“But we’ve barely started.”
“Enjoying yourself?”
She glowered at him over her shoulder and accepted a knife. “I am, and I am making progress.” Already. Immediately. How she wished she’d embarked on this activity years ago.
“You are off to a good start,” Mr. Dorning said, “thanks to the superb quality of your instruction.”
She hit dead center, a result that so pleased her that she then missed twice in succession. “I want to do another set after this.”
He passed her the fourth knife. “Throwing requires a gambler’s discipline, my lady. You quit before your senses grow dull, because to practice poorly only ingrains the bad throws that much more deeply in your mind. You toss sixty knives, then stop, or ninety and then stop. Exercise restraint. Besides, you will be sore tomorrow if we keep at this all evening.”
Nothing in his tone made the comment naughty, and neither did anything in his expression. “I cannot believe a few more minutes of practice would overtax me.” Jeanette had tasted unanticipated success, a rare and heady treat, and she did not want the session to end.
“We’ve been down here for an hour and a half. Dinner will soon be ready, and I keep the kitchen waiting at my peril. Three more throws, and we finish for this week. Make them count.”
The time had flown, along with the blades, and Jeanette had enjoyed every minute. Her shoulder was in truth protesting mildly, but every time the knife sank into the target, her heart rejoiced. Take that, and that, and that.
She mentally toed her mark, relaxed on an exhale, and let the knife fly on the silent count of three. Mr. Dorning slapped the hilt of the next blade into her hand, and she repeated the throw in the same rhythm, then finished with a third throw.
A triangle of blades protruded from the center of the target, the knives several inches apart.
“That,” said Mr. Dorning, “is exactly how you want to conclude a session. Well done, my lady. Very, very well done.”
Jeanette stared at the circle of wood, at the blades so snugly biting into the grain, and wanted to twirl and clap and laugh—and also to cry. For years, her life had been consumed with not offending her husband and trying to exorcise the memory of the many times the blade of his judgment had embedded itself in her soul.
Today, she’d done something different, taken a new path, and applied her mind to a puzzle other than pleasing his lordship, avoiding his lordship, and enduring or recovering from his lordship’s nasty remarks. The man had been dead for three years, and she’d yet to truly put him to rest.
“Thank you,” Jeanette said, and that felt good, to thank a man sincerely. Not for a stupid courtesy like handing her down from a coach, but for making her a more confident and formidable person. “I wasn’t sure I could do it.”
She had been convinced, in fact, that the task would be all but hopeless, another skill—like polite conversation or a graceful quadrille—that she would acquire only by grueling, protracted effort.
Mr. Dorning wrapped an arm around her shoulders and squeezed her in a casual half hug, as Orion might have offered such affection to his little sister in his younger, better years.
“With me for a teacher, my lady, your success is assured.”
Jeanette elbowed her instructor in the ribs—good-naturedly—and met a solid wall of muscle. “You are awful.”
“No need to be jealous of my talent,” he said, letting her go. “You will soon be throwing like Astley’s finest marksman, or markswoman. I do advise some liniment for your shoulder, arm, and wrist tonight. Eventually, you can become proficient with both hands, but that’s a challenge for another time.”
He pulled his shirt over his head and began doing up the buttons.
“Why did you become so skilled with knives?” Jeanette asked, passing him his waistcoat.
“Because I am the youngest of thousands of siblings, and I wanted a means of besting brothers who were all taller, stronger, and smarter than I. I thought I was the runt, but I could at least be the runt with a blade in my hand. As it is, the passing skill I acquired only made me that much more different from the brothers I longed to emulate.”
Jeanette considered one of the most purely attractive men she’d ever encountered. That he’d at any time suffered a sense of inadequacy intrigued her.
“You do realize you are no longer the runt?”
“The Creator saved the best for last,” he said, his smile dazzling. “Might you help me with my sleeve buttons?”
Jeanette complied. His sleeve buttons were plain gold, though his cuffs were edged in blond lace. “Your neckcloth.” She passed him linen also edged in lace.
He tied the knot himself, a complicated series of twists and folds that resulted in the lace cascading just so. “Where did I put my—?”
Jeanette held up a cravat pin topped with a small amethyst very nearly the color of Mr. Dorning’s eyes. “Allow me.”
She positioned the pin amid the lace and linen and held Mr. Dorning’s coat for him. The tailoring was exquisite—and free of padding across the shoulders.
“Will I do?” he asked, buttoning the coat and taking up Jeanette’s hat and cloak.
“Passably.” He was stunning, of course, but then, he’d been stunning without his shirt too. “Thank you for an informative lesson, Mr. Dorning.”
“You are welcome, and now you must pay the piper, my lady. Dinner awaits.” He swept her a bow, gesturing with his arm, and she preceded him up the stairs. When they arrived at a private dining room on the first floor, Jeanette found a table set, the food warming in trays on the sideboard, and the wine breathing beside a bouquet of daffodils.
“I hope you are hungry,” Mr. Dorning said, closing the door and holding a seat for Jeanette near the hearth. “I enjoy hearty appetites and make no apology for that.”
The room was well lit,
