The Last Duchess (The Lennox Series)(121)

With calm hands, she loaded the weapon with a bullet he produced from his pocket then eyed the target, remembering her father’s many lessons. Be the missile, travel along as the missile and find your target. Aim is everything. Make your hand, your eye, the missile and the target as one, in harmony.

She fired and a hole appeared in the target, just left of center. She reloaded again and that bullet hit close to the same spot. “It fires a bit left.” She corrected her aim by moving to the right ever so slightly, and hit the target dead center. “Now you try.”

He did, but his shots were several inches to the left of center. “It has less of a kick than I’m accustomed to. Quite nice, don’t you think?”

“Extremely nice, Blix. It isn’t so heavy as my father’s pistols.”

He reloaded and handed it to her, expecting her to take another shot, his smile slight, his look a bit anxious. “Do you really like it, Jane, or are you only being kind?”

It was impossible to remain cool toward him in that moment, he was so very anxious to please her. How could she not express her gratitude? She took the pistol and smiled her pleasure. “It is, without a doubt, the very best, most wonderful gift I’ve ever received. Yes, it is a very fine piece and I shall be proud to own it. I’m astounded you would give it to me, as I thought you disliked my enjoyment of pistols.”

He became very sober and looked away, toward the target. “I wish for you to be happy, Jane. Anything that gives you pleasure is a good thing, to my mind. Sherbourne shed some light on the reasons behind your unusual interests, that he wanted you with him, instead of learning to stitch, or play the pianoforte. How ignoble it would be of me to dislike anything you learned to enjoy under those circumstances. He’s terribly proud of you and loves you very much. I’ve come to respect him a great deal, for many reasons, but perhaps most of all because he raised you.” His dark gaze turned to hers. “As we go on, I only become more fascinated with you, for you’ve so many lovely surprises. I see now that you are, indeed, a crack shot. How many men can claim anything so marvelous as to be married to one such as you? I foresee myself the envy of every male of my acquaintance and suspect it will become all the rage for wives to take up pistols.”

It was a ludicrous notion, but she understood his point. Far from disliking her ability at pistols, he was proud. “Thank you, Michael.”

They stared at each other for several long moments and she had the feeling he was about to say something terribly important, but the moment passed and he looked away. Clearing his throat, he turned toward the stables and strode off, leaving her alone with the pistol, the target, and the sudden realization, he was waiting for her to speak. In his way, he had apologized, and she had missed it, hadn’t forgiven him.

Men were, indeed, very strange, driven, it seemed, by pride. He wouldn’t say it aloud, but he was sorry, she was certain. She was also very sure he loved her. Why, then, would he not speak it? Did he fear she would reject him, that she wouldn’t return his feelings? Good Lord, what a complicated man she’d married. Tonight, she decided, they would talk. She would begin and see where it led, if perhaps they could put the past away and start afresh. She was weary of the fight, yet unable to move forward until he acknowledged the wrong he’d committed by betraying her confidence.

With a deep sigh, she tucked the pistol into the pocket of her apron and wandered back to the house, lost in thought.

As she reached the back terrace and climbed the steps to the door, Mr. Dashing came out and greeted her. “Your Grace, you’ve a caller. The vicar’s daughter, Miss Bella Pool. I’ve put her in the drawing room while I came to see if you are in.”

Remembering the woman’s strange demeanor of Sunday, Jane almost said no, she was not in. But Miss Bella had most likely walked all the way from the village, and she didn’t have the heart to turn her away.

“No, Dashing, it’s quite all right. I’ll go and receive her.”

Inside, she made her way to the drawing room, but didn’t remove her apron. She and Mrs. Dashing planned to reorganize the vegetable cellar that afternoon, and the sooner she said goodbye to Miss Bella, the better. Her apron would send a message that she was busy, so perhaps the woman would take her leave that much quicker.

“Good afternoon, Miss Bella,” she said as she came into the drawing room.

“Good afternoon, Your Grace.” She didn’t apologize for her unannounced arrival, nor did she explain the reason for her visit.

Fearing it was to be a long hour ahead, Jane invited her to sit, then rang for tea. Within minutes, she knew exactly why Miss Bella had set her teeth on edge, all those years ago. Perhaps age and experience had lent her further intuition, or perhaps Miss Bella’s character was more pronounced. She was a different person by herself, without her stern, starchy father’s presence. No longer a girl, of course, two years older than Jane, six years of maturity had unfortunately not made Miss Bella more attractive, for she was decidedly plain, with a strong overbite and a weak chin, underscored by a thick neck and body. As the minutes ticked past, whatever sympathy Jane had felt toward Miss Bella vanished. Her haughty, brusque, and decidedly antagonistic manner didn’t lend itself to sympathy.