The Sum Of All Kisses Part 8

Honoria smiled graciously. "Then you shall entertain Lord Hugh this evening before supper?"

"Entertain," Sarah repeated sardonically. "Shall I dance? Because you know I'm not going to play the pianoforte."

Honoria laughed as she headed for the door. "Just be your usual charming self," she said, poking her face back in the room for one last second. "He will love you."

"G.o.d forbid."

"He works in strange ways . . ."

"Not that strange."

"Methinks the lady-"

"Don't say it," Sarah cut in.

Honoria's brows rose. "Shakespeare certainly knew what he was talking about."

Sarah threw a pillow at her.

But she missed. It was that kind of a day.

Later that day Chatteris had arranged for target shooting that afternoon, and as this was one of the few sports in which Hugh could still partic.i.p.ate, he decided to head down to the south lawn at the appointed time. Or rather, thirty minutes before the appointed time. His leg was still annoyingly stiff, and he found that even with his cane to aid him, he was walking more slowly than usual. There were remedies to ease the pain, but the salve that had been put forth by his doctor smelled like death. As for laudanum, he could not tolerate the dullness of mind it brought on.

All that was left was drink, and it was true that a snifter or two of brandy seemed to loosen the muscle and suppress the ache. But he rarely allowed himself to over-imbibe; just look what had happened the last time he'd got drunk. He also tried his best to avoid spirits until nightfall at the earliest. The few times he'd given in and gulped something down, he'd been disgusted with himself for days.

He had so few methods with which to measure his strength. It had become a point of honor to make it through to dusk with only his wits to battle the pain.

Stairs were always the most difficult, and he paused at the landing to flex and straighten his leg. Maybe he shouldn't bother. He hadn't even made it halfway to the south lawn and already the familiar dull throb was pulsing through his thigh. No one would be the wiser if he just turned around and went back to his room.

But d.a.m.n it, he wanted to shoot. He wanted to hold a gun in his hand and raise his arm straight and true. He wanted to squeeze the trigger and feel the recoil as it shook through his shoulder. Most of all he wanted to hit the b.l.o.o.d.y bull's-eye.

So he was compet.i.tive. He was a man, it was to be expected.

There would be whispers and furtive looks, he was sure. It would not go unnoticed that Hugh Prentice was holding a pistol in the vicinity of Daniel Smythe-Smith. But Hugh was rather perversely looking forward to that. Daniel was, too. He had said as much when they'd talked at breakfast.

"Ten pounds if we can make someone faint," Daniel had declared, right after he'd done a rather fine falsetto imitation of one of Almack's patronesses, complete with a hand to the heart and a stellar collection of just about every expression of feminine outrage known to man.

"Ten pounds?" Hugh murmured, glancing at him over his cup of coffee. "To me or to you?"

"To both," Daniel said with a cheeky grin. "Marcus is good for it."

Marcus gave him a look and turned back to his eggs.

"He's getting very stuffy in his old age," Daniel said to Hugh.

To Marcus's credit, all he did was roll his eyes.

But Hugh had smiled. And he had realized that he was enjoying himself more than any time in recent memory. If the gentlemen were shooting, he was d.a.m.n well going to join them.

It took at least five minutes to make his way down to the ground floor, however, and once there, he decided that it would be best to cut through one of Fensmore's many salons instead of taking the long way round to the south lawn.

Over the past three and a half years, Hugh had become remarkably adept at ferreting out every possible shortcut.

Third door on the right, then in, turn left, cross the room, and exit through the French doors. As an added benefit, he could take a moment to rest on one of the sofas. Most of the ladies had gone off to the village, so it was unlikely that anyone would be there. By his estimation he had a quarter of an hour before the shooting was due to start.

The drawing room wasn't terribly large, just a few seating arrangements. There was a blue chair facing him that looked comfortable enough. He couldn't see over the back of the sofa that sat opposite it, but there was probably a low table between them. He could put his leg up for a moment, and no one would be the wiser.

He made his way over, but he must not have been paying proper attention, because his cane clipped the edge of the table, which led directly to his s.h.i.+n clipping the edge of the table, which in turn led to a most creative string of curses clipping out of his mouth as he turned around to sit.

That was when he saw Sarah Pleinsworth, asleep on the sofa.

Oh, b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l.

He'd been having a better than average day, the pain in his leg notwithstanding. The last thing he needed was a private audience with the oh-so dramatic Lady Sarah. She'd probably accuse him of something nefarious, follow that with a trite declaration of hatred, then finish up with something about those fourteen men who had become engaged during the season of 1821.

He still didn't know what that was supposed to be about.

Or why he even recalled it. He'd always had a good memory, but really, couldn't his brain let go of the truly useless?

He had to get through the room without waking her up. It was not easy to tiptoe with a cane, but by G.o.d that was what he would do if that was what it took to make it through the room unnoticed.

Well, there went his hopes of resting his leg. Very carefully, he edged out from behind the low wooden table, careful not to touch anything but carpet and air. But as anyone who had ever stepped outside knew, air could move, and apparently he was breathing too hard, because before he made it past the sofa, Lady Sarah woke from her slumber with a shriek that startled him so much that he fell back against another chair, toppled over the upholstered arm, and landed awkwardly on the seat.

"What? What? What are you doing?" She blinked rapidly before spearing him with a glare. "You."

It was an accusation. It absolutely was.

"Oh, you gave me a fright," she said, rubbing her eyes.

"Apparently." He swore under his breath as he tried to swing his legs over to the front of the chair. "Ow!"

"What?" she asked impatiently.

"I kicked the table."

"Why?"

He scowled. "I didn't do it on purpose."

She seemed only then to realize that she was lounging most casually along the length of the sofa and, with a flurry of movement, straightened herself to a more proper upright position. "Excuse me," she said, still fl.u.s.tered. Her dark hair was falling from its coiffure; he deemed it best not to point this out.

"Please accept my apology," he said stiffly. "I did not mean to startle you."

"I was reading. I must have fallen asleep. I . . . ah . . ." She blinked a few more times, then her eyes finally seemed to focus. On him. "Were you sneaking up on me?"

"No," he said, with perhaps more speed and fervor than was polite. He motioned to the door that led outside. "I was just cutting through. Lord Chatteris has made arrangements for target shooting."

"Oh." She looked suspicious for about one second more, then this clearly gave way to embarra.s.sment. "Of course. There is no reason you would be sneak- That is to say-" She cleared her throat. "Well."

"Well."

She waited for a moment, then asked pointedly, "Don't you plan to continue to the lawn?"

He stared at her.

"For the shooting," she clarified.

He shrugged. "I'm early."

She did not seem to care for that answer. "It's quite pleasant outside."

He glanced out the window. "So it is." She was trying to get rid of him, and he supposed she deserved a certain measure of respect for not even trying to hide it. On the other hand, now that she was awake-and he was seated in a chair, resting his leg-there seemed no reason to hurry onward.

He could endure anything for ten minutes, even Sarah Pleinsworth.

"Do you plan to shoot?" she asked.

"I do."

"With a gun?"

"That's how one usually does it."

Her face tightened. "And you think this is prudent?"

"Do you mean because your cousin will be there? I a.s.sure you, he will have a gun as well." He felt his lips curve into an emotionless smile. "It will be almost like a duel."

"Why do you joke about such things?" she snapped.

He let his gaze land rather intently on hers. "When the alternative is despair, I generally prefer humor. Even if it is of the gallows variety."

Something flickered in her eyes. A hint of understanding, perhaps, but it was gone too quickly to be sure he'd seen it. And then she pursed her lips, an expression so prim it was clear he'd imagined that brief moment of sympathy.

"I want it known that I do not approve," she said.

"Duly noted."

"And"-she lifted her chin and turned slightly away-"I think it is a very bad idea."

"How is that different from a lack of approval?"

She just scowled.

He had a thought. "Do you find it bad enough to faint?"

She snapped back to attention. "What?"

"If you swoon on the lawn, Chatteris must give Daniel and me ten pounds each."

Her lips formed an O and then froze in that position.

He leaned back and smiled lazily. "I could be persuaded to offer you a twenty percent cut."

Her face moved, but she remained without words. d.a.m.n, but it was good fun to bait her.

"Never mind," he said. "We'd never carry it off."

Her mouth finally closed. Then opened again. Of course. He should have known her silence could be only fleeting.

"You don't like me," she said.

"Not really, no." He probably should have lied, but somehow it seemed that anything less than the truth would have been even more insulting.

"And I don't like you."

"No," he said mildly, "I didn't think you did."

"Then why are you here?"

"At the wedding?"

"In the room. Lud, you're obtuse." The last bit she said to herself, but his hearing had always been fairly sharp.

He rarely trotted his injury out as a trump card, but it seemed a good time. "My leg," he said with slow deliberation. "It hurts."

There was a delicious silence. Delicious for him, that was. For her, he imagined it was awful.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled, looking down before he could ascertain the extent of her flush. "That was very rude of me."

"Think nothing of it. You've done worse."

Her eyes flared.

He brought the tips of his fingers together, his hands making a hollow triangle. "I remember our previous encounter with unpleasant accuracy."

She leaned forward in fury. "You chased my cousin and aunt from a party."

"They fled. There is a difference. And I did not even know they were there."

"Well, you should have done."

"Clairvoyance has never been one of my talents."

He could see her straining to control her temper, and when she spoke, her jaw barely moved. "I know that you and Cousin Daniel have patched things up, but I'm sorry, I cannot forgive you for what you did."

"Even if he has?" Hugh asked softly.

She s.h.i.+fted uncomfortably, and her mouth pressed into several different expressions before she finally said, "He can afford to be charitable. His life and happiness have been restored."