Tête-à-Tête, 17 August 1789
Imogen handed her fowling piece over to Lord Somercote and grinned as he shook his head. She’d completely missed her mark and had blown a spectacularly large chunk out of one of his oaks. She felt more than a little foolish, but they’d all insisted she come along, even when she’d protested that she’d never so much as held a gun in her life. George had even said, ‘You poor dear,’ as though she couldn’t imagine any worse neglect.
So here she was, tramping across the fields behind the dogs and their keepers, entirely out of place. She’d nearly hit herself in the face with the gun the first time she’d fired it, and she could only be glad she hadn’t accidentally shot anyone. The Viscount St Audley had assured her that he had done just that when he was a boy, filling one of his father’s gamekeeper’s legs with shot.
She took a deep breath, wrinkling her nose at the lingering scent of sulphur that overlaid the damp, earthy smell of the woods. She would have much rather simply gone for a walk, but such tame excursions weren’t to the Somercotes’ taste.
As the next round of shooters wandered forward Imogen watched the earl go through the process of reloading. She tried to pay close attention to the steps, only to be overwhelmed by wadding, shot and powder. Lord Somercote finished, tapping the butt on the ground, and presented the gun with a little flourish and wink.
Imogen rested the gun across her arm and the earl tipped the barrel up. ‘Careful, you’ll scatter your shot all over the ground.’
Imogen blew her breath out and smiled at him again. He really was amazingly patient. At the fore, George took aim and neatly took down her third bird. Imogen flinched another gun went off. She was never going to get used to that sound. Gun shy, just like the pointer she’d had as a child.
The countess’s brother clapped her on the shoulder—as though she were one of his boon companions rather than his sister—then stood chatting animatedly while she skilfully reloaded. Imogen sighed. Her own brother had never been anything like that. He’d dismissed her as useless as casually as he had her dog.
No amount of practice was going to make her an even vaguely competent marksman, though everyone else seemed quite sure she’d be up to snuff in no time. They couldn’t seem to imagine any other option.
Lady Morpeth clearly knew how to handle a firearm as well, but her aim was sorely lacking. She had yet to hit anything either, though she hadn’t gone quite as astray as Imogen had with her shots. After merely winging a grouse, the countess wandered back to Imogen and linked arms with her.
‘Just think of it as a noisy walk,’ Lady Morpeth said with a laugh. ‘We’ll only go on for another hour or so, and then we can head back to the house.’
Rambling along with the countess, Imogen tried to keep her eyes—and her thoughts—off of Gabriel. Much easier said than done. He was ranged up ahead with his friends, helping George and Lord Morpeth with the children. All of them patiently showing the youngsters over and over the skills and little tricks it took to become a top marksman.
‘It’s amazing how devoted they all are to the children. My own father would never have taken me out with him, let alone foisted me on his friends.’
Lady Morpeth chuckled silently, her hand gripping Imogen’s arm reassuringly. ‘No coercion or foisting in our circle. Most of us were raised the same way—cosseted and indulged—so I suppose it simply seems normal to us to train them up by hand.’
‘They have no idea how lucky they are, do they?’ The countess shook her head, eyes brimming with maternal pride.
Little Simone Staunton fired her own small gun, and the countess’s middle boy hooted at her. The girl glared, her small frame rigid, then she burst out laughing as Hayden’s father cuffed him lightly on the head.
She watched the children wistfully. If she’d run about with her brother like a hoyden, she’d have been summarily packed off to some extremely proper, and strict boarding school—probably one in France, run by nuns; not encouraged with promises of new riding habits, and ponies.
Alençon broke into her musings, calling her up to take another shot. Imogen raised her gun, waiting patiently for the dogs to flush another partridge from the undergrowth. When a bird erupted from only a few yards away she amazed herself by actually hitting it. The bird squawked as she blew off a large section of its tail feathers, and awkwardly made its escape into the trees. The dog ran after it until the gamekeeper called it back with a sharp whistle.
‘You see,’ George said, practically shouting, as she was well across the field. ‘We’ll make a marksman out of you yet.’
Imogen smiled by way of reply and glanced around, looking for assistance with reloading. Gabriel caught her eye and marched over towards her, one hand extended and a smirk quirking up his mouth. He had powder streaks on his face, and his gloves were sooty, the fingers blackened. She restrained the urge to reach up and brush away the streaks marring his cheek. Touching him would be a mistake.
‘You’re going to have to be careful,’ he warned, digging into the satchel he wore over one shoulder. ‘You’ll end up addicted to sport, rattling about town in a dangerous carriage like Lady Lade with a nasty little tiger perched behind you.’
‘Not a chance.’ Her hand tingled where his fingers brushed hers as he took the gun. She brushed them over the skirts of her jacket, letting the one sensation replace the other. ‘I’d look ridiculous with a tiger. Besides, if I could afford to flaunt myself about behind the kind of cattle you’re talking about, do you think for
