emphasize the viscount’s utter unsuitability as a suitor. Devonmont’s, too.
Lyons’s unsuitability was more murky. But Jackson could still make a case against the man, and he fully intended to do so as soon as he could get her alone. Preferably in a public area where what happened between them last night couldn’t occur again.
Liar. You want to kiss her so badly you can taste it.
It was a wonder he could shoot straight with her standing so near. She’d dressed to entice again today, this time in a heavy redingote the color of the forest. It turned her hazel eyes just green enough to remind him she was a Sharpe, with the same eyes as most of them. The expensive tailoring of her wool attire, a cross between a gown and a coat, reminded him she was a lady and an heiress, especially since she’d refrained from wearing her usual smock.
He’d never seen her shoot and had assumed that her prowess must be exaggerated. It was not. He hadn’t been able to keep track of her kills while focusing on his own, but he was fairly certain the number came close to his. He noted her concentration, the care she took in aiming, the way she compensated for wind and other variables. He’d never met another woman like her. She was magnificent.
“Listen, lads,” Devonmont called out. “I’m freezing over here. Might we take a few moments to warm our blood with a bit of drink?”
“Go right ahead,” Celia said archly. “I’ll just keep shooting.”
“That’s no way to treat our guests, sis,” Stoneville chided. “We should probably move to the east field anyway—this one’s just about played out. Gentlemen—and lady—put down your guns and come have some refreshment. We’ve got wine and ale, and Cook sent out some fine things in case we got hungry, too.”
The gentlemen seemed happy to rest, but Celia looked disgruntled. Jackson hid a smile. One would think she’d leap at the opportunity to flirt with her suitors, but she was bent only on winning. He liked that about her.
The footmen quickly set up a table with plates of bread, butter, cheese, and cake. But it was the pewter mugs of ale that Jackson welcomed, needing something to heat his blood. The weather was brisk, and he noticed Celia shivering, even in her wool redingote, though she didn’t seem to notice it herself. She was preoccupied by the servants who were counting the birds in the bags to give them a report of who was ahead in the shooting.
Jackson poured her a mug of ale and walked over to hand it to her. “Drink this, my lady. It will warm you.”
“Thank you,” she murmured as she took the mug.
His fingers brushed hers, and her gaze shot up to meet his. For a long moment they stared at each other, and he was reminded of how soft her mouth had been last night, how sweet her scent as he’d backed her against that wall and—
“Lady Celia, will you have some lemon cake?” Basto asked in a hard voice that was far too possessive.
She jumped as if caught in a naughty act. Pasting a smile to her face, she strolled over to the viscount. “I would adore some, thank you,” she said without a backward glance at Jackson.
Meanwhile, he couldn’t keep his eyes off her. How could she even tolerate that arse, let alone welcome his attentions? Every word out of the fellow’s mouth was prompted by a desire to gain her fortune.
But she didn’t know that yet.
“So, Gabe,” the duke said as he poured himself some wine, “after this is over, you should try out my new Manton detonator gun with the percussion caps.”
“Thanks, old chap, but Celia got one a couple of months ago. We’ve been giving it a regular try-out—I believe she’s using it today. It’s a fine gun, isn’t it, sis?”
The duke frowned. “Manton told me I was one of the first to have it.”
“ One of the first,” Jackson emphasized. “It appears Lady Celia was the first.”
She shot him a warning look. He ignored it.
“What Mr. Pinter meant to say,” she said smoothly,
Lyons’s unsuitability was more murky. But Jackson could still make a case against the man, and he fully intended to do so as soon as he could get her alone. Preferably in a public area where what happened between them last night couldn’t occur again.
Liar. You want to kiss her so badly you can taste it.
It was a wonder he could shoot straight with her standing so near. She’d dressed to entice again today, this time in a heavy redingote the color of the forest. It turned her hazel eyes just green enough to remind him she was a Sharpe, with the same eyes as most of them. The expensive tailoring of her wool attire, a cross between a gown and a coat, reminded him she was a lady and an heiress, especially since she’d refrained from wearing her usual smock.
He’d never seen her shoot and had assumed that her prowess must be exaggerated. It was not. He hadn’t been able to keep track of her kills while focusing on his own, but he was fairly certain the number came close to his. He noted her concentration, the care she took in aiming, the way she compensated for wind and other variables. He’d never met another woman like her. She was magnificent.
“Listen, lads,” Devonmont called out. “I’m freezing over here. Might we take a few moments to warm our blood with a bit of drink?”
“Go right ahead,” Celia said archly. “I’ll just keep shooting.”
“That’s no way to treat our guests, sis,” Stoneville chided. “We should probably move to the east field anyway—this one’s just about played out. Gentlemen—and lady—put down your guns and come have some refreshment. We’ve got wine and ale, and Cook sent out some fine things in case we got hungry, too.”
The gentlemen seemed happy to rest, but Celia looked disgruntled. Jackson hid a smile. One would think she’d leap at the opportunity to flirt with her suitors, but she was bent only on winning. He liked that about her.
The footmen quickly set up a table with plates of bread, butter, cheese, and cake. But it was the pewter mugs of ale that Jackson welcomed, needing something to heat his blood. The weather was brisk, and he noticed Celia shivering, even in her wool redingote, though she didn’t seem to notice it herself. She was preoccupied by the servants who were counting the birds in the bags to give them a report of who was ahead in the shooting.
Jackson poured her a mug of ale and walked over to hand it to her. “Drink this, my lady. It will warm you.”
“Thank you,” she murmured as she took the mug.
His fingers brushed hers, and her gaze shot up to meet his. For a long moment they stared at each other, and he was reminded of how soft her mouth had been last night, how sweet her scent as he’d backed her against that wall and—
“Lady Celia, will you have some lemon cake?” Basto asked in a hard voice that was far too possessive.
She jumped as if caught in a naughty act. Pasting a smile to her face, she strolled over to the viscount. “I would adore some, thank you,” she said without a backward glance at Jackson.
Meanwhile, he couldn’t keep his eyes off her. How could she even tolerate that arse, let alone welcome his attentions? Every word out of the fellow’s mouth was prompted by a desire to gain her fortune.
But she didn’t know that yet.
“So, Gabe,” the duke said as he poured himself some wine, “after this is over, you should try out my new Manton detonator gun with the percussion caps.”
“Thanks, old chap, but Celia got one a couple of months ago. We’ve been giving it a regular try-out—I believe she’s using it today. It’s a fine gun, isn’t it, sis?”
The duke frowned. “Manton told me I was one of the first to have it.”
“ One of the first,” Jackson emphasized. “It appears Lady Celia was the first.”
She shot him a warning look. He ignored it.
“What Mr. Pinter meant to say,” she said smoothly,
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