“How formal?” Cassandra asked, instantly worried. “What are you going to wear?”

“Well,” Ivo said thoughtfully, as if the question had been meant for him, “I thought I would wear my black velveteen trousers, and my waistcoat with the fancy buttons—”

“Ivo,” Seraphina exclaimed with mock solemnity, “this is no time for teasing. Fashion is a serious matter.”

“I don’t know why girls keep changing their fashions every few months and making such a fuss about it,” Ivo said. “We men had a meeting a long time ago, and we all decided, ‘It’s trousers.’ And that’s what we’ve worn ever since.”

“What about the Scots?” Seraphina asked slyly.

“They couldn’t give up their kilts,” Ivo said reasonably, “because they’d become so accustomed to having the air swirling around their—”

“Knees,” Gabriel interrupted with a grin, tousling Ivo’s gleaming red hair. “I’ll see to your arrows, brat. Go to the house and find your way into a pair of velveteen trousers.”

Ivo grinned up at his older brother and trotted off.

“Hurry inside with me,” Seraphina told Cassandra, “and we’ll have just enough time for me to show you my dress.”

Cassandra cast a worried glance at her target, which was still bristling with uncollected arrows.

“I’ll take care of it,” Pandora told her. “I never need more than a few minutes to change for dinner.”

Cassandra smiled and blew her a kiss, and ran toward the house with Seraphina.

Grinning at her sister’s haste, Pandora cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted after them in her best imitation of Lady Berwick, “Ladies do not gallop like chaise horses!”

Cassandra’s reply floated back from a distance, “Ladies do not screech like vultures!”

Laughing, Pandora turned and found Gabriel’s intent gaze on her. He seemed fascinated by . . . something . . . although she couldn’t imagine what he would find so interesting about her. Self-consciously she brushed at her cheeks with her fingers, wondering if there were a smudge on her face.

Gabriel smiled absently and gave a slight shake of his head. “Am I staring? Forgive me. It’s only that I adore the way you laugh.”

Pandora blushed up to her hairline. She went to the nearest target and began to jerk out arrows. “Please don’t compliment me.”

Gabriel went to the next target. “You don’t like compliments?”

“No, they make me feel awkward. They never seem true.”

“Perhaps they don’t seem true to you, but that doesn’t mean they’re not.” After sliding his arrows into a leather quiver, Gabriel came to help collect hers.

“In this case,” Pandora said, “it’s definitely not true. My laugh sounds like a serenading tree frog swinging on a rusty gate.”

Gabriel smiled. “Like silver wind chimes in a summer breeze.”

“That’s not at all how it sounds,” Pandora scoffed.

“But that’s how it makes me feel.” The intimate note in his voice seemed to vibrate along the network of fine, taut nerves strung all through her.

Refusing to look at him, Pandora fumbled a little with the cluster of arrows in the canvas target. The shots had landed so deep and close that some of the shafts had wedged against each other in the stuffing of flax tows and shavings. This target had been Gabriel’s, of course. He’d released the arrows with almost nonchalant ease, hitting the gold center every time.

Pandora twisted the arrows carefully as she pulled them free, to keep the poplar shafts from breaking. After extricating the last arrow and handing it to Gabriel, she began to remove her glove, which consisted of leather finger-sheaths attached to flat straps, all leading to a band that buckled around her wrist.

“You’re an excellent marksman,” she said, prying at the stiff little buckle.

“Years of practice.” Gabriel reached for the buckle and unfastened it for her.

“And natural ability,” Pandora said, refusing to let him be modest. “In fact, you seem to do everything perfectly.” She held still as he reached for her other arm and began on the fastenings of her Morocco leather arm-guard. More hesitantly, she said, “I suppose people expect it of you.”

“Not my family. But the outside world—” Gabriel hesitated. “People tend to notice my mistakes, and remember them.”

“You’re held to a higher standard?” Pandora ventured. “Because of your position and name?”

Gabriel gave her a noncommittal glance, and she knew he was reluctant to say anything that might sound like complaining. “I’ve found it’s better to be careful about revealing weaknesses.”

“You have weaknesses?” Pandora asked in pretend surprise, only half-joking.

“Many,” Gabriel said with rueful emphasis. Carefully he drew the arm-guard away from her and dropped it into a side pouch of the quiver.

They were standing so close that Pandora saw the tiny silver threads that striated the translucent blue depths of his eyes. “Tell me the worst thing about yourself,” she said impulsively.

A peculiar expression flashed across his face, uncomfortable and almost . . . ashamed? “I will,” he said quietly. “But I’d rather discuss it later, in private.”

A sick weight of dread settled at the bottom of her stomach. Would her worst suspicion about him turn out to be true?