Sweet Enemy by Heather Snow

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 bouquetheld 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