The Princess and the Peer(32)

He scowled. “As I’m rapidly learning, you never do anything quietly.”

She pulled a face. “Don’t be a spoilsport. Please. You know it will be fun.”

“Trouble, more like,” he muttered dourly.

She fluttered her long lashes at him in what she hoped was an appealing way, although it wasn’t something she had ever tried using on a man before.

After a long moment, she saw his lips twitch.

“Very well,” he pronounced in the same severe tone. “But only a few; then we’re leaving.”

She suppressed the urge to clap and exclaim with delight, contenting herself with a wide smile instead. “Thank you, my lord. You are most kind.”

“Yes, I am,” he drawled sardonically. “And completely devoid of sense.” He stood and came around to help her from her chair.

All but bouncing on the toes of her supple brown leather half boots, she glided quickly across the scarred floor. Reaching the wooden target, she gave one of the burnished metal darts a tug, but it stubbornly refused to pull free. She tried another one with the same less-than-satisfactory result.

“Allow me,” Nick said, reaching an arm past her. His movements were simple and efficient as he easily twisted the darts from the wood. He held out his flattened palm where three of them lay. “Ladies first.”

She gathered them into her hand, then faced the board. Behind her, she knew the other men were watching. She ignored them, everyone but Nick, as she studied the numbers sketched in white paint onto the barrel round. “I aim for the center, correct?”

“As close as you can get.” Nick took a single step back to give her more room, then crossed his arms over his chest.

She raised one dart and threw, but her throw lacked power and, rather than sticking in the wood, the dart clattered noisily to the floor at the base of the target. She shot a glance at Nick out of the corner of her eye, expecting to find him laughing.

Instead, his face was calm, surprisingly understanding. “Easy beginner’s mistake. Try again and don’t be afraid of the board.”

“I am not afraid.” Lifting a second dart, she focused on the target and, with a fierce heave, hurled it forward. It stuck in the wood this time but just barely, hanging by the tip in a very precarious way.

“This is more difficult than it looks,” she admitted.

“Most talents that require skill generally are. Throw a little harder this time and move your fingers back on the body of the dart so it’s more evenly balanced in your hand.”

“Like this?” she said, trying to grasp the last dart as he suggested.

“No.” Taking her hand in his, he gently repositioned her fingers. A warm tingle chased over her skin, the sensation buzzing in crazy swirls up her arm. As far as she could tell though, Nick seemed unmoved. Without a word, he stepped away again.

Drawing a quick breath, she stared at the target, noticing as she did that the slight weight of the dart felt different now. She tightened her fingers and made herself concentrate on the game. Drawing back her arm, she shot the dart, squeezing her eyes closed a moment after she let go.

A small roar went up behind her and she cringed. Had she missed that badly again? Resigned to the fact that she was dreadful at darts, she made herself look at the target.

Her eyes went wide in astonishment.

The dart was not only buried straight and deep in the wood, but it was protruding from the exact center of the board.

“I did it!” she exclaimed, laughing in stunned jubilation. Without thinking, she grabbed Nick’s arm and gave it a hard, exultant squeeze. “Did you see? I did it.”

“Yes, you did,” Nick murmured.

“Yeh’ve a natural there,” piped one of the two old men. “Ne’er seen a woman throw like that.”

“Yeh ain’t ne’er seen a woman throw at all,” said the other. “But it was a right fine shot, all the same.”

“Lucky shot,” Nick murmured. “Then again, everyone is entitled to one, I suppose.”

Her hand fell away from his arm. “What an uncharitable thing to say.”

He raised a dark brow, clearly amused. “So you think it was skill, then? With your eyes closed?”

So he’d seen that, had he? Well, no matter, she told herself as she drew up straight and regarded him down the length of her nose, in spite of the fact that he stood a head taller than she did. “That, my lord, was technique.”

“Technique?” He barked out a laugh. “After shooting three darts, and two of them rather badly?”

“I was just getting my bearings with the first ones,” she declared with false bravado.

He laughed again, low in his throat. “Is that what you were doing? And now you believe yourself to be an expert player? Think you can duplicate that last shot, do you?”