Cocky Earl - Annabelle Anders Page 0,70

his attention back to the target. Charley’s challenger had managed to hit the second ring around the center one.

“I should have warmed up.”

“A commendable shot.” Stone’s encouragement had Jules wondering who of his friends had wagered on Charley and who had wagered on Miss Somerset.

Because, of course, they would never pass up such an opportunity.

“Miss Jackson.” Chase gestured for Charley, who had retrieved the arrow she’d used a moment before, to take her turn.

“Best shot out of three wins?” she asked, looking far too innocent for his comfort.

Surely, she’d done this before? Or perhaps, he held back a grin, she’d killed a few bears. It would not have surprised him. The fact that she surprised him as often as she had with something she said or did was already rather stupefying.

“Best out of three.” Jules met her gaze. What in bloody hell was going on in that complicated brain of hers?

She stepped up to the imaginary line where Miss Somerset had shot from and then took a step backward.

And then she sent him a look.

And he knew.

It was the same look she’d had when she offered him a taste of her whiskey. It was the same look she’d had when she’d tasted the scotch.

She was in complete control of this competition.

Jules exhaled a breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding.

Charley lifted the bow and slipped the arrow onto the string with steady hands. Would she hit the inner rim or the center of the bullseye? She closed one eye and then let her arrow shoot forward and land…

On the outer edge of the outer circle. A groan of disappointment floated through the room followed by subdued applause when it barely managed to cling to the side bale of hay it protruded from. What the devil?

He’d have to remind himself never to play cards with her. The shot was a bluff. It was a perfectly orchestrated maneuver to make the other girl feel overly confident.

“At least this one didn’t shatter another one of Lady Westerley’s vases.” Miss Somerset edged Charley out of her way and took up her stance.

Miss Somerset’s second shot wasn’t quite as good as her first one, landing on the inner line of the second circle. Small applause was offered once again. This contest wasn’t proving nearly as entertaining as the crowd had hoped for. Jules glanced around at their faces but was caught by the ironic expression on Greys’ face.

Charley wasn’t fooling him either. No, in fact, this was exactly the sort of thing Greys himself would do. Greys would never accept a wager he wasn’t sure of—one of which he didn’t hold the upper hand.

Charley lifted her bow and lined up her next shot. Jules held his breath. Would she make this one a better shot or equally as spectacularly bad?

Jules folded his arms across his chest, pleased that he had a perfect excuse for watching her.

He knew nothing of romantic love, but by God he wanted her. Losing the bet to her father had been a godsend.

The onlookers gasped as Charley’s arrow landed, if possible, in what would have been the identical position where Miss Somerset’s had stuck if two arrows could penetrate one hole.

Stronger applause erupted this time.

Jules just barely caught sight of the disgusted glance Miss Somerset sent in Charley’s direction. He rubbed his chin as the disgruntled young lady took very careful aim for her last shot. It was as though Charley wanted the lady to take her best shot this time.

And it was a damn good one. The near perfect bullseye sent another gasp of appreciation through the onlookers.

Charley caught him watching her and raised her brows innocently—too innocently. As if to convince him she’d done her best and would most likely lose.

Jules didn’t believe her stance for an instant. He rubbed his hands together when she stepped forward to shoot.

If she won, he would have her to himself for a good part of tomorrow. He would kiss her again. He would make their courtship public once and for all. She’d accept him. Something powerful existed between the two of them that even she could not deny.

The drop of sweat he’d felt at the back of his neck trailed slowly down his back when he noticed what appeared to be an indecisiveness on her part as she aimed.

With her left eye closed, she wavered, paused, wavered and then with what he could only think of as the certainty of an expert, released the string.

Not a near perfect bull’s eye.

A perfect