Why did you cry off?"
She stiffened in surprise; then, trying to match his light, mocking tone, she said, "Viscount Mondevale proved to be a trifle high in the instep about things like his fiancé cavorting about in cottages and greenhouses with you." She fired and missed.
"How many contenders are there this Season?" he asked conversationally as he turned to the target, pausing to wipe the gun.
She knew he meant contenders for her hand, and pride absolutely would not allow her to say there were none, nor had there been for a long time. "Well…" she said, suppressing a grimace as she thought of her stout suitor with a houseful of cherubs. Counting on the fact that he didn't move in the inner circles of the she assumed he wouldn't know much about either suitor. He raised the gun as she said, "There's Sir Francis Belhaven, for one."
Instead of firing immediately as he had before, he seemed to require a long moment to adjust his aim. "Belhaven's an old man," he said. The gun exploded, and the twig snapped off.
When he looked at her his eyes had chilled, almost as if he thought less of her. Elizabeth told herself she was imagining that and determined to maintain their mood of light conviviality. Since it was her turn, she picked up a gun and lifted it.
"Who's the other one?"
Relieved that he couldn't possibly find fault with the age of her reclusive sportsman, she gave him a mildly haughty smile. "Lord John Marchman," she said, and she fired.
Ian's shout of laughter almost drowned out the report from the gun. "Marchman!" he said when she scowled at him and thrust the butt of the gun in his stomach. "You must be joking!"
"You spoiled my shot," she countered.
"Take it again," he said, looking at her with a mixture of derision, disbelief, and amusement.
"No, I can't shoot with you laughing. And I'll thank you to wipe that smirk off your face. Lord Marchman is a very nice man."
"He is indeed," said Ian with an irritating grin. "And it's a damned good thing you like to shoot, because he sleeps with his guns and fishing poles. You'll spend the rest of your life slogging through streams and trudging through the woods."
"I happen to like to fish," she informed him, striving unsuccessfully not to lose her composure. "And Sir Francis may be a trifle older than I, but an elderly husband might be more kind and tolerant than a younger one."
"He'll have to be tolerant," Ian said a little shortly, turning his attention back to the guns, "or else a damned good shot."
It angered Elizabeth that he was suddenly attacking her when she had just worked it out in her mind that they were supposed to be dealing with what had happened in a light, sophisticated fashion. "I must say, you aren't being very mature very consistent!
She stiffened in surprise; then, trying to match his light, mocking tone, she said, "Viscount Mondevale proved to be a trifle high in the instep about things like his fiancé cavorting about in cottages and greenhouses with you." She fired and missed.
"How many contenders are there this Season?" he asked conversationally as he turned to the target, pausing to wipe the gun.
She knew he meant contenders for her hand, and pride absolutely would not allow her to say there were none, nor had there been for a long time. "Well…" she said, suppressing a grimace as she thought of her stout suitor with a houseful of cherubs. Counting on the fact that he didn't move in the inner circles of the she assumed he wouldn't know much about either suitor. He raised the gun as she said, "There's Sir Francis Belhaven, for one."
Instead of firing immediately as he had before, he seemed to require a long moment to adjust his aim. "Belhaven's an old man," he said. The gun exploded, and the twig snapped off.
When he looked at her his eyes had chilled, almost as if he thought less of her. Elizabeth told herself she was imagining that and determined to maintain their mood of light conviviality. Since it was her turn, she picked up a gun and lifted it.
"Who's the other one?"
Relieved that he couldn't possibly find fault with the age of her reclusive sportsman, she gave him a mildly haughty smile. "Lord John Marchman," she said, and she fired.
Ian's shout of laughter almost drowned out the report from the gun. "Marchman!" he said when she scowled at him and thrust the butt of the gun in his stomach. "You must be joking!"
"You spoiled my shot," she countered.
"Take it again," he said, looking at her with a mixture of derision, disbelief, and amusement.
"No, I can't shoot with you laughing. And I'll thank you to wipe that smirk off your face. Lord Marchman is a very nice man."
"He is indeed," said Ian with an irritating grin. "And it's a damned good thing you like to shoot, because he sleeps with his guns and fishing poles. You'll spend the rest of your life slogging through streams and trudging through the woods."
"I happen to like to fish," she informed him, striving unsuccessfully not to lose her composure. "And Sir Francis may be a trifle older than I, but an elderly husband might be more kind and tolerant than a younger one."
"He'll have to be tolerant," Ian said a little shortly, turning his attention back to the guns, "or else a damned good shot."
It angered Elizabeth that he was suddenly attacking her when she had just worked it out in her mind that they were supposed to be dealing with what had happened in a light, sophisticated fashion. "I must say, you aren't being very mature very consistent!
( Judith McNaught )
[ Almost Heaven ]
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