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As much as I disliked Marigold—spoiled, haughty Marigold—shooting against her was a singular thrill. Especially when I came out on top.
“If ever I heard an offer of marriage from you, I would laugh before the words finished leaving your mouth.”
“But you would not know romance if it slapped you across the face.” “Like you are wishing to do right now?” “A lady would never.” “No, but you might.”
Mr. Eastbrook had made me feel warm and giggly, a girl in the first blush of love. But this feeling was stronger, deeper—and more complicated. Which was not at all surprising, considering the mercurial nature of my relationship with Tristan. No doubt these feelings were simply a natural reaction to the strain of the past few weeks.
