Another glance over her shoulder confirmed his hypothesis. She nearly groaned as two more men walked through the door. The tavern keeper called out a friendly greeting and began to pour drinks, while the newcomers wandered over to the gathering of men to see what all the excitement was about.
“Here now, the girl’s to shoot,” one of the men complained as Nick moved into place.
He ignored them as if they weren’t there.
When it became clear Nick was competing as well, a fresh flurry of bets ensued, the one old man continuing to make furious notions in his small leather notepad.
With an easy, almost leonine grace, Nick positioned himself at the required distance in front of the target, took aim, and shot. The dart landed with a thwack, impaling its point in the ring just outside the center.
Cheers and groans went up, money trading hands as they waited for Nick’s next shot.
His second dart landed even closer than the first, hitting just a fraction of an inch away from its twin. He threw the last with an almost negligent grace.
The dart landed dead center.
More cheers and groans rang out.
“That was excellent,” Emma told him approvingly.
Nick smiled. “I’ve had a few years’ practice.”
While I’ve had only minutes, she realized, a renewed swooping sensation pitching like a rough tide inside her stomach.
Crossing to the board, he plucked out the darts, then returned to her side. “Ready, Emma?”
No, she thought, but she’d come too far to turn back now.
“I believe we should give the lady three tries,” Nick said, his voice raised to address the entire crowd. “It seems only fair.”
“Aye,” called one of the original old men. “A turn is always thrown in threes, so she ought to have a proper ’un.”
“Yeh would say that, considerin’ ye bet she’d hit the mark,” another man called out.
Several of the men laughed at the sarcastic remark. But after another minute’s discussion, they all agreed to the terms. She would have three tries to make another perfect shot.
Every eye in the place fixed upon her. Turning away, she accepted the first dart from Nick. Once she moved into place, he stepped back so as not to crowd her and crossed his arms.
Focus, she whispered to herself. You can do this.
But the first shot went badly wide, barely striking the target.
Her heart sank; the room filled with a terrible silence.
Wordlessly, Nick offered her the next dart.
The second shot was as much of a disaster as the first, hitting high and to the distant left.
Her throat closed up as if it were being squeezed by an invisible hand, her breath growing shallow with approaching defeat. This next shot would be her last, and she was going to fail. Suddenly she knew it, wishing she’d never made her preposterous declaration that she could repeat what had only been a matter of luck after all.
The mutterings of the men behind her turned into an indistinct drone, the room seeming to narrow as her palms grew slick with perspiration and her stomach pitched like a rough sea. Nick stood beside her, his hand extended to offer the last dart. She didn’t want to look at him, sure of the satisfied smirk he must be wearing by now.
But she refused to act the coward.
Plucking the dart from his outstretched palm, she raised her eyes to his. But instead of smug pleasure, she found encouragement.
How could that be when he’d bet against her, sure she couldn’t possibly do as she claimed? Surely he couldn’t want her to win? It made no sense whatsoever.
“All you need is one,” he murmured encouragingly. “So make it count.”
Her stomach settled, the anxiety melting from muscles she hadn’t even realized were stiff. She took a moment to dry her hand on the handkerchief inside her pocket before positioning the dart between her fingers.
Now, what had she done before?
Instinctively she searched for the same feeling she’d had before, looking for the balance and the ease. She took aim, blocking out the noise of the men and the room around her so it was only the target and the dart. Then, just like before, she pulled her arm back and threw, closing her eyes the second the dart left her hand.
Noise erupted around her, but she couldn’t tell if it was cheers or curses.
“Open your eyes, Emma,” Nick said, his low, silky voice very near her ear. “You won.”
Chapter 7
“Aunt Felicity once again sends her regrets and says that due to her present fragile state of health, she will not be joining us for dinner tonight,” Nick informed Emma that evening as they stood together in the Lyndhurst House drawing room.
“Should a physician be sent for, then, if she is so very ill?” Emma asked with obvious concern.