taken aback by his abrupt command.

Teasing taunts and sounds of dismay came from the other competitors, but he ignored them completely as he pinned her with his gaze. “Name your incentive. And make it good, because you must hit dead center if we are to win.”

“The bull's-eye?” she squeaked. “Good heavens, Evan, I couldn't hit it for all the money in the world.”

“Why not? The arrow has to go somewhere. Why not to the center of the target?”

She laughed, shaking her head. “Why not, indeed. You do remember to whom you are speaking, yes? The girl who tripped on her own skirts? Nearly hit our competitor's target? May or may not have managed to fall
up
the stairs yesterday?”

“I know whom I am speaking to. Now, Miss Eternally Optimistic Sophie Hood—name your incentive.”

He was quite serious. She nibbled on her bottom lip, deciding whether or not she wanted to play along. As far as she was concerned, the competition was over, and they had earned a very respectable second place. Because really, there was optimistic, and there was deluded. She started to tell him as much, when suddenly inspiration struck. What had she to lose?

“Sing for me.”

His brows came together. “I beg your pardon?”

She hadn't realized just how much she had wanted to hear him until that moment. “If I hit the bull's-eye, I want to hear you sing.
Opera
.”

She smiled up at him, batting her eyelashes for good measure. It was incredibly far-fetched that he would ever have to follow through, but it was certainly as good an enticement as she could imagine . . . other than asking him for a kiss, which she couldn't have brought herself to suggest in a million years.

Surprise flashed across his features. His lips turned up in a sort of disbelieving grin as he nodded and extended the bow to her. “This shall be your only chance, so I suggest you hit your mark.”

Even knowing the hopelessness of it, a thrill still raced through her belly. If hearing him sing in Italian wasn't incentive enough to make the impossible happen, then nothing could. “Very well, we have a deal.”

Drawing a nervous breath, she accepted the bow and lifted it into place. Evan stepped up behind her, his presence making the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

“Wider stance,” he murmured. “Good. Now draw a little further back. A little more, so that your left arm is
fully extended and your fingers rest at the apple of your cheek.”

Her lips were parted, her breaths coming in short draws through her mouth as she listened to the low, encouraging tones of his voice. He sounded so mellow, so calm and confident.

“Aim a little higher, and when you release, hold the bow absolutely still. The follow-through is what propels the arrow.”

Taking one last long breath, she concentrated all her energy on the three fingertips holding the string. One, two, three,
release.

S
ophie closed her eyes as the arrow whipped from her fingers and whispered through the air.
Please, please, please
 . . .
Thump!
Hope erupted along with the spectators' enthusiastic applause. Opening her eyes, she held her breath and looked to the target. There, her arrow wobbled, firmly embedded in the white space just outside the bull's-eye.

The air whooshed from her lungs in one disappointed rush. It was so tantalizingly, tauntingly close! She groaned, dropping the bow to her side as she glared at the game-losing arrow. “I'm so, so sorry. I tried, I really did.”

“Surely you're not serious,” he said as he came around to her side.

“I swear I did! I'm just no good.”

His eyebrows lifted in disbelief. “What are you talking about? That was incredible. Yes, it wasn't perfect, but that's the best shot you've ever had. I'm proud of you, Sophie Hood.”

She turned to face him fully, surprised to hear the excitement, the
pride
, in his voice. But . . . “Evan, I just lost the competition for us.” And she'd lost the promise of
hearing him sing. Of the two, she was much more disappointed by the latter.

“Yes, I know,” he said, pausing to wave to the victors. Mr. Wright clasped Charity's fingers and raised their joined hands above their heads in exuberant victory. He was the least modest vicar Sophie had ever met, but it only served to endear him to her.

Evan rolled his eyes. “Damn pup. Apologies,” he said quickly, offering her a contrite smile. “And
we
lost. Good thing, too, because I am a terrible winner. Boastful, self-satisfied, exceedingly annoying to be around. Much like the vicar will be, I'm sure.”

Sophie chuckled, shaking her head. “Give him a chance—he's not as bad as all that. I quite like him, in fact.”

Sighing hugely, he nodded. “Yes, I'm sure I'd like him, too, if he'd steer clear of my sister. The man is too engaging by half.”

“And that's a bad thing?”

“For a brother? Absolutely. But I suppose we should go congratulate them anyway.” He offered her his elbow. “Shall we?”

She held up her arm, which still was confined by the brace. “Let me just get these off.” She started tugging at the laces, but Evan brushed her hand aside and set to work loosening the strings for her.

“While I know it's not Sherwood Forest,” he said, pulling the vambrace free and dropping it beside the bows, “perhaps we may go for a walk by the river after your concert. We can call it our victory lap.”

Sophie only just managed not to gape at him. Purposely spending more time with her, without a bit of prompting from her or anyone else? Pressing her lips together to hold back what was sure to be an enormously
gauche grin, she nodded her assent. Time alone with the earl was all the victory she needed.

*   *   *

Evan didn't know what he had expected from the concert, but it certainly wasn't what was unfolding before him.

The vicar had managed to have a small pianoforte delivered to the site, along with the long stringed instrument Miss Bradford referred to as a zither, though it was unlike any zither Evan had ever seen. At the center was Sophie with her little oboe. From the first notes, it was clear this would be a performance unlike any he had ever heard.

The music was utterly unique, but it wasn't just because of the exotic sound of Miss Bradford's instrument. It was the way the three instruments blended together. From the silence of those around him, he knew that he wasn't the only one enchanted by their performance.

Evan recognized the piece as being a variant of Mozart's Sonata No. 11, but it was by no means a literal interpretation. It was whimsical, mysterious, and charming, all at once. Each of the women brought her own strengths to the piece, but it was Sophie who most held his interest. He loved watching her play, if for no other reason than the fascination of seeing her so focused and solemn.

How had he not paid attention the last time he attended her musicale? She was almost a different person when she was playing. There was no self-consciousness, no laughing, no bubbly words. She exuded serene confidence. He could actually sense all the hours she must have dedicated to practicing. The oboe was notoriously difficult to play, yet she pulled it off with complete capability. She knew her instrument, she knew her part, and by Jove, she was going to make it perfect.

Evan tilted his head, considering that thought. Not perfect, actually. That was the wrong word. More like beautifully and meticulously executed. She took an odd-sounding instrument and made it compelling to listen to.

Not unlike herself.

She was sweet, but at times peculiar, yet she managed to take that part of herself and make it an asset. When he had suggested the walk, it was because of the look on her face when she realized they had lost. It had been wrong of him to suggest the incentive, because it had set the burden of success at her feet, and that had been unfair.

But even though it was her comfort he had been thinking of at the time, he found he was actually looking forward to it. When the last note of the piece came to a close, he clapped along with everyone else, hands outstretched in honest enthusiasm.

From the seat beside him, Julia applauded just as earnestly. “That was extraordinary,” she said, leaning toward him to be heard above the noise. “I feel as though I've visited Vienna and the Far East in the very same day.”

He nodded. It was the perfect description of the experience. As the applause quieted, he came to his feet and offered her his hand.

His sister waved him off, smiling up at him. “No, thanks. I think I'll sit in the shade a little longer.”

“As you wish. I promised Miss Wembley a promenade along the river to soothe the bitterness of defeat.”

“Defeat?” She gave a soft snort. “You do realize that I came in last place, thanks to our terrible shot of a neighbor.” She tilted her head toward Harry, who sat two seats over.

Harry rolled his eyes when he heard her, leaning back in his chair. “I don't know if you can lay all the blame at my feet. I saw Evan helping Miss Wembley with her form,
but you offered no such assistance. A little guidance might have made the difference.”

She lifted an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Don't expect me to drop everything to help you simply because you've not got the skills. Perhaps next time you won't insist on participating in something you have no business doing.”

“Julia,” Evan said, the single word a warning. “Can you be civilized long enough for me to leave you alone?”

“Yes, of course,” she answered, lifting her chin. “I thrive on being alone.”

Shaking his head, Evan clapped a hand on the baronet's shoulder. “I believe that's our cue. Why don't you go join a card game while I take my walk? I can almost guarantee the company will be more agreeable.”

As they walked together to the makeshift stage, Harry lifted his hat and ran a weary hand through his hair. “I wonder if I shouldn't find my own way home. I wouldn't wish to impose my company on her any more today if it distresses her so.”

“No, of course you shouldn't. Someday she'll find her manners when it comes to you, but in the meantime you may rely upon mine.”

“Somehow I doubt she will,” Harry replied. “But there are plenty of interesting people here today, and I shall enjoy spending time with them.” With a tip of his hat, he headed off toward the card table, holding his shoulders straight and proud.

Evan shook his head. His sister had best sort her moodiness out, before he sorted it out for her. Turning his attention to the makeshift stage, he watched as Sophie and the other two girls laughed with one another as they finished up tending to the sheet music and instruments.

Cadgwith strolled up beside him and tipped his chin toward the stage. “They're something to behold, are they not?”

Evan hadn't realized the man had caught the performance. He had seen him wandering off toward the food tent when the rest of them had been taking their seats. “Very compelling,” Evan answered, offering a relaxed smile. “I'm glad I was able to see them perform. I only just missed it at the Tuesday recital they played.”

Cadgwith smiled, wrinkling the silvery scars along the left side of his temple. “The one and only recital of the series I happened to catch. Can't say I'm sorry to have missed the others. Speaking of which, are you and your sister planning to attend the gala tomorrow night? Supposed to be quite the event.”

“I hadn't thought, but it might prove an enjoyable evening. Will you and your betrothed attend?”

The baron gave a half shrug. “Charity is exceedingly excited about it, as are the other two,” he said, nodding to where Miss Effington stood with Miss Bradford and Sophie. “I'll come to see the famous lamps, but I doubt I'll make it to the fireworks. Had enough artillery explosions to last me a lifetime in the war.”

Evan slid his gaze to his old friend. Beside the scars at his left temple that stretched down to his neck, there were faint purple circles beneath his eyes. Curiosity flared as to what had happened to him in the war, but Evan wasn't willing to pry. Too many men had endured far too much during that dark time. Offering a half smile, he said, “I'm sure Julia will love it. Shall we meet there?”

Shooting Evan a wry grin, the baron nodded. “Yes, please. God knows I could use another man to help even the odds.”

They worked out the details, deciding to meet at
Sydney House at the eastern edge of the park an hour before sunset. Sophie saw him then and waved. Closing the clasps on her case, she set it aside and walked over to join him. “You survived the concert, I see.”

The baron nodded to them both and went to join Miss Effington. Evan turned his full attention to Sophie and smiled. “Quite. It was very different. Refreshing. I know I've heard you play before, but somehow I had no idea just how talented you are.”

She ducked her head as if embarrassed. “Charity is the one who made it all work. She rewrote the parts of the piece in a way that made us all sound good. Quite an accomplishment, really.”

He gestured toward the river path, and they started walking together. “And she did a lovely job, but she had nothing to do with your talent. You should be proud.”

“Charity is talented. May is talented. I merely practice within an inch of my life and simply try to keep up.”

“All the more impressive, then.” Natural talent was one thing, but to train oneself to be as accomplished as Sophie was when it didn't come naturally was something to be admired.

Her cheeks bloomed with a hint of soft color as she bit back a smile. “You, sir, are too easily impressed.”

“I'm not, actually. I'm a great lover of music, so I know when something falls short. Take Miss Harmon, for example.”

“I'd rather not,” she replied, wrinkling her nose.

He laughed, cutting an amused glance her way. “Bear with me. Miss Harmon is not a natural talent. She is accomplished, but her music is calculated and cold. If I were to guess, I'd say she has much more interest in being accomplished than she does in the music itself.”

It was bad form to speak of her this way, but after the
way she had treated Sophie at the ball last week, she deserved that from him and more. “You, on the other hand, are accomplished as well, but more importantly, you manage to be engaging when you play. You are invested in the music, and you therefore pull your audience in as well.”

“I can scarce imagine more lovely praise—it nearly makes the eight million hours of practice worth it,” she said with a wink. “However, I think we have reached the compliment quota of the day. Should you go forth, I fear I shall get a terribly big head, and with hair as wild as mine, I'd best not chance looking like an ogre.”

“Ah. Excellent point.” He laughed out loud when she grimaced. “What? If I had said ‘terrible point,' you would have accused me of complimenting your lovely hair.”

“I would have done no such thing. I am well enough acquainted with my hair to know that any such compliment would purely be Spanish coin,” she said, her tone full of wry humor. “Now then, allow me to thank you for your excellent tutelage today, so the deficit of flattery may be righted.”

“Deficit of flattery? Are we supposed to be keeping count?” He made a face. “I despise mathematics, just so you know. The only tallies I'll be keeping are the ones in the estate's ledgers. Blood—er, dreadfully dull business, that.”

A breeze from the river gusted over them, and she rubbed her arms idly. “How can one despise mathematics? It's neat and orderly and utterly predictable. Much like music, it is the universal language.”

He sent her a disgusted look. “If you tell me that you are accomplished at numbers as well, I may very well have to escort you back to your mother.”

She held up her hands. “Fine, fine, I won't say another thing . . . except that you look very handsome in that
color jacket, and that is it. We're even now and I won't say another word.” The sentences ran together in a blur, ending with a definitive slash of her hand.

He chuckled, shaking his head as they followed the curve of the path where it ran alongside the riverbank. She was damn good company, he'd give her that. They continued along in silence for a while. The trees lining the path provided shelter from the afternoon sun and, with the breeze blowing up from the river, it made for a pleasant excursion.

When they'd gone a few minutes in silence, she suddenly blew out a pent-up breath. “I fear there is something you must know about me, my lord.”

Evan slowed. That sounded rather ominous. “All right,” he said, his curiosity piqued.

“The truth is, I am a talker. A terrible gabster, in fact. So much so that my father says in a race between my mouth and my mind, my mouth would win by a mile every time, and truly, I can't say I disagree.”