Penelope let the string slip. The arrow whistled through the air and thudded—dead center.

"You're gripping the riser too tightly, Lady Penelope," a deep voice drawled.

He stepped behind her, his chest inches from her back. He reached around, his large hands steadying hers. The air between them suddenly felt thicker than the summer humidity.

Penelope looked at the target, then back at the man who had finally made her heart race faster than a hunt. "I suppose that depends on who is doing the seeking." If you'd like to continue the tale, let me know: Should the happen next? Does Lord Ponsonby try to sabotage her?

Penelope jumped, her arrow skittering across the grass. "Your Grace! You shouldn't sneak up on a woman armed with lethal projectiles."

"And you shouldn't be poaching my deer," Arthur replied, stepping into the light with a smirk that didn't quite reach his guarded eyes.

"Hardly," Penelope laughed, turning in his arms. The wit that usually protected her failed as she looked up at him. "Perhaps the Duke of Ashbourne is good for something other than scowling at garden parties."

"Beginner's luck," Arthur teased, though his hand lingered on her arm a second too long.