A Game of Hearts

by Joanna Barker

“I am sorry about Sylvia,” he said. I sighed. “That is also not your fault.” “No,” he said. “But I thought I knew her better than that.” “So did I.” My heart clenched.

“Mr. Eastbrook was everything I had wanted in a husband,” I said quietly. “But I cannot waste time pining for a man who does not want me

But still I folded the note carefully, stacking it with the first, and tucked them into the drawer of my writing desk. It was as close to a love letter as I was ever to get.

Including Sylvia. I had yet to see anything of my friend. But she would be there tonight—she had to be. Sylvia never missed a ball, and I was determined to speak with her. I wanted to know, from her own mouth, why she had not come to my practice.

That scar meant I had survived. That I had people who loved me enough to dig through the night to reach me. I decided right then that every time I noticed my scar, I would say a prayer of gratitude for each and every blessing that I had.

He froze when he saw me, face blank as his gaze traveled the length of me, then jumped back to meet my eyes.

But there was something in this gesture, this simple rose. Perhaps it was the realization that he’d gone to the garden with the express purpose of getting it for me. Or perhaps it was the blue ribbon, tied just so beneath the spreading petals. Blue again. He had to mean something by it. “No.” The word escaped me in a breathless rush. “No, I want it.” His eyes met mine, reflecting the vibrancy of the setting sun. He handed the rose to me and I took it. No thorns pricked my skin—he’d gone to the trouble of removing them all. “Thank you,” I said softly. He cleared his throat. “You are welcome.”

“You are one to speak,” I snapped, “living the pampered life of a gentleman.” “Hardly,” he said. “I’ve supported myself since I left Oxford.” His response surprised me so much, I only stared, unable to respond. I’d always assumed Tristan lived off an allowance from Mr. Raines.

How I wished we could be like Mama and Papa. They did not always agree on everything, of course. But it was how they disagreed that made the difference. They sought to understand one another’s perspective from a point of love, and from there compromise inevitably came.

I looked down at the white rose still in my hands. Though he might deny it, I knew it was a symbol of something. Perhaps a small, barely-there hope for the future. I had to have hope as well.

“And I do not want to dance,” she said, “until we learn to talk

“You are determined,” I said softly, my voice just barely audible above the strains of the violins. “You are talented. You love more fully and deeply than I can ever imagine. It terrifies me, in fact. I don’t think I’ve ever loved anyone the way you love.”

We faced opposite directions, but that bare connection between us sent a charged energy through my body. I’d never felt anything like it before. “You’ve changed more than you think,” she said. “The Tristan from twelve years ago would never have given me a flower.”

Perhaps it is time to stop assuming the worst and instead try to see each other for who we are, rather than who we think the other is.”

“We had little choice in this engagement. But we can choose how we continue in it.”

“Let us declare another truce,” she said. “But a permanent one, instead of one for survival.” “I would argue that this is simply a survival of a different sort.” “True enough.”

“What sort of something?” His lips twitched. He thought to make me blush. I raised my chin. “Something decidedly less innocent than holding hands.” “Yet I recall a bit more than holding hands.” Memories lit up my mind like a lantern in the dark—his strong arm curled around me, pulling me close for warmth, my hand against the smooth skin near his open neckline. So much for not blushing. My cheeks tingled, no doubt bright red. “Quiet. Someone will hear and then this charade will be pointless.” “Very well,” he said with a sigh of long-suffering, even as his eyes danced. I turned away with a smile.

“Oliver, what are you doing here?” That was Sylvia’s silken tones. “Since you’ve been avoiding me, this was the only way to speak with you.” Oliver’s voice was hard. Sylvia had been avoiding Oliver as well? “I’ve been terribly occupied lately,” she said. “I am sorry for it. Perhaps next week, we might—” “I think we can speak plainly,” Oliver said. “You haven’t been busy. You’ve been afraid.” “Afraid?” She laughed nervously. “Afraid of what?” “Of Society,” he responded. “Of doing what’s right.” Sylvia said nothing, and I could only imagine her face. Oliver rarely spoke like this, so severely, and never to her.

“Then why haven’t you come to see her?” he asked. “Why haven’t you spoken to her tonight?” Two excellent questions, in my opinion. I craned my ear closer to hear her answer. A long beat of silence. “What would you have me do, Oliver? Destroy my reputation along with hers?” “I would have you be the person I thought you were,” he said with an edge of sadness. “Do not pretend such self-righteousness,” she snapped. “If she was not your sister, you would make the same choice.” “No,” he said. “No, I do not think that I would. And it tells me everything I need to know about you.”

“Friends are not so easy to come by. She should not treat you so.”

Weston, Mrs. Vale and her daughter, Eliza, Mrs. Mifflin—who seemed perfectly happy to accept the compromise I’d offered: an engaged hostess free of scandal in exchange for their continued membership.

“A wedding to stave off scandal,” I countered. “It is not as though I am eagerly counting down the days. Trust me, neither of us wishes for it.” Cora’s eyes focused on something behind me. “Are you so sure?” I tipped my head. “Of course I am. We’ve always loathed each other.” “Then why is Mr. Gates currently standing on your terrace?

In his hands was a beautiful bow, its shining, polished wood reflecting the gentle summer light. “I thought,” he said, not meeting my eyes, “that I should probably replace the one I broke.” I stared at the bow. It was beautiful, to be sure. I’d never seen such exquisite craftsmanship. Yet I stared for another reason. Just by looking at it, I could tell that this bow was the perfect size for me.

Who is your man? I hadn’t any idea there was someone with such talent in Sandcliffe.” He grinned. “His name is John Coultry. I’d been keeping him a secret, but since I have recently invested in his shop, it would be foolish to keep such information to myself.”

Tristan nodded. “My father was a successful barrister and left me a small inheritance when he died. Nothing grand, but it was enough to help me start. I’ve invested in a dozen businesses over the last few years.” I focused my eyes again on the bow, pretending I was not nearly as impressed as I was. “Is that what you meant when you said you’ve supported yourself since you left Oxford?”

“I don’t mind living simply, Tristan,” I said. “And we’ll have my dowry.” “Your dowry will remain untouched,” he said firmly. “I’ll find a way.”

But he did not look offended in the least. In fact, he stared at me, his mouth parted, with an intensity in his eyes that I’d only ever seen during prize shoots. It did nothing to calm the spiraling warmth underneath my skin. He swallowed, his gaze dipping to my lips. “You are welcome,” he said, voice gruff.

I wanted to kiss him, and, if my womanly senses were not entirely off the mark, he wanted to kiss me back.

But when Marigold had kissed my cheek, her shallow breath against my ear and her hand on my chest, I seemed to lose all ability to form rational thought. I would likely have agreed to anything. I was fortunate, really, that this was all I’d trapped myself into.

Coultry considered that. “Very well,” he said with a grumble. “But I’ll not be kissing anyone’s boots. It was bad enough delivering Lord Beauford’s bow the other day.” “Oh?” I shot him a curious glance. “How did he like it?” He crossed his arms, face tight. “He said the work was acceptable. Acceptable! As if it wasn’t the finest bow I’ve ever made.”

After all, if I had to marry, perhaps it was good I should marry someone like Marigold. She navigated conversations and Society like a sloop amongst bulky merchantmen. If I wanted to grow my investments and continue to thrive, then she could prove a valuable asset.

The men were all certain they had the best method, the best technique, the best equipment, and no one bothered to learn from each other or try anything new.

“In truth, I think I am coming to realize that perhaps I did have a great deal of luck. Marigold is . . .” I shook my head. “Well, she is something.”

“Then perhaps you might take care that you do not offend the society you already belong to.” “There are no rules against it.” Lord Beauford tightened his jaw. “Not yet.” We both knew he could throw me from the society faster than a drunk tossing back an ale. Yet we also both knew I was the best archer he had. With the Lady Patroness’s Meeting fast approaching, and Marigold’s society posing a bigger threat than he’d anticipated, he could not risk losing me.

I watched him leave, eyes narrowed. He had me pinned for now, but if there was anything I knew, it was that life had a way of catching one off guard. And if anyone deserved a storm of misfortunes, it was the Baron Beauford.

But somehow, even when we disagreed, I never wanted him gone. Every day after he left Crossdale, my chest always felt a bit empty. Incomplete.

If only I wasn’t so . . . so . . . unbalanced because of my own feelings toward Tristan. Every time his eyes met mine across the lawn, lightning darted up my spine. I had to look away and catch my breath.

My chin pulled back. “Roving?” “Yes, roving,” he said, amused. “You go about the countryside selecting marks in turn. Whichever arrows land within five low lengths of the mark—”

My eyes lingered on his shoulders and trim waist. I knew from watching him shoot for the last few years that his jacket hid well-conditioned muscles. I simply had never imagined finding myself appreciating his hard work so very much.

Roving was quite different from target shooting. While the intent was still the same—shooting one’s arrow as close to the mark as possible—the methods were vastly different.

“Not in the least.” He looked completely unruffled. “This is a long game, Mari.” My fingers fumbled over my arrows, dropping one to the grass. He picked it up for me with an amused look and I mumbled a thanks as I took it. He’d never called me Mari before. A dozen people or more called me that. But not him. Never him. I gave my head a shake. It was just a name. But he said it with such intimacy, such ease, that I was nearly undone. And if him saying my name undid me, I could only imagine what a kiss might do.

“As I thought,” she said. “I hadn’t noticed before. I never stood close enough.” “Close enough for what?” I took another arrow. “Your right hand,” she said. “You hold the arrow too far up your fingers.” “I beg to differ.” I raised my bow and drew back the arrow. “I’ve shot this way for years and seem to do perfectly well.” “You could do better.” She stepped forward. “Here, let me show you.”

“There is a reason I do not shoot this way,” I said, managing to keep my voice calm. “My grip is too tenuous. I’m not in control.” “So don’t be in control.”

I felt the need to explain, lest she think me rude. “Uncle Matthew was my mother’s only brother. My father had no siblings, and none of my grandparents live.”

I pulled the shilling from my pocket, the silver dull and worn. “I became ill first,” I said. “A fever, chills. Nothing we hadn’t seen before. I recovered, but my parents fell ill soon after. My mother had it the worst.” I swallowed. “She died after only two days.” Marigold listened, head bent as she looked at the shilling in my hand. “Father held on longer. I was certain he would recover.” I shook my head. “One day, he called me to his bed. He pressed a shilling into my hand, told me to go to the bakery on the corner and buy a sweet for myself.” I paused. “He told me that he loved me. That seemed strange in the moment, but I understood after.” “Oh, Tristan,” she whispered. I could not stop or I would never finish. And it was suddenly very important that I finished this story. “The bakery was closed. My father died before I returned. It was only years later that I realized he’d sent me away so I did not have to see it.”

“Never say you love less than I do,” she said quietly. “I think you loved very deeply, once.”

If we hadn’t been trapped in that mine, would I ever have realized who Marigold truly was? I did not think so. I was so convinced of my own opinions, I literally needed a crack to the head to change them. Bless that rock.

His lips found mine, soft and slow. A burst of light illuminated the recesses of my mind. Every thought within me shouted that I was kissing Tristan, but every inch of my body already knew it. I blazed with awareness as his fingertips pressed into my ribs, as his lips wandered across mine with such care. Perhaps too much care. I knew him well. He was thinking, and kissing did not require thinking.

Fire raced through me, scorching and blistering. But this was no destroying fire—it filled me with a desire and a wanting I’d never seen in myself before.

“We need to run for Crossdale.” He almost had to shout to be heard above the rain. “Do we?” I tugged his cravat. I wanted to stay right where I was, with him in the rain. A slow smile spread over his lips, and I had to stop myself from throwing myself against them again. I’d never been drunk, but I imagined this was how it felt.