A Game of Hearts First Chapter

Here is an exclusive sneak peek at the first chapter of my upcoming release, A Game of Hearts! Enjoy!

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​Chapter One
 
Marigold
 
 
I was going to win.

It would never do to acknowledge such a thing, of course. No one liked a braggart. But I’d played this game long enough to recognize the coursing energy inside me—the unrelenting certainty that I could not be beat.

I nocked my arrow, and the crowd milling about the makeshift archery range quieted. I paused, forcing an expression of extreme concentration to my face. I did not want to make it look too easy; stodgy Lord Beauford already disliked me enough. I would win, but I would do my best not to embarrass my opponent.

I glanced to where the audience had gathered, standing outside the staked strings that marked the field of competition. Mama stood arm in arm with Papa, who chatted amiably with his neighbor. She caught my wandering eye and tapped the side of her head with a stern glance. Focus, she was saying. I sent her a wink. She sighed and hid a smile.

I spared one more second to search the rest of the crowd. He still wasn’t here.
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I pushed away the disappointment that pricked inside my chest and faced the target. In one fluid motion, I raised my bow and drew back the arrow. The feathers tickled my ear as I steadied my aim, adjusting the tip of the arrow to account for the slight afternoon breeze from the east. I held my breath, knowing even that small motion could affect the path of my arrow—then I released.

“A center hit!” Cora cried delightedly. “Well done, Marigold.”

My friend had been given the task of keeping score, darting to the target between shots to judge the arrow’s placement and award points. She grinned at me now as she poked a hole through her card to mark the score, my fifth center hit of the day

I lowered my bow, unable to keep my own smile from bursting forth. I’d never done so well at a prize shoot.

“Are you certain?” Lord Beauford’s haughty voice came from behind me. I turned to see him glowering at Cora, his drooping jowls more pronounced than ever. “It looks to be in the red.”

“You are more than welcome to examine the arrow yourself, my lord,” she called out. Even from across the field, I could hear the false sweetness of her voice. “But seeing as the tip is nearly at the center, I see no room for error.”

Lord Beauford grumbled something under his breath, likely a word not meant for any proper lady’s ears. That only made my grin broaden. Not a gloating grin, of course. Just a pleased one.

Well, perhaps it was a bit gloating.

“You’ve each three more shots,” Mr. Rogers said as he checked his own scorecard. He was Sandcliffe’s vicar, but today he also served as our archery marshal. He stood between Lord Beauford and me, ensuring we did everything properly. “The score stands at fifty-three to sixty, in favor of Miss Cartwell.”

I wanted nothing more than to send a pointed look at the baron. Here it was before him, proof that I was talented, able, equal. But I stopped myself. It would help nothing, and Lord Beauford’s features were already dark as he cleaned the tip of an arrow with the archer’s tassel hanging from his belt. I did not know if he realized I was holding back, but he had to know he was in dire straits. I’d outshot him last year, and the year before, though it still hadn’t been enough to prove myself. Nothing was enough.

I chewed the inside of my cheek. At least I could defeat the baron. That was more than I could say for a different, equally provoking gentleman. I surreptitiously glanced around again as Lord Beauford prepared to shoot again. The crowd was thick, but I wasn’t searching for a bystander. I was searching for calculating brown eyes and a maddening smirk.

I was searching for my real competition.

How was it possible that he hadn’t come? A victory today meant little if Tristan Gates was not here to stand defeated.

As I faced the field again, I caught Lord Beauford nodding at someone in the crowd. Then he turned to smile at me, showing his crooked upper teeth. Why was he smiling? I couldn’t imagine he enjoyed losing to a woman, based on his refusal to allow me to join the Sandcliffe Bowmen, the society he’d founded. But this prize shoot, held during the annual town fair, was open to all, and it was my only chance to show my quality. If I won this year, if I beat every member of his society, he would have to let me join. Wouldn’t he?  
  
Lord Beauford focused on the target, raising his bow and drawing back the string. After a few moments, he released his arrow. It hit the inner red circle, just outside the gold center. A good score, but it only earned him three points compared to the nine that my center hit had given me. I applauded politely along with the audience.

“Curse it.” Lord Beauford shook out his right hand, his face scrunched up in an expression of overexaggerated pain.

“Is something the matter?” I asked, all careful concern.

“My hand.” He cradled it in his left hand, glancing to ensure Mr. Rogers was paying attention. “It has seized up. I do not think I can continue.”

My stomach dropped. I should have seen this coming. A withdrawal would save the esteemed Lord Beauford the shame of being defeated by a nineteen-year-old girl. I tried to breathe evenly. He was taking my victory from me. If I won by default, it would mean nothing.

“Perhaps you might allow it a moment,” I said, a desperate edge in my voice. “I am sure it’s just a spasm.”

“No, no,” he said, holding up his hand as if it were evidence. “I have these every so often. It takes hours to recover.”

Mr. Rogers raised an eyebrow. “Would you like to withdraw, my lord?”

I bit back the protests that rose to my tongue. It would do no good. Instead, I exhaled and reached to unstring my bow.

“Perhaps we could consider a different option.” Lord Beauford planted the bottom of his bow in the grass. “Might I substitute another archer to finish in my place?”

I brightened. It was an unexpected suggestion, but Lord Beauford was the best of those I’d shot against today. I would have little trouble with anyone else and I would get to finish the meeting.

“If Miss Cartwell is not opposed.” Mr. Rogers turned to me.

“That is acceptable,” I said, trying not to show my eagerness.

“Excellent.” Lord Beauford handed his bow to his manservant standing nearby, then motioned to someone from the crowd behind me. “Here he is now.”

I turned, expecting to see another of Sandcliffe’s curmudgeonly bowmen.

But no. It was him.

Tristan Gates strode toward me, towering and self-assured, bow grasped in one hand, his quiver of arrows in the other. I’d been searching for that dark chestnut head for the last hour, short hair so perfectly neat one might think he carried a mirror about with him for the purpose of arranging his tresses. He walked with such confidence, as if he could have been blindfolded and still not missed a step. My stomach lurched. His eyes met mine, a biting brown that sprung countless childhood memories to my mind—and not any of them good.

“Miss Cartwell,” he said, offering a slight nod, face expressionless. I hadn’t seen him in six months, not since I’d left for London for the Season, but his clipped baritone still sent a skitter up my spine. Tristan had always been like that, cold and immovable as a boulder. A handsome, irritating boulder.

“Mr. Gates.” I wasn’t sure how I managed his name. Everyone was watching. I forced my knees to bend into a curtsy. A short curtsy.

I managed a sweeping inspection as I rose. His clothes were as unremarkable as ever. Finely made, of course—he was a gentleman—but would it hurt the man to wear a touch of color among his blacks and greys and whites?

The onlookers craned their necks, whispers sweeping through them. This was what they’d come hoping to see, after all. Sandcliffe had a number of archers who competed at the fair each year, mostly members of the Sandcliffe Bowmen, but the last two summers it had come down to Tristan and me in the end. I’d won the first time, but Tristan had won last year. I did not like to lose, and I had only ever lost to Tristan.

He never let me forget it either, somehow finding cause to mention it every week when he and his uncle came to dinner. I did not begrudge my father his long friendship with Tristan’s uncle, but heavens, did the man have to have such a vexing, arrogant nephew?

I’d been determined to beat him this year, but when the shoot had begun two hours ago, Tristan hadn’t shown. I’d swallowed my disappointment. He was the only opponent worth shooting against. What, then, was the point of competing?

Now he was here, setting his tin quiver in the grass, studying the target. I should have been elated—now I had my chance. Except this was not at all what I’d wanted. I’d allowed the match to grow too close, to leave Lord Beauford some dignity in hopes he might soften towards me. Now Tristan was swooping in, which my strategy had not planned for.

I was in terrible, terrible trouble, and I could not allow Tristan to know.

“I was surprised to see you missing this morning,” I said, my voice unaffected. “Your uncle said you were meant to arrive last night.”

Tristan slipped on his shooting glove and buttoned it around his wrist, his fingers deft and practiced. “My travel was delayed by bad roads.”

“How unfortunate.” My dry tone told him precisely what I thought of his excuse.

He narrowed his eyes but said nothing. He strung his bow by bracing the lower tip against his Hessian boot and bending the upper limb to slip the loop over the string nock. He made it look easy, his shoulders taut beneath his jacket. When I strung my bow, it strained every muscle in my body.

My mind raced, attempting to find an escape from this debacle. Perhaps I could intimidate him. Archery was a physical sport, but there was mental strategy to it as well.

“Lord Beauford has shot well,” I said. “But I’m afraid you’ll find the deficit too difficult to overcome.”

Tristan flexed his hand within his shooting glove. “A lead of seven points is hardly an assured victory.”

Stay calm, I told myself. I had to keep my head, especially with every eye upon us.

“Miss Cartwell,” Mr. Rogers interrupted. “It is your turn.”

Tristan took an arrow from his quiver and inspected it, not looking at me as he spoke. “Best of luck, Miss Cartwell.”

I stopped myself from saying what I thought of his luck, and turned to face the target. Cora watched me from down the field, eyes wide. She knew my situation as well as I did. Now that Tristan was shooting, I needed every point I could claim.

I gave Cora a confident nod. I had three shots and I would make them count.

I took an arrow from my pouch, nocking it carefully against the string and ensuring the cock feathers were pointing up. I’d done this a thousand times—ten thousand—and I’d never practiced so much as I had in the last year. My defeat at Tristan’s hand last summer had tormented me, his derisive smile taunting me in my mind’s eye with every arrow I drew. I’d vowed that I would never lose to him again.

I took a deep breath and raised my bow as I drew back the string. I aimed, taking more time than usual. The crowd quieted. It was too quiet. I could hear Tristan breathing. I could hear his smug smile.

I released the arrow. It hit white. Not the gold of the center, not the red of the innermost ring, but white, the third ring.

“Two points,” Cora called, sounding as if she would rather muck out a stable stall than call my score for the whole town to hear.

I lowered my bow, heat building in my face.

“Hmm,” Tristan said behind me. “Perhaps you would like to move closer?”

I sent him a glare. Ladies generally shot from a distance of fifty yards, but I’d trained at a hundred yards for years, as he well knew.

“I’ve already had five center hits today,” I said coolly as I moved to the left and allowed him to take my spot.

“Only five?”

He was trying to irk me. Lucky for him, Tristan Gates irked me just by existing.

“I thought you might appreciate the opportunity to catch up,” I retorted.

“How kind,” he said, stepping forward and raising his bow.

I eyed him closely. If he was indeed telling the truth about his travel delays, and he had just arrived, then his arms would be tight, especially without any practice to warm his muscles and bow. But this was Tristan. He always fought to the end, always wanted the last word in our arguments. I could never rule him out.

He aimed, the line of his arms strong and sure. I tried to find any flaw in his stance, but his left arm was straight, wrist bent in a perfect angle, his feet the exact right distance apart.

His arrow went flying, a blur too quick to follow, and hit the target with a thud.

“Three points,” Cora called, carefully avoiding my eyes as she marked her scorecard. I swallowed. He’d hit the red ring on his first shot.

I couldn’t let this happen. Not here in front of everyone.  

Tristan lowered his bow and gestured me forward. “Please do not hold back on my account, Miss Cartwell.”

I did not dignify that with a response. I stepped to the chalk line and aimed again, determined not to let him affect me. I’d known Tristan over a decade, and in my opinion, it was a decade too long. I could beat him. I could.

I aimed and released my arrow.

“One point,” came the call. The outer white ring. I gritted my teeth. What was wrong with me?

“Fifty-nine points to sixty-three,” Mr. Rogers said, announcing the new total. “In Miss Cartwell’s favor.”

Too close. Much too close.

Tristan stepped forward to take his final shot. I closed my eyes, unable to watch. His bowstring creaked as he drew, my heart pounding into the still silence. A pause, then the flitting whir of his arrow as he released, the distant thump of it hitting the target. My hands fisted around my bow, every limb tense.

“A center hit,” Cora called, disbelief painting her every word. “Nine points.”

My eyes flew open and I gaped. A center hit on his second shot of the day? The crowd clapped wildly as Tristan turned back to me. I immediately pressed my mouth into a line, pretending to be utterly unimpressed, but my pulse betrayed me, skipping like a rock over water. 

Tristan’s face also held no hint of his feelings—he simply slung his bow over his shoulder as he watched me. I knew better. Oh, he must be gloating to see me in such a position. He was now five points ahead, and I had only one shot left.

I needed a center hit to win.

I rallied myself. It was nothing I hadn’t done before. Two summers ago, I’d beaten him by an even smaller margin. This game was far from over.

I raised my bow. I went over every aspect of my stance: head, chest, and hips drawing a straight line to the ground, the top of my bow angled a few degrees to the right, arrow settled in the groove between my left knuckles and the bow. The breeze had calmed, so I adjusted my aim.

I held my breath. It was now or never. I released. The arrow flew from me in a rustle of feathers. The world slowed around me, and I watched it dart away, nothing but a blurred spot on my vision. But I felt it, the surety that came from a solid shot. I’d done it.

The arrow struck the target and quivered, its point piercing the canvas, buried deep into the straw behind. From this distance, it seemed to be on the very edge of the gold center. Nine points, I willed Cora to say. I could not breathe.

Cora’s voice shook, barely audible over the distance. “Three points.”

The words echoed in my head. Three? No. She was wrong. She’d meant to say nine. Hadn’t she?

“The final score is sixty-eight to sixty-six,” Mr. Rogers announced. “Mr. Gates is the winner!”

The crowd burst into applause, shouts and whistles echoing. It all came from too far away, hazy and unreal. I lowered my bow to hang at my side, staring at the target. I wished I could act like Lord Beauford and insist Cora check again. But she would not have called my score if she hadn’t been sure. My stomach was a hard pit.

I hadn’t yet moved my feet. My eyes sought my parents. Papa clapped politely, his gaze apologetic. Mama clapped as well, but her eyes were closed, as if she did not want to see how badly this had hurt me.

I was only just recognizing the ripping in my chest, the dull pounding of my heart. All the hours of practice in the last year, my dreams of finally beating Tristan. They were gone. Vanished within a single moment. It had been my chance to prove to Lord Beauford, to everyone, that I was good enough for his dratted society. Now that chance was gone, snatched from me like a ribbon in the wind.

A hundred eyes watched me. I knew what to do—it was what I’d always done. Smile graciously, applaud, be the perfect young lady I was meant to be. Women of gentle breeding did not stalk angrily from archery ranges, after all.

But today I did not want to be a woman of gentle breeding.

“An admirable effort, Miss Cartwell.” Mr. Rogers smiled at me kindly.

I mustered a smile in return. It wasn’t his fault. “Thank you.”

He moved away to present Tristan with the silver arrow that was the prize for this shoot. I watched as Tristan took it with a nod, not even smiling at his victory. The crowd began dispersing, eager to return to the food and music of the fair. I was left alone on the field with Tristan, who was already unstrapping his shooting brace. Not even a glance in my direction, or a “well done.” Not that I’d want either.

I stared blankly at my bow. It was my favorite one, the one I’d used two years ago to defeat Tristan in this very contest. I had thought it would bring me luck, and it seemed inconceivable that I should be standing here, a failure. I could not have lost. Not a quarter of an hour ago, I’d had Lord Beauford on the run. He’d known it, too. He’d--

I stared at Tristan, pulling off his brace and shaking out his hand. My breathing grew shallow. How was it that he’d arrived just when I was about to defeat the baron? It seemed an enormous coincidence. An impossible coincidence.

My shock slid away, like morning mist under an unrelenting summer sun. Simmering anger took its place. It was no happy accident, Tristan’s delay in travel and then his fortuitous arrival. It was precisely the sort of scheme the baron would instigate, cad that he was. He could not bear to lose to me, and so he’d made certain he would not—with the help of his society’s most skilled archer.
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And I would not let Tristan get away with it.

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I hope you enjoyed that sneak peek! A Game of Hearts releases on Oct. 18, 2022, and you can preorder now by clicking on the image below or finding it on Amazon! Thanks for all your support!